Still Waters & Strong Horses
Thoughts of a woman of wild spirit, a smart mouth, led by grace, bold horses, and the steadfast love of the Lord.
Hi, I’m Molly Sparrow — guided by a strong faith and confidence in God’s plan, I strive to share His message and the light He has placed in me with others. Though I may stumble on the daily, His grace is abundant, and it inspires me to live with purpose and hope. I’m passionate about horses, life’s adventures, and sharing the moments that make life meaningful. I’ve always loved to journal and read, love to travel and see the world, and have a goal to ride on six of the seven continents on the back of a horse — with four down and two to go. I wanted a place to gather the stories of our wonderfully chaotic life — a life full of wild, beautiful, and sometimes downright crazy experiences. Much of my time is spent training, learning, and understanding the horse’s mind, doing my best by them to prepare them for the real world and their next great partners. It probably doesn’t make sense, but I’ve learned, prayed about, and discovered in my career that any way to pull back the curtain and show that our love for horses goes far beyond the dollars and cents is worth telling. Along the way, we’ve been blessed with customers who have become friends, people we get to share our story with while theirs is shared with us too. I’m blessed to be married to John, a horseman with a strong sense of obligation and a work ethic that inspires me daily. This blog is my corner of the internet to share stories, reflections, and a little bit of the heart behind the saddle. And while no one may read this, I truly believe we all have stories, and whenever they can be told, they hold value.
Missed Opportunities or Perfect Timing?
My favorite book of the Bible is Ecclesiastes.
I've said that out loud before and been met with looks that practically ask, "Are you insane?" Friends, strangers, and even pastors have all given me the same puzzled expression.
After all, Ecclesiastes isn't exactly what most people would call an uplifting book. At its heart, Solomon repeatedly reminds us that so much of what we chase in this life is fleeting. The things we work so hard to build our identity around—possessions, travel experiences, money, land, horses we've trained, accomplishments, even education—will all one day fade away.
No matter how hard we strive, we will never leave the kind of lasting mark on this world that we often imagine. Time moves on, generations come and go, and eventually our names are forgotten. The only thing that carries eternal significance is what is done for the Kingdom of God.
At first glance, that can sound discouraging. But I've found it to be incredibly freeing. If my purpose isn't to build my own kingdom, then I can trust the One who is building His. And if God is the Author of my story, then I don't have to fear that His plans somehow slipped through my fingers.
That doesn't mean I don't worry about missed opportunities.
I think about the horses I could have taught a little more, the pictures that could have been a little better, the person I could have helped, the conversation I wish I had handled differently, or the love I could have shown more intentionally. I wonder how many opportunities I've missed to pray over someone or simply plant a seed because I was busy, running late, afraid of saying the wrong thing, or worried about making things awkward.
Lately, though, this question has weighed on me more than any other. I think about the people I love deeply who don't have a relationship with the Lord, and I wonder if I should have said more. Could I have shared the Gospel differently? Could I have been bolder? Those thoughts have a way of keeping me up at night. I find myself replaying conversations and wondering how I can live in a way that is inviting and loving—set apart without being unapproachable.
Most days, I spend my time riding horses. But the reality is, my job is really about people. It's sales. It's customer service. It's relationships. Every horse that comes and goes brings another opportunity to meet someone the Lord has placed in my path.
So where do these two truths meet?
Where does the burden of wondering if I haven't done enough to point people to Jesus intersect with the confidence that God's timing is always perfect?
Ironically and perfectly and like usual for me God answered my turmoil and questions through a horse.
I would be careful not to smooth this out too much because the honesty is what makes it powerful. The part about the enemy twisting disappointment into identity is the heart of the testimony. I cleaned it up while keeping your voice, the horse details, and the vulnerability.
Shot was a special one.
He was one of the first horses we had raised from a baby, and there was just something different about him. He was unique, kind, and the type of horse you hold your breath over because you just don’t know how far he could go. He had that something you can’t teach. He just had “it.”
Shot was a fan favorite. Everyone in our circle had a hand in his upbringing. People loved him, believed in him, and watched him grow. He wasn’t just another horse we had trained; he was a piece of our story.
The spring of his four-year-old year, we decided to consign him to a sale in Idaho. Not just any sale, but one of our favorites. We put him in one of the best spots, and we truly believed this was going to be his moment.
And honestly, everything seemed perfect.
Shot previewed beautifully. He was a complete gentleman for everyone. He walked into that atmosphere and handled it like he belonged there. His light shined incredibly bright.
He carried the American flag to open the sale. He stood quietly at the ring while John prayed over the sale. Then it was time.
We walked into that ring feeling like we were ready to take on the world.
And then...
Nothing.
The hammer never fell.
After all the hours, all the preparation, all the hope, Shot walked back out of that sale ring and came home to Kansas with us.
He didn’t sell.
He didn’t bring some crazy six-figure number I had convinced myself was possible. There wasn’t a celebrity buyer standing quietly in the shadows waiting to take him home. There wasn’t some big, movie-worthy ending like I had imagined in my head.
And if I’m being honest, that disappointment hit harder than I expected.
The anticipation turned into disappointment. The disappointment turned into what felt like a personal failure.
And that is where the enemy found a foothold.
Because somewhere along the way, a horse not selling became about so much more than a horse not selling. It became a voice in my head telling me I wasn’t good enough.
YOU didn’t do enough.
YOU should have done more.
YOU missed your chance.
YOU aren’t worth anything.
I am an “all in or all out” kind of person. When I believe in something, I pour everything I have into it. I work hard, I pray over it, and if I’m not careful, I start carrying the weight of the outcome like it all depends on me.
And if I can be convinced that a horse not selling means I failed, that I didn’t do enough, or that my worth somehow changed because of the outcome...
Then imagine how heavy that same mindset becomes when I start believing I hold the responsibility for someone’s salvation.
Because that feels serious.
When you know Jesus, when you know the hope and freedom found in Him, of course you want everyone you love to know Him too. You want to say the right thing, have the perfect conversation, and live in a way that points people straight to the Creator of the universe.
But somewhere along the way, I have to remember: I am not the Savior.
My job is to be faithful. To love people well. To plant seeds. To be willing and obedient when God gives me an opportunity.
But changing a heart? Saving a soul? That belongs to God.
Just like with Shot, my job was to prepare him, set the table, and trust the Master to bring the right person at the right time. And you know what? He did, just like he always does. Less than a week later, I got a text from a past a buyer, she had a friend looking for a horse and she asked if she could share my number. I of course said, “Yes!” Less than a minute later, my phone dinged again from that friend. Less than two weeks later that friend showed up in Kansas to see and ride Shot, and so did my God to remind me that “He is never later, he’s rarely early, but he is ALWAYS on time.” That test ride was an answer to a prayer and confirmation about my profession, a complete match made in Heaven on both ends. The funny thing? Shot ended up going back to Idaho, less than two hours from where he had been less than a month prior. And because my God knows me so intimately, and knows he has to make his point clear for me to understand, Shot brought almost twice what our reserve price had been in Idaho.
Following and running after Jesus is a lot like trading horses. It’s my job to prepare them, to expose them to as much as a I can. To make sure their body feels good, their feet are level, their teeth are in good shape. That they’ve seen goats and pigs and cars and hula hoops and know how to lay down and lope pretty circles and blah blah blah. But my main job is to make sure that they feel safe, they can trust me, and that I have their best interest at heart. I can’t, nor should I think that I’m responsible for people salvation. I can’t save anyone, only Jesus can do that, but I can love people, I can plant seeds, and I can share my story about how my God pulled me out of the pit of Hell that was my career, Homelife, marriage, depression, anxiety, and thoughts of suicide. We are called to prepare. We are called to be obedient. We are called to plant seeds, love people well, speak truth, and make ourselves available.
But God is the One who brings the harvest.
Paul says in 1 Corinthians 3:7, “The one who plants and the one who waters have one purpose, and they will each be rewarded according to their own labor.”
We don't get to control the timing. We don't get to force the outcome. We often don’t even get to see the harvest. We simply do the work He has placed in front of us and trust that He is faithful with the rest.
Shot didn't need me to panic and figure out how to make the right person appear. He needed me to continue preparing him until the right moment came and that's true for people, too.
There is a season for everything. A season to plant, a season to water, and a season to wait. Ecclesiastes reminds me that God has already appointed the times and seasons of our lives. The work we do for Him is not measured by what we can see, but by our faithfulness to the One who called us.
Maybe the greatest lesson Shot taught me is that I was never meant to control the story. I was only meant to faithfully play my part in it.
Because in the end, nothing I build, accomplish, or achieve will last apart from what God is doing through me.
The only thing that matters is that I was faithful with what He placed in my hands, and trusted Him with what was always His. So for me, I will keep telling our story, I’ll keep riding horses and I’ll keeping chasing the Lord, with every intention to try and get as many people on my boat as I can.
Resting in His Hands: When God Holds What We Can’t
Lately, my life has felt like a constant chase.
The Southern Belle Classic came and went, and by every outward measure—it was a success. The kind you work for. The kind you pray over. The kind that should leave you feeling full.
And in some ways, it did.
I’m so grateful—for my friends, for the people who work so hard to make the Southern Belle Classic what it is, and for the conversations and interactions that reminded me how much good there still is in all of this. There’s a community, family, and opportunity in the industry that carries so much potential for connections, relationships, and ministry.
But even in the middle of that gratitude, there’s this quiet, nagging feeling that seems to always get a foothold in my heart.
That I fall short.
Short in my career.
Short in my faith.
Short in my ability to minister the way I feel called to.
Short in being the kind of wife I want to be.
And if I’m being honest, that feeling follows me in my day to day, at each sale, each ride, and each conversation.
Because there are small, sacred moments that should bring me joy that instead irritate or frustrate me.
It's because I'm too busy measuring.
Measuring how everything went.
Measuring if I had done enough.
Measuring if I was enough.
Even in success, I find myself searching for something more… or something deeper… and coming up a little empty.
That’s a hard thing to admit.
Because the truth is, I don’t just train and sell horses. I pour into them. I go above and beyond in every way I know how—physically, mentally, financially, emotionally, spiritually. I carry them. I fight for them. I pray for them. I spare no expense when it comes to their care, comfort, happiness, and health. I believe in them more than I believe in myself.
And every single one of them carries a piece of my soul.
So even when things go "right"… it feels heavy. Because I’ve tied so much of myself to the outcome, to the doing, to the constant giving and constant striving to do my very best by them.
That kind of living, drains you. I've glorified burnout and burning everything else down around me: relationships, marriage faith, family, home, and hobbies, to prove I'm enough.
It didn't happen all at once, but slowly and quietly.
It stole my joy in the places it was meant to live to the point that my everyday heart posture was anxiety, frustration, and living in a pressure cooker.
The sound of my pigs being their ridiculous, goofy selves—moments that should make me laugh without thinking twice, upset me to the point I tried to give them away.
Like the friendships that show up steady and kind, even when I don’t have much left to give back seemed like a burden.
Like the soft, knowing eyes of a horse that trusts me—really trusts me—made me sad.
Those moments matter more than anything else and I was depriving myself of them.
They’re the ones God places right in front of me… and yet somehow, I’ve been too busy striving to fully receive them.
I keep thinking about something from Where the Red Fern Grows—when Grandpa says "you have to meet God halfway."
I’ve always loved that idea. The grit in it. The responsibility. The partnership.
But lately, I’ve been wondering…
What if that doesn’t always apply the way we think it does?
What if sometimes, in trying to “meet God halfway,” I’ve actually just been forcing doors open that He never asked me to push?
Working harder. Holding tighter. Trying to make something be exactly what I think it should be—because I care so deeply.
But maybe not everything is meant to be carried like that.
Maybe some things aren’t waiting on more effort… maybe they’re waiting on surrender.
Because if I’m really honest, there’s another weight I carry too.
The kind that sits heavy in my chest.
The feeling that I’ve failed my horses.
That I didn’t protect them enough.
That I didn’t show them to the best of their ability—not because they couldn’t, but because I got in my own way chasing perfection instead of just letting them be what they are.
That I overthought, overrode, overtried… and in doing so, I missed them.
And then there’s the part that everyone sees, but no one understands the effect it has on me.
I let all of them go, at some point.
No horse gets to stay with me forever. I’m just part of their journey—and I carry a deep responsibility in that. To prepare them well. To set them up for whatever comes next. To give them everything I possibly can before they step into their next chapter.
It's not because I didn’t love them enough… but because this is how I, the little horse loving girl inside of me, feeds my family. This is just the reality of the life I’ve chosen.
And truthfully, they all go to good people—people who care, who try, who show up for them in their own ways. I’m so grateful for that. I really am.
But loving them the way I do means I see every little piece of them with my heart and soul—I see their personalities, their try, their heart—and letting go of that closeness is never as simple as it looks from the outside.
I’m being really honest… there are moments I feel like I’ve betrayed that trust. Do horses think like that? The logical side of me knows, probably not but it doesn't mean it doesn't sit on me.
Did I betray the love they had for me—and the love I had for them? Call it a talent or a curse, but I've always been able to get most horses to do things for me easily, no fight, no punishment, no struggle. John calls it "feel" which I'm grateful for but it leads to this weight of responsibility that I’m the only one who can do it “right.”
The only one who can understand them the way they deserve. And when I let them go, it can feel like I’m handing them off in a way that doesn’t match the depth of what we had.
I know that isn’t true. I know they go on to be loved and cared for in ways that look different than mine, which is an example of another way God uses passions, talents, and horses to show his love.
But that feeling is constantly creeping on me.
I carry that.
I carry the wondering.
I carry the hoping that they’re understood, that they’re thriving, that they’re loved in the ways they need.
I carry the quiet ache of releasing something that meant so much to me.
Not because anyone else is doing it wrong—but because a piece of me went with them.
It’s a weight that doesn’t really have a place to go.
But maybe… God sees that too?
Maybe He sees the intention behind my chase for perfection?
The love behind the decisions that don’t feel clean or easy.
The heart that tried to do everything right.
And maybe He’s not asking me to meet Him halfway in all of this striving and proving and pushing—
Maybe He’s asking me to trust that He meets me right here.
In the uncertainty.
In the questions.
In the ache of caring this much.
Because somewhere along the way, I started chasing excellence more than I was chasing Him.
I started believing that if I just worked harder, gave more, showed up better—that I would finally feel settled. Secure. Worthy.
But God never asked me to earn my worth and I know I'm not supposed to find my security in my "success."
He already decided my worth, my security, and my passions.
Not in how much I do.
Not in how far I go.
In Him.
Even good things can become heavy when they start to define you. Horses aren’t the problem. Hard work isn’t the problem. Passion isn’t the problem.
But when they become the measure of who I am… that’s where I start to lose myself.
And maybe that’s exactly where God is meeting me right now—not in the big, obvious moments of success, but in the quiet unraveling of all the ways I’ve placed my identity in something other than Him.
Maybe He’s gently reminding me:
You are not what you produce.
You are not how much you give.
You are not the weight you carry.
You are Mine.
And that has to be enough.
I don’t have all the answers right now. I don’t know exactly what this path is supposed to look like long-term. I don’t know if I’m exactly where I’m meant to be or if God is slowly reshaping something in me.
But I do know this:
He hasn’t left.
Not in the success.
Not in the questions.
Not in the exhaustion.
Not in the guilt I carry for selling horses that I love deeply.
He’s still here—in the laughter I overlook in the friendships that hold me up, in the silly pigs and goats that pull me out of my own head, and in the kind, steady eyes of the horses that trusts me.
And maybe that’s where healing begins.
Not in doing more.
Not in proving anything.
But in loosening my grip.
To let joy be small.
To let purpose unfold.
To let grace cover the places where I feel like I’ve failed.
Because at the end of the day, every horse may carry a piece of my soul—
But my soul was never meant to be held together by how well I do. It belongs to Him. Maybe I don’t have to meet Him halfway after all. Maybe I just have to stop running long enough to realize:
He’s already here.
The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still. Exodus 14:14
“Gravel, Bridges, and Miracles: A Horse Delivery Story”
But now, thus says the Lord who
created you, O Jacob,
And He who formed you, O Israel: "Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; You are Mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned. Nor shall the flame scorch you. For I am the Lord your God, The Hold One of Israel, your Savior;
Isaiah 43: 1-3
The other day we were hauling a horse out for delivery, and I swear we ended up in the middle of nowhere — the kind of “middle of nowhere” where your GPS just gives up and says rerouting so many times the word loses meaning. We were hauling our big old 50-footer, though we had more than one horse and weren’t headed to barrel racer land, so the odds were in our favor. The map said we were on a “road,” but it felt more like a winding gravel path carved out by the wilderness itself. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, we rolled up to a bridge that looked like it belonged in some rugged mountain pass where only pack mules with a death wish would cross.
Now, before the trip, the customer — who has since become a friend — had assured us, “The road’s fine, the bridge is fine — don’t stress we haul our big trailer in here regularly." We believed them. Not because we’re naïve, but because over the years we’ve learned that most horse folks know the assignment, and we’ve built a little faith and confidence in scary driveways and mountain passes. Still, when I laid eyes on that bridge, my faith felt about the size of a mustard seed. My knuckles were glued to the wheel, my heart was pounding, and finally I looked at John and said, “Nope. I’m out. If this trailer is going down, you’re the captain.” He smirked his “see you do need me” smirk and slid into the driver’s seat like it was just another Tuesday, (which it was an actual Tuesday) and eased that rig across like he’d done it a thousand times. Meanwhile, I was taking a Snapchat to document my death for my friends with hope they would be sad and not ironically exasperated that this was how I died.
And here’s where God dropped the reminder on me. Life is full of these scary bridges — the kind where everything in you screams that you can’t make it across. But just like I handed the wheel over to John, and had faith in what our friend said, we have to hand the wheel over to God and have some faith in him. Isaiah 43:19 says, “I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” Even when the road looks like it’s falling out from under us, He knows how to get us safely across.
By the end of the trip, what began as a nerve-wracking adventure had turned into something truly sweet. The horse arrived at his new home safe and sound, we made some wonderful new friends, and even stayed the evening with them — hoping to see them again soon! Through it all, I could see God’s hand guiding us, turning a scary, white-knuckle moment into something wholesome and good. That horse is deeply loved in his new home, and it’s a beautiful reminder that God can take the wild, uncertain paths in our lives and lead us to blessing, joy, and connection.
So here’s the moral of the story: when the road looks sketchy, the bridge looks ready to collapse, and your stomach’s in knots — trust the One who knows the way better than you do. Because if He can guide John to get a 50-foot trailer across a bridge built for mules, He can surely carry us across whatever we’re facing too.
Behold, I will do a new thing, Now it shall spring forth; Shall you not know it? I will even make a road in the wilderness And Rivers in the desert. Isaiah 43:19