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Self Improvement > Spirituality > Cowboy Spirituality
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Article rating : 0.00, 0 votes. Author : Phyllis Coletta
It’s said that religion is for those afraid of hell but spirituality is for those who have been there. My friend Johnny Ray is a rodeo cowboy from Texas, not someone you might equate with spirituality, but having literally been through the fires of hell, he is closer to God than anyone I know. He wears dirty old cowboy boots - no preacher’s clean vestments or collars - but I have never met a man more deeply devoted to the service and the glory of God. His life is a tribute to these immutable spiritual laws that have sustained him: there is nothing we can do that is “unforgivable,” and there is no place, time, or state where God is absent.
Johnny Ray’s long-suffering momma says he has more lives than a cat. At five years old he suffered third degree burns over most of his body when he and his brother decided to make a gasoline fire under the house. The medical guys declared him dead four times but you just can’t kill Johnny Ray. Not only did he survive, but he spent a year in the hospital, raising hell.
A rodeo cowboy and wanderer, Johnny’s way of life is an accident waiting to happen. A few years ago he was kicked in the chest so hard by a bull that a hematoma the size of a honeydew melon mushroomed over his heart. Once again the doctors panicked but they just don’t understand. When your heart’s as big and strong as Johnny’s, a measly bull kick won’t make a dent.
A cowboy’s heart is different that way. It sees and senses things from below the earth, and then it gets stronger, peaceful, giving. Maybe it’s from long days in the sun,
shoeing horses or rustling cattle. Somehow, these men are deeply connected to truth and their wisdom is simple and more powerful than any college philosophy tome:
“Make yourself happy in your heart,” Johnny says smiling.
Because of the burn, Johnny’s face is a weathered patchwork of different shades of tight and wrinkled white skin, like a beautiful mountain flower. His one remaining eyebrow is always raised up, like he’s in a constant state of surprise. The other eyebrow he lost, not in the childhood fire, but in a construction accident, when welding a propane line that he was told was shut off.
Johnny Ray’s eyes sparkle like Santa Clause but damn, it would take three of him to make one Santa, he’s so wiry. His cowboy buddies make fun of his “bony, pointy butt” but that little butt can ride a bull like nobody’s business. Johnny is strong and lean because he holds onto nothing – no grudges, anger, resentment, or fear except for the New York subway. Funny that a man who rides wild animals and confronts bears in the wilderness would wither like a little girl when faced with the scary humans underground. He is so in love with his God and his earth that he just can’t fathom the anger and ugliness that keep his fellow humans in chains. His hands can clench a rope to knot up cattle but they hold tight to nothing inside himself. He can see people who grip fear and anger with white knuckles because when you sleep under the stars, you know things that others don’t.
Johnny Ray’s arms are battle guns, themselves mini-mountains built from years of saddling horses, clearing trails, holding tight to the bull. The chest that houses his big cowboy heart has been cracked open more than once and it too comes in various shades
of hairless white. A shorn and uneven mop of brown hair covers his near bald skull in the unburnt places. He is a beautiful man.
“They want me back for more skin grafts,” he says wryly, “but I want none of it.”
The grin is endless, the bad-boy-let’s-wrassle-you-ain’t-seen-nothin’-yet grin as wide as the sky he sleeps under. Yet, when you hear the whole of Johnny’s story, you wonder how he can be so happy, given his litany of suffering. Explosions, fires, and mean bulls are not the worst of it. Johnny Ray has lived every parent’s nightmare. When his son was four years old, Johnny backed over him with a truck, killing him instantly. The little boy is buried near Johnny’s home. Etched on his gravestone is a picture of Johnny, his horse, and a cross.
When Johnny talks about this unthinkable accidental killing of his child there is a peace in him, now several years after the event. He has two other children, lovely daughters whom he adores, and he is a loving father. After the accident, many times he thought about jumping off a bridge but the thought of his little girls held him until God could rebuild his heart. He attributes his present state of happiness to the power of God’s love that lit the way to self-forgiveness.
So he has suffered the worst imaginable, accidentally killing his own child. Somehow, praying and pleading and hanging tough he made peace and the man rejoices every single day. As he worked in dark barns with his horses he prayed, prayed for more faith, for
the courage to take the next breath and live another day. Living life in a simple way, close to God’s earth and its creatures, Johnny never felt inclined to lose himself in drink or pity. There was work to be done – horses to be shoed for trips into the mountains. Simple acts of hard work in solitude helped him make it through one agonizing day after another, until he found forgiveness.
Years after an event that would paralyze most folks, Johnny takes his train of packhorses into the Colorado mountains. As they wind up any summit, revealing more gorgeous cascading mountains and endless verdant green valleys Johnny Ray whoops like a little kid. Atop his horse, arms outstretched, his cowboy hat tipped back to God,
“Thank you, Jesus,” he says.
On these pack trips, Johnny hauls out in the wilderness with uptight doctors and stressed out corporate executives. There, after a long day riding scary mountain trails Johnny soothes their souls with monstrous cowboy cooking – steaks the size of Texas, mounds of mashed potatoes and fresh vegetables, butter-fried bread and fruit.
“Y’all people got to EAT now!” he yells at his shell-shocked clients.
Johnny Ray’s cooking slows you down in a comfortable, warm way. You can feel yourself slipping into soft openness in your belly after a Johnny meal. Then he’ll stoke the fire and talk about growing up in Texas, wild and crazy stories about roping bulls and rodeoing, killing his precious injured horse and raising a house-trained donkey who watched TV. The corporate execs have to roar laughing, picturing Johnny and his donkey on the couch watching Jeopardy.
The high-powered city boys are unwinding, and laughing loud and plenty by Day Three in the wilderness with Johnny and his buddies. Yet Johnny Ray’s powerful spirituality draws out the pain and fear in people, bubbling troubles to the surface to be healed. By the world’s standards, Johnny’s not an “educated” man but inevitably, after
everyone has retired one guy will hang behind, wanting to stay up and unburden himself to Johnny Ray, wanting to reveal a fear, a secret a pain because Johnny is like a shaman and a shrink. No, he’s much better than a shrink because he is free of the shackles of dense theories and years of conformity. Johnny Ray just brings his living presence to the campfire and it’s as real and intense as the flame itself, which draws out the darkest secrets of a powerful big city surgeon.
When I went out on the trail through the Wet Mountains of Colorado with Johnny and seven other folks I was transformed by this man. This is what happens in the presence of truly spiritual people. I have a degree in theology, I have been in churches throughout the world, joined sanghas to meditate and practiced with a Hindu yogi. But I have never met anyone with a more powerful belief than Johnny. He is pure faith in the body of a rodeo man; he is fearless and lighthearted, sure and calm. As we’d wend our way up the magnificent Rockies I’d hear Johnny at the back of the train, leading his pack horses and singing at the top of his scrawny lungs. I’m sure I’ve never heard anything as beautiful as the sound of Johnny singing on the trail.
Johnny Ray will be moving on from his stint in Colorado, living the nomadic life of a real cowboy. Back to Texas to rodeo, then maybe off to Alaska to guide more pack trips. Along the way, he’ll regale everyone with his quick wit and cowboy wisdom. He’ll happily give away his love of life, his faith in God, dispensing deep joy like warm slices of his apple pie.
How does a man who has suffered so much come to such peace and joy? Johnny’s answer is uncompromising: God saved him from his trials. His good Lord created the blanket of stars he watches with wonder, the cold creeks he bathes in and the magnificent mountains he climbs. Staying close to God’s greatest creation, Johnny found a way to forgive himself. There is nothing we can do that cannot be forgiven and Johnny Ray is living proof of this.
We are so lucky to have Johnny Ray here with us. His cowboy spirit is so big it touches you right now, where you live. Through his faith and courage, his simple song of joy on the trail, we are healed. He is the manifestation of the power of love and forgiveness. Who would think that a rodeo cowboy could teach us so much about faith in God? Having already experienced the worst of hell, Johnny is back to help show us how to live a life as beautiful and magnificent as the Rockies he adores. His cowboy spirituality teaches us simplicity and strength.
“The good Lord made these mountains,” Johnny says, his blue eyes sparkling, “there is nothing He can’t do.”
Phyllis Coletta is a "recovering lawyer," cowgirl, writer, teacher, and inspiration to folks in general, especially at Bear Basin Ranch where she and her partner run KB Mountain Adventures. For more info, see http://www.kbmountainadventures.com
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