Nathanael: A Short Story

There is a place that, when we close our eyes, our hearts automatically go to. We see it in full color as we lie in bed, trying to fall asleep. We can smell the wind, feel the ground beneath our feet, and experience every part of this place all over again. A memory resides there that makes us remember this place as home. For me, this place my heart flies to every free moment is a barn in Emmalena. For the past two years, I have spent every day of my summers working, sweating, laughing, and crying at Camp Nathanael. Every waking moment there was a blessing, even the hardest moments. Each day began with cool fog and the sun blooming over the hillside to the East, and each day ended with humidity, mosquitoes, and music under the shelter. The

There in front of me, stands home: a two story, red, tin barn with maroon painted fences and a red steel gate. Horse manure and sand-like dust permeates the air long before I step inside. As I shove open the gate, the chain clanks on the rusting metal. There is one, gaping hole where the sliding barn door should be, but the one in front stays open almost all the time. The dirt on the ground is dry dust that becomes Pig-Pen-like clouds, trailing me as I walk inside. Two stalls and the tack room are to the right, while the rest is open space with leads tied to support posts. Wooden, multicolored nametags for each four-legged individual hang in lofty solitude above their leads. Above it all, the hayloft is filled with rolls and bails that make a perfect nook to listen to rain pour. The heat of Kentucky summers make the hay warm and the sweet smell of dried grass turns the loft into an oven baking loaves of bread. To the left is another sliding door that leads to a long pasture, and there is where my dear friend stands, swatting flies with her long, black, tangled

Some of my fondest memories took place in the round pen in the pasture. Shaped with blue aluminum panels, the pen has weeds growing between gates, or up and out of any possible crack to reach the light. A path of dirt was trod around the perimeter, run down with hooves time and time again. This pen symbolizes a relationship; it’s a place where it’s just my horse and I. There is no one else around, no distractions. We form a compass, moving and spinning in time and sync with one another and the earth. It’s as if every thought I have, she has too. We know exactly what the other thinks, and adjust accordingly. With a simple drop of my hand, she knows to stop and come to me. In the pen, there is a mutual respect and understanding, and that’s what makes it work. One of my greatest triumphs of the summer was the first time she came to me without being called. This was proof she was learning, listening, respecting. Without this place, I would not have uncovered one of my true loves in life. Without this place, I would still be looking for a major, I would have nothing to look forward to in the summers, and I would be so lost in so many ways. I thank God that He brought me to this little barn in Emmalena. I have made new friends here, and grown closer to old ones. Without it, my life would be very different than the one I lead