My sister Catherine prefers to be called “Kate.”
She is 63 years old and in the final stages of Friedreich’s ataxia, a rare and progressive neurological disease that has slowly taken almost everything from her body. She has been in a wheelchair for decades and is dependent on others to meet her most basic needs. She can barely lift her arms. Her speech, once quick and expressive, now comes haltingly and with great effort. She lives in a nursing home under the care of Arbor Hospice.
And yet—joy still finds her.
On December 3, just at the start of Advent, I met Kate at Therapeutic Riding of Ann Arbor. It was a cold, gray Michigan afternoon, the kind of day that feels hushed and expectant. Outside, rain drizzled in the wind as Kate was wheeled into the barn. Inside, though, there was warmth and a gentle peace.
Kate has always loved horses. Years ago, when she lived in St. Louis—when her balance was better and her arms and legs still obeyed her—she was active in a therapeutic riding program and even competed in events. There was a time when she could sit on a horse, when the rhythm of its movement gave her a freedom her own body could not.
That time has passed.
Now, Kate cannot reach out on her own to pet a horse. She cannot lift her hand without help. Every movement requires assistance, patience, and care.
But that day in the barn, none of that mattered.
With the steady, practiced guidance of Jenny Beauman and Jen Beyer, both of Ypsilanti, Kate met two horses: Rosie, a gentle Paint, and Miz Scarlett, a beautiful Arabian. Jenny and Jen positioned Kate’s wheelchair just right, lifted her hands carefully, and guided her palms to the horses’ muzzles and forelocks. They placed carrots in her hand and helped her feed them, one slow, deliberate motion at a time. They even helped her brush the horses’ heads and flanks, Kate’s hand resting in theirs as the brush moved back and forth.
Her face told the whole story.
Though her words are difficult now, her joy was unmistakable. Her eyes lit up. Her smile spread wide. There was laughter. In that barn, surrounded by horses, kindness, and the familiar smell of hay, Kate was not defined by what she could no longer do. She was simply herself.
Friedreich’s ataxia is relentless. It weakens the muscles, robs coordination, and eventually affects the heart and speech. It is a disease of constant loss. Every day brings new limitations and new griefs.
And yet, in the season when we prepare for the coming of Christ—when we speak of light breaking into darkness, of hope born into vulnerability—my sister found joy.
Advent teaches us that joy is not the same as happiness. Joy does not deny suffering. Joy exists alongside it.
That day in the barn, joy looked like a woman in a wheelchair, her hand held gently by another, brushing the flank of a horse she could not reach on her own. Joy sounded like laughter pushing past garbled speech. Joy felt like connection—between people, between Kate and the horses, and something larger than the moment.
Kate left the barn tired, but glowing, promising to return in the spring.
Her body continues to fail. That reality does not change. But neither does the truth that joy is still possible, even now. Especially now.
SQUIBS 