We saw the dark clouds and heard the thunder before radar confirmed that a “small” storm was moving in late yesterday afternoon. There was heavy rain, a brief strong wind and a bit of small hail. And then, just a few minutes after the rain ended, a strong burst of sunshine broke through.
Hoping that we might have a rainbow worth looking at, I took my camera phone outside to see if I could see one. Nope. Just dark stormy skies to the east and north and south and the sun glaring on drenched branches. There’s a surrealistic effect after a storm like that. Saturated colors, brilliant reflections, extreme contrasts.
One of my favorites is the way sycamore bark stands out so stark and white against a dark bruised sky. The contrast of leaves and green and that gleaming, bright bark against the blue-black clouds! Wow!
So, I took several pictures looking toward the east and then turned toward the west. With the sun shining straight toward me, it created a glare through the lens. So I moved into the shade of a small cluster of cedar trees to block the sun. I took some more pictures of the storm sky with some of those sinister clouds fringed with platinum from the sun’s bright light. Very nice, very nice…
Then, I looked down and noticed huge drops of collected rain dropping from the cedar branches. With the sun shining directly behind them, they looked like diamonds falling from the trees. I moved over to take some pictures of that. As I looked up into the branches, I saw a tiny burst of brilliant light reflected from a large drop of water still clinging to the cedar. As I moved my head ever so slightly to one side, the light turned red.
I moved into position for a closer shot, carefully adjusting the camera’s angle to catch the light just right, hoping it would catch what I was seeing. I also took a couple of brief video clips to show the motion of the branches in the breeze and the cascade of water droplets falling from them. In only a couple of minutes, clouds had moved back in, blocking out the sun. Photo session over…
Back in the house, away from the outside light, I began showing Randa the pictures. “No rainbow,” I admitted, “But, I did get some pretty neat pictures.” I slid from one shot to the other, starting with the pictures of the trees and clouds. Then, I got to the ones I’d taken of the cedar trees. In the lower light of the living room, I was astounded by what I could not see outside.
Instead of just the one droplet’s color I’d tried to catch, the camera had recorded hundreds of tiny, brilliant reflections. In dozens of colors: reds and pinks, lavenders and purple and blue, greens and aquas and white. The cedar looked like it had been prepped for Christmas! Hoping that I would not be disappointed by my effort to capture that one element I’d noticed, I was gratified to find that I’d taken pictures that exceeded my most optimistic expectations!
When we refuse to let disappointments ruin our day or our lives and we instead open our eyes and our hearts to what does appear before us, we can often find sights and experiences even better than our often quite limited expectations.
In other words, let’s focus on the day the Lord has made instead of the one we fantasized. And be glad in it.
The silhouette of a tiny pine clinging to the bare face of a stone-carved cliff.
The first crocus showing its bright color against the grass at the base of a paper-bark birch tree.
The hands of old men softly cradling the faces of small children who will barely remember them.
The deeply etched lines in the incredibly soft faces of old women, clutching at the corners of their eyes while they laugh with friends at a corner table.
A hanging diamond of blue Angel Fish suspended beneath a stone arch forty feet below the surface, three thousand feet from the beach near Kona.
The cascade of clear water shearing across smooth stone and tumbling into the foam forty feet below the lip of Cumberland Falls.
Tree-shaped shadows on the snow in the wondrously brilliant glow of a winter’s full moon.
The sparkling of the sun on wind-rippled waters.
A daughter’s smile when she loves who she sees when she walks into a room.
A son’s strength in the gleaming sweat of fall harvest.
The gentle touch of a sympathetic woman who understands the pain of hidden tears.
The slow roll of distant thunder coming from dark clouds promising rain in a hot, dry summer.
The openness of a prairie sky, the closeness of a hardwood forest, the vastness of giant cactus in a desert, the seams of color in the smoothed raw ribbons of a sandstone canyon.
The blur of hummingbird wings hovering above the blooms of wildflowers.
The smell of honeysuckle blooming on a heavy, humid night in the fencerows of a gravel road winding through ancient memories of childhood.
The quiet reverence of bowed heads lined on hardwood pews above the hardwood floors of an old country church.
The whispers of eternity that speak in the forests, murmur in mountain waters, breathing in the breeze sifting through the leaves on the branches of an eighty-year-old cottonwood tree, boughed in humble adoration.
A low glow of orange Shows between the two houses across the street As dusk and evening begin to meet.
A long cloud stretches up Above the houses, Above the streets Above this small town And all that lies around it.
Its northern edge just catches the glow of the sky, A gray-boned rib fleshed with feathered fringes Of blue, rose, and white.
It seems to reach all the way From the ending of day To the beginning of night.
I reflect on this day's work, The coming conversations, The time spent with an eight-year-old grandson In a backyard pool that was too cool For the pleasure of touch on skin.
I knelt with my chin in the water, Held up my thumbs horizontal above my head So that he could grab a hold from behind And climb up, Stand on my shoulders.
As I rose from the waters, He tensed for the jump, Launched himself out and into the water, Surfacing several get away And always circling back for One. More. Time.
Not completely unlike the way I end each day Hoping for one more morning, One more bright dawning, One more day of the work of my hands, The love of those I love, Letting go of the past And stretching toward the future.
To him who has made this day, I will give thanks And try to rise Rested in faith, Held by hope, And led by love.
He finishes parking his car As I swing into the space beside him In Don Senor's parking lot.
We trade one-armed man hugs And go inside to a booth near the back.
It was hard to watch and hard to not see The weariness in his eyes and on his face, The traces of grief etched into the lines of his forehead, The shaking stiffness of his hands.
I'm sure it's not when you're nearly eighty But I don't know that there is any age That makes it any easier When the death of the one you love Comes trenching through your soul.
Thirty-nine years of loving and living With his Nora: A myriad of experiences, A plethora of trials, And the multiple miles Of joy, sorrow, aches, and celebrations That mark the lives of people who have decided To share all that life brings In their togetherness.
I can somewhat imagine But choose not to: What it would mean for me to lose Randa. An expected absurdity of existence Suddenly void of the richness That just marked its thirty-fifth year This past Lord's Day.
Over quesadillas and tacos, Mike and I talked, traded stories About hiking in the Grand Canyon.
He asked about Jay And I told him he was doing well, Continuing the machinist career That he started over twenty years ago.
He spoke of his own son, His finding an apartment for him, And told me that he wished I could come and hear him preach "He's an outstanding preacher." And added, "I'm not saying that Because he's my son; I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true."
And I told him that I knew that Because I do.
We finished eating And talked a while longer.
I prayed for him for just a moment, Standing together in the parking lot, Each an arm around the other's shoulder, And embraced each other for one final time.
He headed back the hour's drive to Lexington And I pulled out of the parking lot for the five minutes It took me to get back to Susan's house In time to get Benjamin ready for bed.
There are so many unspoken moments of being a husband, a father, a grandfather, Of Love's light duties and gainful sacrifices,
Never knowing when we have felt the last touch Of the life we thought we knew.
I believe that we will day rise to a better one In a place where there is No more sickness or sorrow, No more death or dying, Where all tears are wiped away.
No more walking alone through the long nights That mark the time between their passing And ours.
Filling in the gaps of faith with silent tears In the darkness of a moonless night With hints of autumn seeping into the silence.
Scripture, as far as I am aware, never mentions our “pursuit of happiness.” That pursuit is a never ending chase that never satisfies. We forego true joy in exchange for the empty illusions of this realm.
Jesus promises abundant life to those who put his teachings into practice. Every frustration, misery, and dissatisfaction I can recall experiencing in my life sprouted out of my refusal to obey him.
I do not believe Jesus cares at all about our happiness as generally defined by the world. But… I am assured that he is obsessed with our well-being.
On my current visit in Kentucky to work on my daughter’s house, I received a quite welcome and rather unexpected invitation. A very dear friend and brother in Christ who lives in Lexington contacted me indicating that he would like for us to get together during my time here in the Bluegrass.
I met Anthony in 1995 when Randa and I moved from Lexington to Georgetown. We only visited one church and that was the one where Anthony was the worship leader. One visit to Trinity Assembly of God completely convinced us that we had found our new church home. We were so blessed by the worship service that we didn’t want to try any other churches.
The only adequate one-word description that I can think of to properly describe this brother is “anointed.”
His humility, talent, love of worship, love of the Lord, and his gift from God makes him the most unique, effective, and enjoyable worship leader I have ever encountered. I’m sure that part of my impression is strongly embedded in my love for the type of worship that he brings. His wife, Dana, is an instrumental part of his ministry and has been for many many years. Her talent and shared love of music and the Lord brings a wonderful harmony to their shared ministry. They consistently brought joyous reverence and sincere celebration to the worship services at Trinity Assembly of God.
And so it was that I was so excited to get his invitation for us to meet up together. We did that last night at Cracker Barrel in Georgetown. For nearly three hours, we delighted in one another’s company and were blessed by it. His sincerity, appreciation for the work of the Lord, and devotion to serving Christ and others has blessed many people, I am sure. I was so grateful to be on the receiving end of the blessing of his fellowship last night.
It was hard to believe that it has been nearly twenty-five years since we had been together. Another dear friend told me forty years ago, “You know you are good friends when you haven’t seen each other for several years, but when you get together you start visiting and talking like it was only last week.”
I shared that quote with Anthony last night and he immediately agreed with it. What a wonderful blessing it was to reconnect with him last night. I think this is just a taste of the glorious joy we will experience when we are reunited with the members of Christ whom we have loved on that Great Resurrection Day.
I drive alone the curving, dipping, climbing miles Of this Bluegrass back road In the first full hour of the night's full darkness.
From time to time, above these painted lines, A full bright moon passes into view In the low eastern sky, Shuffling its hues into the gaps, Surfing the shadows in a sea of rippling clouds.
In the cooling shroud of an August night, This feels about right: Light and shadow intermingled in their own passing, Tones of color and degrees of darkness,
The heart-soothing quietness of a solitary journey, The peaceful serenity of silhouetted hardwoods Lining the ridges and forming a lane Framing this swath of dark pavement,
Offering a smooth journey, A simple passing, Quiet reflections of memoried days and nights.
Rounding an uphill curve That swings farther east, There is a release of bright light, The gentle moon reflecting a Greater Light To guide pilgrims and passersby, Sailors and beggars, Saints and sinners, All those whose travel sometimes Extends beyond the shades of day.
A soothing offering along the way To quiet the soul and refresh the spirit, And move us on toward our next Dawn.
There were times when it seemed to me That there were some in my life Who did not return the love and grace That I had shown to them, Some who maybe took more than they gave.
But when honesty drives me to my knees And humility takes its rightful place Inside my heart of hearts, Then I would have to confess That the worst day I have ever had, Was better than I deserved.
With the heat index already nearing triple digits by ten o’clock in the morning, it doesn’t really seem all that rational to be setting fire to a pile of old hay, wilted branches and a bit of dried brush tumbled up together.
A storm-felled elm lies with its upper branches touching against the pile. The roots that remain have been enough to keep it green two months after it fell and even after I cut clear through the trunk near the base, some branches still hold fresh leaves.
Using my small DeWalt chain saw, I work along the fringes, cutting off limbs and trimming them into smaller lengths.
The heat of the burning brush pile ebbs a bit and I toss on a couple of armloads of dead branches. At this proximity, the heat is intense on bare skin as I step in close to pitch a larger piece on top of the pile.
As soon as I step away, it feels cool and strangely refreshing.
I stop for a moment, though, feeling my sweat-soaked clothes and know that the coolness is an exaggeration, a denial of the reality that I am seventy and working in the sort of humid heat that can quickly deplete the body’s stores of water and electrolytes.
In my younger days, growing up in the red clay country of West Kentucky, I grew used to the smell of fresh manure in the milk barn, the sight of blood and guts in dressing game and slaughtering livestock for the family’s needs.
Mister Roy Morris, our neighbor three miles away, got so used to the smell and taste of sulphur water that he could stop at the end of a row of burley, down half a jug of that nasty stuff, iced and sweating through a paper sack, wipe his mouth, take a relieved sigh, and offer me a drink. Even on the hottest days, I could barely stand to take just a sip.
It is good to adapt to the miseries of life, to muster endurance and develop character, but it is not a good thing when what is truly strange becomes so commonplace that we start to think “This is how it is supposed to be.”
Love does not leave bruises, devotion does not break bones, repetition does not turn lies into truth, and a brush fire’s illusions offer no protection on a day when you can get heat stroke working in the shade.
Reflections by Doc Arnett 