There is an old story about a farmer whose horse ran away.
His neighbors came to him with sympathy and said, “That is terrible. What awful luck.”
The farmer said, “Maybe.”
The next day, the horse returned, bringing several wild horses with it.
The neighbors came back and said, “How wonderful. What good luck.”
The farmer said, “Maybe.”
Soon after, the farmer’s son tried to ride one of the wild horses, was thrown, and broke his leg.
Again, the neighbors appeared. “How terrible. What bad luck.”
The farmer said, “Maybe.”
A short time later, soldiers came through the village to take young men into war. Because the farmer’s son had a broken leg, he was not taken.
The neighbors said, “How fortunate. What a blessing.”
The farmer said, “Maybe.”
The story is simple, but it has survived because it exposes something we do almost constantly. We judge too quickly. We see one small fragment of a story and declare the whole thing a tragedy or a triumph. We take the latest event, isolate it from the rest of time, give it a name, attach an emotion to it, and then act as if our judgment is wisdom.
But is it?
A Course in Miracles tells us, “I do not perceive my own best interests.” (W-24) That is not an insult. It is a release. It does not mean we are stupid. It means we are trying to evaluate eternity through a pinhole. We see the broken leg. We do not see the army coming. We see the runaway horse. We do not see the horses returning. We see loss. We see gain. We see danger. We see opportunity. But we do not see the whole.
And because we do not see the whole, we are not in a very good position to judge the part.
The ego loves judgment because judgment gives it a false sense of certainty. “This is good.” “This is bad.” “This should have happened.” “This should not have happened.” “This proves I am loved.” “This proves I have been abandoned.” “This is success.” “This is failure.” “This is punishment.” “This is reward.”
The ego does not merely observe events. It interprets them. Then it reacts to its own interpretation and calls the reaction reality.
That is why the Course begins its training by gently undoing our confidence in our own meanings. “I have given everything I see all the meaning that it has for me.” (W-2) The farmer’s neighbors gave meaning to each event as it appeared. Horse gone: bad. Horse returned with more horses: good. Son injured: bad. Son spared from war: good. Each judgment seemed obvious at the time. Each judgment was incomplete.
That is our classroom.
We do the same thing with our lives. A relationship ends, and we call it disaster. Later, we see it opened the way to healing, honesty, or a deeper relationship with God. A plan fails, and we call it defeat. Later, we see it spared us from a path we were not meant to take. An illness interrupts our life, and we call it cruelty. Later, perhaps we discover compassion, humility, patience, or a tenderness we had long defended against. A door closes, and we grieve. Later, we realize we were being turned away from a room too small to hold us.
But we do not usually know this when the horse first runs away.
At the moment of loss, we are tempted to make our pain into proof. Proof that life is unfair. Proof that God is absent. Proof that we are victims. Proof that love cannot be trusted. The Course asks us to pause before accepting that verdict. It does not ask us to deny that we feel pain. It asks us not to crown pain as our teacher.
This is important. “Maybe. We’ll see,” is not emotional numbness. It is not indifference. It is not spiritual bypassing. It is not pretending the broken leg does not hurt. The son’s leg was broken. The farmer’s horse did run away. The family’s circumstances did change. In the dream, things happen. Bodies hurt. Plans collapse. People leave. Money disappears. Opportunities are lost. Friends misunderstand us. The world behaves like the world.
The question is not whether these things seem to happen.
The question is whether I will let the ego interpret them for me.
A Course in Miracles is not asking us to become passive spectators. It is asking us to become honest students. There is a great difference. The passive spectator says, “Nothing matters.” The honest student says, “Everything can be used for awakening if I give it to the right Teacher.”
That is where the story becomes deeply meaningful. The farmer does not rush to judgment. He does not argue with the neighbors. He does not need to correct them. He does not make a theology out of the runaway horse. He simply remains open. “Maybe.” In that “maybe” there is space. In that space, the mind is not locked into fear.
Most of our suffering comes not only from what happens, but from the meaning we attach to what happens. The Course reminds us, “I am never upset for the reason I think.” (W-5) That lesson can feel almost offensive when we are in the middle of a painful situation. Of course I know why I am upset, we think. The horse is gone. The leg is broken. The money is short. The body is sick. The person was rude. The plan failed.
But the Course goes deeper. It suggests that the event is not the real cause of the loss of peace. The interpretation is. I am upset because I have decided what this means. I have decided what it says about me, about God, about love, about safety, about the future. I have taken one frame of the movie and declared the ending.
The Holy Spirit does not ask us to deny the frame. He asks us to stop declaring the ending.
This is where forgiveness enters. True forgiveness is not saying, “This bad thing happened, but I will nobly overlook it.” That still assumes our judgment is correct. It still assumes we know what happened, why it happened, what it means, and who is guilty. Course-based forgiveness begins with a much deeper humility: “I do not know what this is for.” (W-25)
That one sentence can save us years of unnecessary suffering.
I do not know what this is for.
I do not know what this delay is for.
I do not know what this disappointment is for.
I do not know what this illness is for.
I do not know what this criticism is for.
I do not know what this apparent failure is for.
I do not know what this encounter is for.
I do not know what this ending is for.
The ego hears that and panics, because the ego needs certainty to survive. Even miserable certainty will do. The ego would rather be right about disaster than open to grace. It would rather say, “This proves I am alone,” than admit, “I do not know what anything is for.”
But the healed mind does not require premature certainty. It can wait. It can listen. It can say, “Maybe. We’ll see,” not because it is detached from love, but because it is willing to be taught by Love.
This does not mean every event in the dream becomes pleasant. It means every event in the dream can be reinterpreted. The purpose of the world is changed when it is placed in the hands of the Holy Spirit. What the ego uses to prove separation, the Holy Spirit uses to undo separation. What the ego uses to build grievance, the Holy Spirit uses to teach forgiveness. What the ego uses to confirm fear, the Holy Spirit uses to reveal the unreliability of fear.
The horse runs away. The ego says, “Loss.”
The horse returns with others. The ego says, “Gain.”
The son breaks his leg. The ego says, “Tragedy.”
The army passes him by. The ego says, “Blessing.”
The Holy Spirit says, “Let us use all of it.”
That may be the deeper lesson. Not that the farmer was lucky. Not that the neighbors were foolish. Not even that bad things later become good things. The deeper lesson is that judgment itself is unstable because perception is unstable. What we call good today may frighten us tomorrow. What we call bad today may bless us next week. As long as we are judging by appearances, we are riding a seesaw and calling it truth.
The Course offers us another way. It does not ask us to become cleverer judges. It asks us to resign as judge. It asks us to let the One Who sees beyond the little moment reinterpret the little moment for us.
That is not weakness. It is sanity.
Imagine meeting each disturbance with this prayer:
“Holy Spirit, I have already decided what this means, and my decision has cost me peace. I am willing to be wrong. I am willing to see this differently. I do not know what this is for. Use it for healing.”
That is the Course in practice.
Not theory. Not theology. Not a pretty idea for peaceful mornings. Practice. Especially when the horse is gone. Especially when the neighbors are talking. Especially when the leg is broken. Especially when fear has already written the headline.
Maybe. We’ll see.
Those words do not belong to indifference. They belong to trust. They are a doorway out of the ego’s courtroom and into the Holy Spirit’s classroom. They remind me that my judgment is not my salvation. My willingness is.
The farmer’s wisdom was not that he knew the future. His wisdom was that he did not pretend to know the future. He allowed life to unfold without making every turn into a final verdict. In Course language, he left room for reinterpretation.
That is what I want to learn.
When something seems to go wrong, I want to pause before I condemn it. When something seems to go right, I want to enjoy it without making an idol of it. When I am praised, I want to remember that praise does not establish my worth. When I am criticized, I want to remember that criticism does not diminish it. When the world says, “This is awful,” I want to hear another Voice ask, “Would you like to see this differently?”
And when the world says, “This is wonderful,” I want to hear the same Voice gently remind me, “Do not stop here. Let even this be used for awakening.”
The peace of God does not depend on horses staying, horses leaving, legs breaking, armies passing, neighbors approving, or circumstances arranging themselves according to my preferences. The peace of God depends on my willingness to stop giving the ego the final word.
So the next time life changes without my permission, perhaps I can remember the farmer.
The horse is gone.
Maybe.
The horse has returned.
Maybe.
The leg is broken.
Maybe.
The army has passed by.
Maybe.
And somewhere beneath all the changing appearances, the Holy Spirit whispers the only verdict that does not change:
You are still loved. You are still safe in God. And this, too, can be used for peace.
If this essay touched something true in you, please feel free to share it freely and widely. Truth was never meant to sit quietly in one room.