Gift Horse
- 3 days ago
- 7 min read
by Brian Ritchie
July 1, 2026
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Story
I was ill recently, which, it’s been pointed out to me, happens to other people too, so I’m not going to make a big deal out of it. At least I’m not making a big deal out of it here. However, if you happened to have been within a block of me during the episode, you definitely would have heard me making a big, whiny deal out of it. And yet, with all the fussing I did, the only attention I got was some sympathetic howling from the dogs across the street.
During a brief moment of clarity, I visited one of those pretend doctor websites, which first asked me to list my symptoms. But there weren’t enough fields available for all of them, so I went with the top 5, which included installing a seatbelt on our toilet.
I wasn’t doing it because of a hope for a cure. All I really wanted was a label, so that I could curse it personally from the floor of the bathroom. Maybe, as I passed, I’d even scratch its name into the wallpaper with my fingernail right under the toilet paper dispenser. That way, when my body was discovered, they would have something to write on the death certificate.
I hit ‘search’ and watched as the little cursor on the screen spun while a line of drool ran down my chin. My disease must have been so exotic that it confounded the internet, and on my behalf, little bits of data were asking other little bits of data if they had any idea what was going on with this guy. But all of the data in the world was stumped. However, the internet isn’t stupid; it knows that humans require an answer, or they’ll go back to the library, and it doesn’t even have to be a good one. So, I was provided with two choices: You are one, already dead; or two, the doctor will be in to see you shortly.
As bleak as life had become, living in a porcelain world, I did hear from friends who tried to lift my spirits with heartfelt sympathies in text messages—which was as close as any of them wanted to get. These were mostly short phrases you would see scribbled on a card circulated around the office for the guy in the corner cubicle who smells like licorice. They said things like, “feel better,” and “get well soon.” Two of them even used exclamation marks, while one sent the puking emoji and another the skull.
Normally, I would have been amused by their shenanigans, but my abdominal organs were pushing things out that I, frankly, had no memory of putting in. So, I ignored them until later when I regained my sarcasm, which the virus seemed to have killed, along with my will to live.
One friend, however, did something so extraordinary that I’m still not sure that his wife wasn’t behind it. His name is Greg, and this genuinely enigmatic man, who has a full-time job and, as I mentioned, is a man, put together a care package and dropped it off at our front door. You might recognize this gesture as the sort of thing moms do for their kid away at college, or their kid down the hall in her bedroom, or the next-door neighbor’s kid, or any kid with any mild-to-severe condition that might need the healing properties of saltines, a can of soup, and a coloring book. It is not, however, the sort of thing hunters and gatherers do for other hunters and gatherers. Typical men are much more interested in activities that crush the spirit of other men.
Greg did follow proper male etiquette by packaging the items in a plain brown paper sack, not a frilly bag with a flowery design or pattern. There was no fringe, no rope handle, or a matching tag.
For the benefit of the men out there, there is an unwritten rule regarding man gift giving: The only decoration acceptable on the packaging of a guy-to-guy gift can be some lewd, ballpoint pen-drawing scribbled on the plain packaging. Other than that, no dressing it up, boys!
Now, I was in a vulnerable emotional state when I settled onto my bed with my goodie bag. Mostly, I was just happy to be sitting on something that didn’t have a flush handle. Still, it had been days of staring at the doorknob directly opposite the potty and having fever dreams about calico cats, which I am not going to say another word about. I smelled, I was hungry, I had learned to hate the justice system from overdosing on court T.V. shows, and I wanted, wanted, wanted something to make me happy. So, yes, I went through my gifts like a spoiled brat on Christmas morning. You weren’t there, so you are not allowed to judge.
Something did, did, did make me happy—it was the thrill of pulling an item out and still feeling the weight of more stuff in the bag. The journey went on one pleasing trophy at a time, as if Greg were telling me a story with each prize in my precious bag. And, if I were a good friend, I would list all items here as they were carefully cataloged in the appreciation part of my brain. However, I’m not, and I didn’t, so I can’t.
"It was the thrill of pulling one item out and still feeling the weight of more stuff in the bag."
There was, however, one treasure so rare, so undeserved that I can hardly believe it was bestowed upon me. It was an album. That’s right. A cardboard cover, with a paper sleeve, that housed a vinyl disk on which was pressed a quarter-mile-long spiral groove that contained little analog waves, which, under the right conditions, made beautiful music.
I held it in my trembling hands—I was probably dehydrated—and I took a quiet moment to wonder at it. I don’t think people take time to wonder at things these days, and that’s a shame. Because by doing a little wondering, I was drawn back to being a kid, feeling the excitement of getting an album and spending hours looking at every word, every picture on every inch of the cover and sleeve. I would study the details, read the lyrics, and try my best to understand everything the artist wanted me to know. Was there a message, a theme, some vision? What were they trying to say by including an image of an opera-singing trout performing a square dance in drag? Was there some other idea or thought in it that kids shouldn’t have in their heads? I wanted that! I wanted to be a part of the creative vision. I wanted to be in the know, weirded out, distracted.
An album is, indeed, a great prize to get when you are sick.
And I immediately grabbed my phone and texted Greg: ABBA?
Thoughts
In ancient times, it was a pretty big deal for someone to give another a horse. This was because these animals were considered better than a typical pet, largely because you could do cool things with them, like ride them or have them pull heavy stuff around the yard. So, since they were in the category of valuable gifts, it was expected of the recipient, upon unwrapping their new horse, to exhibit genuine surprise, express gratitude, and take it home—riding it was optional but appreciated.
However, in the modern world, we need to understand that horse dentistry is a fairly new development, and ancient horses’ teeth were more like gravel held together by optimism. As such, you could tell a lot about a horse’s life by observing things like plaque buildup, cavities, and halitosis. So, in the olden days, a rude person might pull a gifted horse out of the box and, instead of being grateful, they would part the horse's lips and study its teeth.
This happened once at Guido’s place in Rome, back when Rome was still cool. Guido’s neighbor, Enzo, was over for a little cavatelli and meatballs, and Guido had a little too much Chianti, so he gifted Enzo his cart horse, Gus. Enzo breached etiquette—also because of the Chianti—and got all up in that horse's wet mouth, looking for orthodontic issues.
Guido exclaimed, “Hey! Whata ya doin’? You don’t look-a a gift horse-a in the mouth-a!”
Which is the origin of that phrase?
I think Greg must have felt like Guido when he received my text, questioning why he would give me an ABBA album rather than thanking him profusely and just enjoying my spoils.
Looking back, maybe I was just a little uncomfortable with receiving such a loving gift. Maybe I knew it was too much. And maybe I didn’t feel like I deserved it.
"A gift exposes us a little because a real gift is unearned; otherwise, it's payment."
A gift exposes us a little because a real gift is unearned; otherwise, it's payment. And when we try to cope with the insecurity, we might question some aspect of the gift, minimize it, make a joke about it, try to repay it, or wonder in our hearts whether we deserve it.
Do you ever struggle with grace that way? God’s grace? I mean, the whole idea of what Jesus has done for us is that he died for us because he loves us, and his love saves us.
We can’t earn it.
Ephesians 2:4-5 says, “But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved—”
I think when we consider the salvation Jesus offers us by dying for us, we can easily get too comfortable with the idea. It feels far away, long ago, incomprehensible, and in some way not all that personal. But it was intensely personal for Jesus. He is God, and he did have each of us in mind when he stepped in to take our place, and he sacrificed much more than we will ever know.
Today, I’m going to try out gratitude. Real, I-don’t-deserve-this appreciation, and I’m just going to tell Jesus, thank you.
That, friends, is how we keep it bright and hopeful.
Pray
Savior Jesus,
I can’t earn even a little of my salvation. Please forgive me for questioning what you’ve given me so freely.
Thank You for loving me when I’m sinful, when I am ungrateful, when I don’t understand, when I put you second, when I probably would have even given up on myself.
Help me to receive Your grace with humble gratitude.
It's in Your name,
Amen
Going Deeper
When someone shows you unexpected kindness, what is your first instinct—gratitude, discomfort, suspicion, minimizing it, or trying to pay it back? Why do you think that is?
If salvation is truly a gift that cannot be earned, what keeps you from fully accepting God’s grace and living in the freedom He intends for you?
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