Green Onions

Posted on March 6, 2026 by Doc Arnett

I was walking back up from barn to garage this morning after an inch of overnight rain left our horse paddock in the expected state of mud and muck. Figured a few minutes with hose and spray nozzle directed at my lower boot parts would be time well spent. Was right sure Randa would agree with me on that!

Just before I reached the hydrant, I saw a couple of sprigs of green onions poking up through the layer of colored stones I’d spread around the southern perimeter of the garage. I chuckled to myself, “Green onions on the sixth of March! How ‘bout dat?!”

That spurred two new thoughts, about as close to simultaneous as thoughts can get in the launching center of my brain. First was a song from over sixty years ago by Booker T. and the M.G.s that I loved then and still love hearing. Rhythmic bass, slick electric guitar riffs, and smoothly rocking keyboard. I’m listening to it while I write this…

The second thought was remembering how much Dad hated green onions in the spring pastures on our Todd County (KY) dairy farm! He loathed them. Not for themselves, maybe, so much as how they affected the flavor and aroma of the milk our purebred Jersey herd produced during those two weeks or so. It was so strong that he couldn’t sell the milk to the usual buyer; he had to sell instead—at a much reduced price—to a different diary processor. I suppose the cheese making process eliminates the undesired attributes. Or at least greatly reduces them.

How a thing affects us often affects our perception of that thing, doesn’t it? Hard to fully appreciate the smell of a rose—back when rose blooms actually had a discernible odor—when you’re prying broken thorns from your hands.

Sometimes, considering how the same event or circumstances might affect others differently than us could help us understand why they respond differently…

Me? I’m still listening to Booker T & the MGs… and enjoying a few green onions ever now and then alongside a steaming hot bowl of brown beans, and a liberally buttered slab of fresh baked cornbread.

Happy eatin,’ y’all… and keep lovin’ your neighbors.

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Breakfast Moment

Posted on February 25, 2026 by Doc Arnett

Finishing up my cup of coffee and bowl of cereal, I was a bit startled when I looked out the window over the sink. Less than sixty feet away, I saw a large male fox headed straight toward the house. We’ve seen a female fox several times in the years we’ve lived here at Blair. Sometimes trotting across the yard, sometimes through the horse pen, once over at an abandoned house where she was watching her two kits play in the yard.

This was the first time I’d seen a male. Might be the time of year when a fox’s thoughts turn to love…

Whatever brought him by in such close proximity did not keep him here long. He started to head down the hill toward Fleek’s Market but there was a strange truck and horse trailer backed into his path. The combination of truck and trailer might have made it even stranger to Romeo’s perception. He took a couple  steps, then stopped. He looked toward the new contraption, then over toward the garage, then over toward 190th Road.

I’m guessing that most surviving foxes have figured out that hesitation in daylight in close proximity to humans rarely leads to pleasant encounters. He took one last look toward his apparently usual route then quickly adapted and loped away toward the northeast. By the time I thought to look out our dining room windows, he had disappeared.

He was quite the handsome fellow in his full flush of winter fur, darker red than the female we’d seen several times. A fringe of black around his neck and ears and up the lower part of his legs. Taller and heavier, too. Although Google tells me that males mate for life and are heavily involved in helping raise the young, we’ve not witnessed that.

Doesn’t mean it didn’t or doesn’t happen; just means that if it does, we haven’t witnessed it.

I reckon it’s sort of human to be suspicious of things that we haven’t seen ourselves. Dubious about things we haven’t experienced. Kind of like Apostle Thomas who insisted on firsthand evidence instead of witness testimony.

Human, yes… But that doesn’t mean we should try to turn skepticism into an art form. Many a life has shortchanged itself by avoiding many potentially enriching relationships, activities, and experiences because we’d rather shortchange ourselves a thousand times than risk it once by someone else.

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Welcome Home

Posted on February 20, 2026 by Doc Arnett

Just beyond the airport’s secured area, right where waiting friends and family can first meet arriving passengers, I saw a gaggle of twenty or more people. Noticing the two pre-pubescent kids holding large hand-lettered signs, I quickly deduced they were waiting for someone other than me. Yeah, I admit my powers of logic sometimes impress me, too.

The signs affirmed at least two things: 1) the awaited person had been gone too far, and 2) the awaited person had been gone too long. People who know me well rarely affirm either of those opinions and the fact that this group collectively affirmed both of them further reinforced my earlier deduction. The expectancy on their faces convinced me that this was going to be a moment worth watching. So… I stepped over and stood against the wall and waited to watch the moment.

I didn’t have to wait long.

Within two minutes, another passenger from the same plane I’d been on walked through the exit. His youthful adult face lit up brightly when he saw the group. A middle-aged woman wearing a long cotton dress and with her long brown hair tightly pinned around her head strode forward with an even brighter glow on her face.  One of the young sign holders accompanied her. The woman hugged the arriving young man with an intimate urgency that he reciprocated. After a moment, he hugged the young boy. The three of them walked toward the remainder of the group who were waiting patiently for the closest reunion to unfold.

One or two at a time, perhaps according to closeness of relationship, subsequent hugs and greetings unfolded. Something like a circle expanded and the young man moved further into the group. Even as he moved away from her toward the others, the mother’s eyes stayed focused on the young man.

There was nothing about his appearance, haircut, dress, or demeanor that suggested “military.” That disproved an earlier assumption I’d made when I’d first seen the group with their signs. Yeah, sometimes my logic isn’t all that impressive… Maybe he was a young Mormon returning from a two-year mission? Maybe a member of a different religious group coming back home from an overseas service? Maybe a prodigal returning to the fold and the farm?

Don’t know and don’t really care. Analysis and explanation ruin many a good experience and I wasn’t about to let either of those diminish the intense satisfaction I derived from my uninvited witness to this perennial pleasure of reunion. This spectacle of joy and affirmation of humanity.

I stayed out of the way, inobtrusive and silent…

Until I saw the circle around the mother spread slightly and the young man moved on to the rear fringes of the welcoming group.

In that opportune instant, I stepped over close to the woman and leaned forward just enough to gain her attention. She turned her face toward me, eyes already misty with feeling. I smiled broadly and said gently, not loud enough for anyone else to hear me, “You do know this is what heaven is going to be like, don’t you?”

Her eyes widened slightly and a look of transcendent peace and calm joy swept across her face. She looked intently at me, nodded, and whispered, “Yes… I do. I do.”

I turned and walked away, taking a final glance at the young man as he moved toward another young man standing outside the larger group and waiting. I’d bet a dollar to a donut that they’d been best friends in high school.

The degree of missing one another in our temporary separations is one measure of closeness. The depth of joy in our reunions is another. One is painful sometimes to the point of breaking; the other is bliss almost beyond comprehension. As we endure the one, let us never lose sight of the other.

It. Is. Coming.

Posted in Aging, Christian Devotions, Christian Living, Death & Dying, Family, Relationships, Resurrection/Return, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Welcome Home

In All Things

Posted on February 15, 2026 by Doc Arnett

In my pain, I will cry out to God;
I will fall on my knees
and plead with Him for mercy.

In my joy, I will cry out to God;
I will lift up my hands
and thank Him for His favor.

When sorrow rolls like the waves
of the ocean,
I will remember that He has counted
all my tears.

When tides of trouble seem to carry away
all that sustains me,
I will remember that my Rock
is always near.

When grinding grief emeries
both fringe and center of my resolve,
I will kneel before my Maker
and remember that He sustains me.

In all my life, I will praise His name;
whether in want or in plenty,
whether feasting or fasting,
whether exulting or in despair:

I will place all my cares
upon The One Who Cares for me,
and I will praise His Name
because He Is Worthy.

He is the Lord God
and I will bow down before Him…
and He will lift me up.

H. Arnett
2/15/26

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Way Back Then and There

Posted on February 14, 2026 by Doc Arnett

Plowing in between those low hills,
turning red clay into planted fields.
Green sod furrowed into dirt,
long flumes behind the plow
showed our work.

We sweated in those brick-kiln summers,
studied each blister with aching wonder.
Stacked hay high as houses inside the barn,
Never imagined there might be life
beyond our farm.

We were young and eager to be men.
Couldn’t wait for the years way back then.
After all this time and all of these gray hairs,
I’d love one more hour, way back then and there.

H. Arnett
2/14/26

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Assisted Living

Posted on February 9, 2026 by Doc Arnett

I sat in the waiting area,
pretending not to see the residents
doing their physical therapy.

I watched—secretly—as one lady,
old and thin,
stood slowly and stiffly,
then shuffled her way through the cones,
pushing her walker in a slow-motion slalom,
weaving her way across the vinyl floor
while her therapist walked alongside,
one hand gripping the wide strap
wrapped around the waist
to keep what little weight
the woman still had
from tilting too far toward
her next calamity.

When she was through
and trundled slowly back down the hall
to her room,
I saw the next crew come in—
three women and two men—
all in wheelchairs,
rolling toward whatever was next in their lives.
Making what effort they could
to make that better than what was just past.

Whether prayer or prophecy
or just the logical extension of my own awareness,
I could see that what already sagged over their lives
could be drifting toward me.

But as a Carpenter less than half my age
once said—more or less—
no amount of dread can change the least bit of life
and why add to this day
the aggravation that may not come with the next one?

And so, I gave thanks
that I could rise from sitting to standing
without too much demand,
and walked down the hall to visit a neighbor
who may be even more hard of hearing than I am.

I’m sure they could hear us laughing
clear down to the other end of the hall.
In this world where the next morning’s light
might be more than we will ever see,
we did not pause to offer any apology.


H. Arnett
2/9/2026

Posted in Aging, Christian Devotions, Christian Living, Death & Dying, Family, Poetic Contemplations, Relationships, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , | Comments Off on Assisted Living

Witness of a Winter Moon

Posted on February 4, 2026 by Doc Arnett

High above in the keen thinness of a January night,
a three-quarter moon glistens snow and ice.
A few high clouds—too thin to shroud the light—
stroke gentle texture between stars and frozen earth.

Shadows of a mammoth cottonwood
pattern the white blanket beneath the tree,
an interweaving of bending boughs
plowing their curves onto the hard-faced snow.

Looking back to the sky,
I see something I missed only a moment before:
a jet a few miles above the earth,
tracing its path just above the clouds.

At this angle under such a bright moon,
I can see not only the twin plumes of condensing vapor
stretching out toward Denver,
but even a hint of the shape of the plane.

Too high above the frame of the earth
for the sound to make itself known,
it is only by a chance glance toward heaven
that I happen to see this brief witness.

Clouds drift into the sifting night,
vapors disappear in the absorbing atmosphere,
the moon phases its way through Kansas winters,
and even this aching cold will pass in time.

But, at least for a while,
this memory of a moment
caught in unexpected light
will last beyond its passing.

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Wrong End of the Shovel

Posted on February 3, 2026 by Doc Arnett

Have you ever gone through a time in your life when doing the minimum felt like more than you could do? Maybe a time when you were sick, or had been injured, or were dealing with so much emotional weight that you felt overwhelmed? “One day at a time, my rear end! Girl, I’m just trying to get through the next hour!”

And then, there are other times when you felt so powerful and capable you could dig a hole using the wrong end of the shovel?! You breezed through the routine demands of the day and had energy left over! Cleaned out three closets, organized the garage, even pulled the refrigerator out and cleaned back there… (So that’s where little Cousin Joey ended up!)

You know, everyone goes through those times, right? There are times when life stacks up like giant Jenga blocks and then someone pulls out the bottom piece and it feels like everything falls on us at once.

I think that’s why the Traveling Tentmaker told us, in the same paragraph in Galatians 6, “Bear one another’s burdens… [and]… each one must carry his own burden.”

Although the KJV and some other translations use the word “burden” in both places, the NIV and others translate the first sentence with “burden” but use the word “load” in the second one. Why? Well, at least two reasons, I think.

First—and primarily—because the early manuscripts use different words in each case. In the first case, the Greek word “baros” is translated as “burden.” It literally means “weight.” In the second case, “phortion” is translated “load.” It literally means—oddly enough—“load.”

Weight/burden indicates something too heavy, something beyond normal, something that can’t be lifted and carried with reasonable, normal effort. Something that exceeds capacity or responsibility. Pushing a wheelbarrow with 200 pounds of concrete is something I can normally do. But if I have a broken arm or a twisted ankle or pneumonia, it’s no longer normal. It becomes too much

Sometimes life becomes a burden because of excessive weight, sometimes because of personal limitations. In either case, I need help. That’s when caring Christians step in and share the burden. The suffering one’s weight is eased for the duration of the need but the distribution keeps it from being too much for anyone. I don’t shove you out of the way and pick up the whole thing… I take enough that we can do this together.

Paul reminds us all that we cannot shirk our own responsibilities. And… that being a member of the body of Christ means that all are to live in compassion for one another. So that no one has it too easy—and no one is crushed by their burden. We have to be willing at different times to let others know so they can show up. And, when we do know, we show up.

Improves the traveling for all of us, don’t you think? Sometimes the map isn’t just about the destination; it’s also about making the trip better.

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Witness of a Lesser Light

Posted on January 30, 2026 by Doc Arnett

I had to run a quick errand in Wathena just three miles away last evening. When I came back, I stopped at the end of our driveway down by the road. I put the empty trash can in the back of the CX-5 and then checked the mail. As I closed the lid, I looked down and noticed the stark silhouette of the post and box etched on the ground.

At first I thought it was the shadow from the billboard lights over next to Fleek’s Market. Then I noticed the angle was wrong. “Oh, that must be from the moon!” I realized and looked up.

Sure enough, high above the frozen ground of northeast Kansas, a three-quarter moon shone brightly. Brightly enough to cast the shadow and illuminate a few high, thin clouds. And… the contrails of a jet a few miles high and headed east. The long narrow plumes stretched out behind the jet, glowing in their reflection of the moon’s fine light.

I wondered whether anyone else in the area happened to look up and see that same sight, the calm, simple wonder of night’s small favors—a bright moon, passing clouds, and a solitary jet headed to some distant destination.

It really doesn’t matter how many or how few take note of our passings in the night. As long as we reflect the Light and stay on our path. And—eventually—reach our destination. That. Does. Matter.

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