Pastor Paul's Ponderings

January 30, 2025

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  Training racehorses in the winter is hard (in the north). In the mid-nineties I had finally built up a decent stable with a good mix of young prospects (selected as yearlings) and older hard-hitting veterans. I had a couple stake horses, and also two-year-olds that had tons of promise.

  The winter before was filled with blizzards, to my memory, one each Saturday, for three Saturdays in a row. Not only was racing cancelled a lot that winter, but also training. The condition of the track was not worth the risk of injury to work the horses. I had the constant pressure of the owners: run, win, get them ready to run!  All of which were impossible between the weather, the closed tracks, and the poor-unsafe track surface. I did not wish to subject myself to another stressful winter like that so we shipped to the Fairgrounds in New Orleans for the winter—at least we could train the horses and be ready for a good year in the spring.

  Moving a 25 horse stable half way across the country is not easy. Not all of my employees could come with me, and there was a shortage of available employes in New Orleans. Let’s face it, working with horses is not easy work. Seven days a week, hot, cold, every weather, and add to that early morning work, long days and low pay.

  The skeleton crew that went with me was worked out, exhausted.  Moral was at a dangerous low.  I faced losing even the few workers I took with me. Every day was a herculean effort to get modest amounts of work done. We needed help and we needed it badly. One morning Jaun, my foreman, who was a Mexican immigrant who had achieved citizenship by marrying a citizen, told me he was leaving but would be back.  He drove away from the barn leaving us with even more work.

  He returned a few hours later with two young guys that had some experience with livestock and horses.  They got to work at Juan’s instruction the minute they got out of the car.  These two guys, who I have long forgotten their names, were life savers.  They moved into the bunk house with Juan and a few of my other employees, and did all the dirty work at first, cleaning stalls, cleaning and toting water buckets, etc.  but soon became good all-around hands. 

  The only problem was: they had no papers.  This meant that they could not be licensed and had to come and go off of the backside hiding in someone’s car. I am sure that I could have been fined or worse, as all racetrack employees had to be licensed. But I didn’t care. We were desperate for help.  There were only so many ‘Americans’ willing to work with horses—getting dirty, doing the hard labor, with a degree of danger too—always risk of injury around horses--early in the morning –seven days a week.

  While communication with my new employees was difficult (I had no Spanish at all at that point!) The fit right in, always smiled and seemed grateful for the work they had.  That winter I took the whole crew to the Super Dome to watch an NFL game (Saints vs. 49ers) at the time the Saints sucked and buying tickets for nine cost me like $100! I also took everyone to Tipatinas, to Cajun dance.    The older of the two new employees was the hit of the night. Evidently the Cajun dance and the dance of his home town were similar and translated. I remember drinking beer, eating delicious rice and beans and watching all the women making him dance—all night long.

  These guys had crossed the dessert, the boarder. They were Mexican nationals who came from a small country town with no employment opportunities and the small ranches and subsistence farms offered no work or future. They came here hoping to earn money, enough to send home to help their families and one day move back with a bankroll big enough to buy a house and some land for themselves.

  I asked Juan how he found them: “Easy, I went to a catholic church.  There was a group of recent arrivals huddled in the shelter of the doorway in front of the church.  I asked them if anyone there had experience working with horses and these two jumped up and came with me”.  They came only with backpacks that they carried.

  These guys saved me. Big time. They were extremely hard workers, super dependable, and down right good guys too. I do not remember what happened to them. I don’t recall them coming north with us.  Maybe they latched on to a different stable. What I do remember is how very hard they worked, and what good people they were.  I even felt guilty in that I took advantage of them. I used them for hard work that I needed, and paid them fairly, but they gave more than that. I hope that they learned a trade with me: how to care for racehorses, that may have translated into careers and good employment. They also began to learn a tad of English, never the less, I am by far indebted to them. I wonder if they ever made it back home with the bankroll to buy that land.

  God demands that we care for the vulnerable among us. It seems to me that at times when we do care for the vulnerable we also get cared for too. I certainly got more than I gave.

  Deuteronomy 10:18 (NIV)
  He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the foreigner residing among you, giving them food and clothing.

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Grace and Peace,

Pastor Paul