Bells of the Horses

By Susan M Johnson

For many years, the members of a small Pentecostal church in Ohio prayed faithfully for the Lord's blessings in behalf of their church and individuals.

One Easter morning, a racehorse trainer in the congregation has a foal born to an old mare she rescued. She name him Meatball. He becomes the church mascot. When Meatball is old enough to race, he proves to be unstoppable! The church members find themselves on a wild and exhilarating ride with an unlikely champion, all the way to the Kentucky Derby! From the blessings they receive, they discover the true nature of God's plans and His love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098055172

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Bells of the Horses

Susan M Johnson

Copyright © 2020 by Susan Johnson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

All scriptures are taken from the KJV Bible.

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

For Nancy, Ellen, and Saratoga Sandy!

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to thank friends from New Life Assembly of God Church in Conway, Pennsylvania, who provided inspiration and assistance in presenting this story. Also, thanks to friends outside that church for their advice and encouragement. You’re all a great blessing in my life!

Chapter 1

The skies didn’t open. Angels didn’t appear to anyone. There wasn’t even a gloriously symbolic sunrise. Lynn McGuire never noticed any of that. She knew an ordinary miracle when she saw one. The start of a new life was always a wonder. Not that she expected much. In her line of work, Lynn knew a lot about disillusionment. She also understood glory, hope, and joy. Nowhere could so many dreams and despairs be so neatly packaged as in a Thoroughbred foal.

Lynn stood beside Foxfeathers, rubbing the mare’s neck in congratulations. Foxie was a little thing, barely more than a pony. She too was an ordinary miracle, a simple unembellished bay mare who ran long and hard in the cheapest races at the worst tracks in the country. Lynn trained horses that ran in those places. That hadn’t been her plan originally, of course. Belmont, Saratoga, Santa Anita—but she did what she could with the deals she was handed. Lynn respected horses and empathized with them. The hurting, scared, and abused ones ran for her. Foxie was one of those, though not hers. Lynn had wanted to buy Foxie since she first saw the mare’s racing record, but not for the track. Foxie’s lower right foreleg was grotesque. The tendon was stretched out from the bone, and the black stocking starred where she’d been deliberately burned to bring blood into the area and help heal it. This was an accepted treatment, and it worked…sort of. Foxie escaped the auction that would have landed her in a slaughterhouse somewhere. She healed enough to run again but became a bottom-rung contender at a dump of a racetrack. Yet she ran. Oh, Foxie ran! She tried so hard! Lynn had never seen her win a race, but she was always in the money. She ran in claiming races where any trainer could buy her, but that hideous bowed tendon drove them all away. Nobody wanted to bet money then watch the horse fall apart in midstretch. Lynn, however, would have done it in a heartbeat.

Foxie’s trainer was also her owner. She was his only horse. He was fond of her. That meant diddly-squat to most of the competition, but not to Lynn. She considered herself a good Christian since she was a small child. God had always seemed close by. He loomed over her, all-powerful and almighty as the scriptures warned, yet He was also reasonable and kind as the hymns praised. God never kicked the crackers out of her just because He could, though Lynn had gotten a holy smack across the heart once or twice for good reason! He didn’t appreciate her kicking one of his other children just because she could, whether or not the guy was a Christian himself. Lynn had to approach the man and made a deal.

I want Foxfeathers, but not to race ever again. Not even to ride. She’s one of the gamest horses I’ve ever seen but she’s a hurting mare.

The owner looked sad and ashamed. I know, Lynn. Cripes, I know. But what can I do? She’s all I’ve got. I suppose you’ll just claim her if I tell you she isn’t for sale.

That was true. Lynn paused just long enough to confirm it and then said, Look, money’s tight for me too, but I have an idea. I’ll trade you French Fries for Foxfeathers.

French Fries was a tall gray gelding who limped as if his leg was about to fall off. Like Foxie, the big fool could run, and his limping quit the second the starting gate opened. He actually won more races than he lost, and he was almost always in the money. The fans never expected him to survive his races so he was usually paid off well in the betting. He stumbled back to the winner’s circle, ready to keel over for good. Lynn got booed for running him. She never figured out why he was limping. She suspected it was an old habit, especially since he demonstrated his ability many times in his hobby of attempting to kick his jockey off after the race. That couldn’t be easy for a genuinely lame horse!

Foxie’s owner considered this, the light of hope dawning in his eyes. French Fries could actually win races and do it for a while longer. He had to know. What do you want to do with the mare?

Breed her. The owner’s eyes widened. Lynn continued, Yes, I know. She’ll never date Kentucky royalty. Her bloodline and racing record wouldn’t impress the big stud farms, but there are some nice stallions here in the Midwest. Not fancy but good, honest horses. I was thinking of maybe booking her to Cosmonaut over at Pine Tree Stables. That horse ran well on the local circuit and had some fine foals. He stayed sound over five years of racing and didn’t do it by goofing off. That’s important since Foxie isn’t sound. I don’t expect to get a colt to run at Saratoga, much less the derby. I just want one I can race at these little tracks for fun and hopefully some profit.

It’ll keep Foxie from a bad end somewhere. Yeah, I worry about that. Okay, Lynn, let’s do some horse trading!

So at 12:40 a.m. on Easter morning in a little rural corner of Ohio, Foxie’s firstborn foal had arrived and been welcomed by his mother and his first human friend. Sleet raked the barn walls as he wobbled up to take his first meal. Both Foxie and Lynn looked at him with awe, amazement, and love. He was shiny red, like new copper, with a white blaze and socks. His bristly little mane and scrub-brush tail were blond, reminding Lynn of a popular color combination in draft horses. She laughed at the thought. You little meatball! Well, if you can’t run, I’ll make a nice riding horse of you, and Foxie can try again.

She rubbed the foal affectionately then stretched, stiff all over. Hay and manure covered her sweatshirt and jeans along with blood and other byproducts of the birth. Lynn’s long brown hair was tied back in her usual low ponytail. She cleaned up the stall and made sure the horses were settled and comfortable. Then she dropped some jellybeans into Foxie’s feed bucket. The thump perked the mare’s ears and she went to investigate. As she enthusiastically licked them up, Lynn gave her a pat.

Congratulations, kid, and Happy Easter! You know what? Little Meatball there…well, God just gave you the best Easter gift you’ll ever get!

*****

Trinity Pentecostal Church rolled out everything they had for the Easter service. There was only one service as the entire congregation numbered around thirty-five people. Easter was one of the few services where all of them were expected to show up, though they took pride in their brick church building. With all the flowers that filled it, it looked just as lovely today as the magnificent Catholic Church; the graceful Church of the Nazarene; or the very traditional Presbyterian, Baptist, and AME churches around it.

Reverend Joseph Marcelli liked to drive with a flourish. He pulled his white sports car into the tiny parking lot with a high-pitched tire screech and looked around in satisfaction. It was amazing how many of his flock favored SUVs. He recognized the huge brown one owned by Jimmy and Fiona Taft to drive their seven adopted kids everywhere. There was the old green one leaning conspicuously to the left that belonged to Jeff Morris. There was the shiny new black one that was owned by Joe’s best friends, Robert and Jamie Murphy, and of course the silver one that Roger and Vicki Baxter drove their son Timothy around. The non-SUVs were all present as well. Steve Graham must have plans to work on one of his potential rental houses today because he brought his big cargo van. Pastor Joe wondered why all the contractors favored white work vehicles. He smiled at the thought of the energetic Debby Graham swinging into the thing this morning in her Easter best. Lynn McGuire’s elderly blue pickup truck lurched in next to the sports car, and she slid out the door like liquid. Lynn was quite short (not even five feet tall), but her truck wasn’t. Needless to say, so her entrances and exits were fun to watch. She favored cowgirl boots and hats the rest of the week, perhaps to make herself seem taller, though she dressed conservatively for church services. Today she was donned a long flowery dress, which was so different from her usual Western look that several other arrivals stopped cold to stare.

Timmy Baxter, of course, was the one who blurted out, Pretty dress! Lynn smiled and thanked him. Timmy was twelve years old, a gentle boy with a sweet face marked by Down syndrome. Everyone at Trinity adored him.

A natty little station wagon pulled up, and two smiling women jumped out. Pastor Joe didn’t recognize them, possibly someone’s Easter guests. They paused near the front passenger’s door and cheerfully assisted an older woman who puffed her way off the bucket seat with two canes. Her daughter and granddaughter flanked her protectively without infringing on her dignity and escorted her into the church. Barbara Scott had arrived, faithful as always. It was getting harder and harder for her, the pastor knew. Barbara was eighty-two years old, diabetic, and in a desperate fight against cancer, but she loved the Lord with all her heart and tried not to miss a service. Parked out front was an old black sedan, one of the earliest arrivals. It was Carla Kelly’s ride. Carla worked hard for the church, helping wherever needed. Her dedication was phenomenal. She was actually a Catholic worshiping at Christ the Divine King across the street! She already attended their sunrise service, but now she was all about the Trinity Pentecostal Easter play, which owed a lot to her excellent crafting and costuming skills. She started attending Trinity as well as her original church after visiting the Pentecostal church with