Support Staff

This weekend I participated in a outdoor event about two-hundred-and-sixty miles from here, in between Columbia, Missouri, and St. Louis. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of participants and spectators. It had rained, hard, for a couple of days just prior to the event. To say it was muddy would be a bit of an understatement; they had tractors on hand to pull out stuck vehicles on their way to and from the parking area. The surface varied from soft to mush. Whenever people tried to make a new path to avoid the mire, they quickly created new mire.

From the approaches to the registration area, throughout the eleven-mile course, I was struck over and over at the size of the support staff needed for such an event. From the less-than-romantic task of setting up and servicing portable toilets to ensuring a massive supply of drinking water, from registration to awarding headbands and tee shirts at the finish, from staffing booths for first aid and souvenirs, from safety supervision of the twenty-five obstacles, including in-the-water divers at the deep pool high jump, there was no part of the event that did not require an extensive group of support personnel, nearly all of whom were volunteers.

At each water station, at each place supplying food and supplements, I was careful to say “thank you” to the people who helped. It takes an incredible number of people and an immense effort on the part of all to successfully deploy an event like this. This is also true in virtually every other workplace as well.

Whether factory or farm, college or cottage, or any other place of collective employment, there are many people who provide the behind the scenes effort that makes the work possible and productive. Without them, the rest of us have no employment. Teachers, physicians, bricklayers, attorneys, production workers, and virtually everyone else relies on others in order to simply have a job, much less to be able to concentrate on that job so it can be done successfully. Most of those support workers don’t expect a lot of attention, don’t expect a lot of publicity, don’t demand a lot of recognition.

But the one thing that is almost debilitating to them is lack of appreciation. For the most part, they have accepted the fact that other positions get more notice. But there’s hardly a one of them that doesn’t like to have a little simple acknowledgement from time to time that what they are doing is an essential part of the process. It may be small, it may even be tedious, but it makes a contribution. Ironically, it is the fact that it is routinely performed in an effective manner that makes it easy to take for granted.

I think when Jesus told us that we must become servants if we desire to achieve greatness, he was talking not only about humility but also about accepting that our work will often pass without praise and honor. But that in no way implies that we should be oblivious to the work and contribution of other servants. Indeed, it should make us keenly appreciative. Those who intentionally notice, value and encourage the work of others will find greater meaning and satisfaction in their own work. And just might find themselves more valued than they can imagine. Sincere appreciation is one of the greatest gifts we can give one another.

H. Arnett
10/13/14

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Through the Waters

Ann Marie pushes toward me in the pool, life jacket holding her up in the water. “Papa Doc! Watch me!” Even though it’s barely three feet deep here, that’s deeper than is comfortable for her. When her hair isn’t drenched by pool water, it’s blond and curly, accenting eyes that shimmer with excitement, mischievousness and a constant preoccupation with how to avoid doing whatever it is that she’s just been told to do. Or to continue doing what she’s been told to quit.

Aside from that element derived from at least three generations of paternal genetic predisposition, she is basically adorable. Cute, active, alert and imaginative.

At the present moment, that imagination has been over-stimulated by watching her older brother, Reese, jump off my shoulders into the deep water. It has her thinking she wants me to pitch her up in the air in the shallow end. “Pick me up, Papa Doc. Throw me in the water.”

“Okay,” I agree, “but let’s step out where it’s just a little deeper.” She grins and nods her head, “But not too deep.”

I take two steps toward the deep end and she kicks her way toward me. I lift her up to my chest, then toss her up a couple of feet into the air. She splashes down beneath the surface then bobs up to the top, arms flailing and feet kicking. Her mouth is shut tight and her eyes are huge. Even someone as dense as I am can see that this is no expression of delight; she is somewhere between startled and terrified.

I lift her up out of the water, “Hey, are you okay?”

Her eyelids move back down from her forehead and she nods her head, “I’m okay,” but there’s something in her voice that suggests she is being less than totally honest. Even small kids have egos and they sometimes don’t like to admit they’re scared. In this case, another generational trait, I suppose, with perhaps a double dose of genetics.

“Do it again,” Ann Marie says. I look at her suspiciously, “Are you sure?” Then, with an uncharacteristic bit of insight and intuition, I ask her, “Do you want me to catch you this time?” Instantly, she nods her head enthusiastically, “Yes, catch me!”

So, I pitch her up into the air and catch her with a sliding motion that lets most of her body dip into the pool but keeps her face out of the water. She laughs and uses that one word that forever signifies approval, delight and insistence: “Again!”

In that sort of trust, we step out into the pool, into the deeper water, trusting in the arm of Papa God to lift us up above the waves. Sometimes, he allows us to sink a bit deeper than we had expected. Sometimes, the taste of salt burns in our mouth and stings in our eyes but we find ourselves always rising above the splashing and churning. His hand always reaches to us, even in our greatest fears. Always.

H. Arnett
10/10/14

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Pool Play

I don’t remember exactly how long it had been since I last played in a pool with small children. It seems like it was maybe ten years or so but I’m not sure. I know it has been over twenty years since I played in a pool with my own children when they were small; over thirty years for some of them. But I do remember exactly how long it has been since I played in a pool with any of my grandchildren: four days, minus a couple of hours.

With the other kids having somewhere between five and fourteen hours to drive to their respective homes, Dan and Christie stayed around a while longer on Sunday morning, enjoying the leisure and the time at the place we’d rented in middle Tennessee. While Reese and Ann Marie played in the pool, I decided to join them. I figured it would be good therapy for my knees and most anything else that ailed me.

In a little while, I invited Reese to jump off my shoulders. “I’ll kneel down here and you hold my hands and climb up from the back, then you can jump off.” “Okay,” Reese responded, with a big grin on his face.

He climbed up and I said, “Okay, you can jump now,” but he kept holding my hands. I knew he was a good swimmer so I couldn’t understand why he didn’t jump. “Go ahead,” I urged him and finally he did jump… and did a forward flip in the process. Well, most of a forward flip.

As I stood up, I heard Christie call to me, “I think he was waiting for you to stand up; Dan always stands up with him and lets him jump.”

“Of course,” I thought to myself, suddenly remembering, “that’s how I always did it with Dan and the others after they were five or six years old. I stood up after they climbed up on my shoulders. Then they’d jump off.” Actually, they would usually jump as I was in the process of standing, using my momentum to increase theirs. I felt a surge of satisfaction, knowing that Dan had continued that small tradition from all those hours in the pool at Gower and at Wildcat Landing in Kentucky Lake.

I think our heavenly Father also takes pleasure in our continuing the traditions that he taught us, things like forgiving, showing compassion, being merciful, speaking truth. And above all, loving. I imagine Jesus smiles every time he sees one of us turn the other cheek, return good for evil or go the extra mile.

Reese comes back for another turn, I kneel and then rise up with him standing on my shoulders. He leaps toward the deep end, flipping over and into the water feet first. He surfaces, turns toward me. His grin is nearly as big as mine.

H. Arnett
10/9/14

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Warrior Dash Tennessee

The race starts us out running along the levee of a large pond then right up the side of a hill toward a line of trees. I’m thinking I might be able to jog all the way up; it’s a short hill. Two-thirds of the way up, though, and I’m walking like everyone else who isn’t in really good condition or just really determined. I join my fit family members at the top and we wait together for a couple of others who are even less determined than me.

After we jog alongside the trees for less than half a minute, we turn through the opening and see that we have more uphill. Eventually we find that we have three-quarters of a mile uphill. At the top, we see miles of Tennessee hills, tinged with the first fringes of autumn color, green pastures opening below the hills. When we finally hit the first downward slope, we find it leads us into a water/mud pit. We help one another up the slippery bank and make our way towards the first water station.

It is windy but sunny and the chill of the wetness leaves soon in the heat of exertion. Toward the top of the next series of climbs, we find the limestone base of what was once a huge barn. The mortar still holds the stones laid in the Nineteenth Century, a heavy frame rising six-to-eight feet high, eighty feet wide and three hundred feet long. Openings in the stone still show where doors and windows once held. In the middle, toward the far end, a series of strands of barbed wire stretch across the course. We crawl beneath, rise up at the opposite end.

Throughout the race, the faster wait for the slower, taking the breaks as needed, knowing they could run on ahead of us and finish in half the time. Today, though, is about being family, running together, sharing these moments, sunshine and wind sending us through the woods, along the trail, sharply defining the edges of skin as we wade our way out of the cold pond and move on to the next challenge.

Near the end, after climbing Goliath’s (Warrior Dash’s name for its large, triple obstacle challenge) first wall, crossing the cargo net suspended ten feet above the ground and then climbing up to the platform for the ten-tube water slide, we wait until all eight of us are gathered there. Each taking a seat, we kick off together, slip quickly down the steep slide and launch into that brief flight, then splash into the deep, muddy water below, climb out laughing.

We will cross the finish line together in another moment or two, plastered with mud from the last pit beneath the barbed wire. Long after the warm water in the parking lot, long after all of the grit has been washed away we will hold the memories of this good day. And look forward to the finishing of a much better race.

H. Arnett
10/8/14

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An Ancient Pleasure

I began the planning six months ago for this past weekend: the culminating event of my “Six for Sixty” celebration campaign. The deal I offered my kids was this: you do the traveling, we’ll provide the housing and pay for the race registration for you and your significant other. We would meet in Tennessee and they would join me as I ran my sixth Warrior Dash of the season, my personal goal for my sixtieth year. I registered eight of us and rented a house for the weekend via Vacation Rentals By Owner (VRBO).

I wanted a place closer to the race near Pulaski but the house I found in Hohenwald seemed worth the hour-plus drive we would have. It had an indoor pool, sleeping space for ten adults, a game-and-music room with pool table, hockey table, drums, guitars, amps and karaoke machine. It sounded absolutely perfect for us.

I knew from the get-go that it was unlikely that the oldest two sons would be able to join us because of military scheduling. I worried that some one or two others might pull out because of reasons beyond their control. I was afraid there might be some hidden aspect about the house that would make it less than advertised. I wasn’t sure how we’d manage food for that many without spending a small fortune eating out for the whole weekend.

Well, I was right on the first count and wrong on all the others. Well, almost wrong. Susan did pull out of the race due to her pregnancy but she not only came, she brought her replacement with her. The only drawback on the house was that one of the sleeping accommodations was a queen-sized pullout with a very thin mattress and a very uncomfortable frame. Otherwise the house was awesome! The pool was even better than we imagined and the game room was fantastic. As to the food, our daughters-in-law worked out a plan that kept us incredibly well-fed for the whole weekend. Lasagna, omelets, sandwiches, chili and burgers or brats, bacon and pancakes. Amazing.

It was very hilly and a bit chilly Saturday and windy but we survived the water and mud and conquered every obstacle. The super-fit waited at the top of each hill and after each obstacle for the rest of us. The Arnett Clan filled every chute on the big water slide, shooting down the tubes and splashing into the muddy pool at the bottom together. We crossed the finish line together, all plastered with mud from the crawl beneath the barbed wire. We cleaned up with warm water we’d brought with us, hung out for an hour or more, talking and listening to the live band, occasionally “dancing” together and then drove back to Hohenwald.

After supper and after the kids went to bed, we sat out in the yard, chairs circled around the bonfire. We shared favorite memories of the day and listed at least thirty songs that have the word “fire” in them. For bonus, one or more of us sang a snippet of each song. Somewhere in the vicinity of midnight, we all headed off to bed.

The next morning, Jeremiah, Misty and Miah headed back to Little Rock with Ben and Sara, with Ben and Sara headed back to Houston from there. Susan, Billy and little Jeremiah headed back to Paris, Kentucky. Randa and I headed back over to the airport at Nashville. Dan, Christie, Reese, Ann Marie and Dalton headed back to Murray, Kentucky. We’d spent an incredible weekend together. A few thousand miles of combined traveling. Not one cross word, not one argument, not one mean look the whole weekend. My knees hurt, my feet hurt, my calves and thighs were sore. I don’t think I could possibly have felt any better.

The joy of children and family being together, having a great time together, delighting in one another’s presence, isn’t just a primal pleasure of the human race. It traces clear back to our divine origins.

H. Arnett
10/6/14

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Extra Innings & Birthday Traditions

I’m not much for watching baseball games on TV. I’m sure if I had a couple of kids playing in the game, it’d be a bit different. A lot of things aren’t so much about the thing itself as they are about who’s doing the thing. There are bunches of folks who spend a lot of time watching things they don’t much care about it but they care very much about the grandkids who are doing them. A lot of people wouldn’t spend a dime or the time to watch a youth soccer game but they’ll sure be there when little Joey or Jolee is playing. Same for Little League, Pint Size Softball and what-have-you.

My what-have-you doesn’t currently include any kids or grandkids playing for the Kansas City Royals but when your local team finally makes the playoffs after a generation or two, it changes things a bit. It changes them quite a bit if you’re a big baseball fan. And if there’s anything you would say about Randa’s daughter’s family, they are baseball fans!

I’d say they live it, breathe it, walk it, talk it and do it. Hunter and Gage have both played seriously since they left pre-school. Craig played then umpired for years and coaches; Christy keeps the official scorebook and does a dozen or a hundred other things that baseball moms do. She loads and hauls gear, coordinates refreshments, cleans uniforms and so forth. They’ve traveled thousands of miles to tournaments and the living room is lined with trophies.

So, when the Royals actually earned their way into the American League Wild Card game, there was no question what the Reeds were going to be doing on Tuesday evening; they were going to watch the Royals play the Oakland A’s.

Along with the main event of the evening, Christy also prepared a celebration supper for Hunter’s sixteenth birthday. Hunter had announced he wasn’t having candles on his cake since he was now grown. I told him there are some traditions you don’t ever get too old for or at least that I was sixty and I still blew out the candles on my cake. He may hate us all now but he did blow out the candles. However he felt about that little tradition, I know he liked how the game turned out.

The Royals took a 3-2 lead early in the game; Randa and I headed over to Menards and then home. By the time we got back to the game, the Royals were down 3-7. I didn’t have much hope for them but they rallied for three runs in the bottom of the eight inning and then tied the game in the bottom of the ninth. Having blown out way too many candles in my time, I opted for rest and recuperation instead of staying with the extra innings. I found out the next morning that those confounded Athletics had taken a lead in the top of the twelfth but the Royals managed to score two runs in the bottom of the inning.

The winning score came on a long grounder down the left field line by the catcher. He’d gone 0-for-5 on the night. It’s not an easy thing to keep believing in your capabilities when you keep failing, is it?

I think that just serves to remind us that if we never give up, never quit trying, never assume that this particular moment is the rest of our life, things just might work out better than we expected.

I hope Hunter remembers that for the next sixty years.

H. Arnett
10/2/14

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The Joy of Anticipation

What a week of expectation and excitement! New carpet for a new master bedroom and a trip to Tennessee to meet up with four of my kids and their families. Boy Howdy, it’s something, sure ’nuff. Well, let’s get started with today’s installment.

We moved into this house four years ago this month. For a while, we slept in the north bedroom with our mattress sitting on the floor. A year later, we moved to another room, temporarily, of course, ripped out the old carpet in the north room and installed the whirlpool tub. A year after that, we built the skirt and apron for the tub. In January of 2013, we cut a big hole in the east wall and framed out a closet. This year, we stripped off the wallpaper, finished off the drywall in the closet, repaired the old plaster walls and finished them off with Venetian Plaster. Three weeks ago, we ordered the carpet. At two-thirty this morning, I finished the final coat of paint on the crown molding. Lord willing, we’ll have new carpet in our new master bedroom by mid-afternoon. I haven’t been this excited about finishing a project in quite some time.

But even that doesn’t match the excitement I have for this weekend.

Back in March, I decided I’d do six Warrior Dash events this year to celebrate my sixth decade in this body. I ran the first one in Texas in March with two of my sons and one’s girlfriend. I ran one alone in April near Lawrence, Kansas, and then joined two sons and the girlfriend for one in Arkansas in May. The following weekend, I visited my sister in North Carolina and did another solo run there. I ran the fifth one in Iowa in August in memory of my mother who had passed away two days earlier.

I had hoped back in March when I set this all up that all six of my kids would be able to join me for the culminating event this weekend near Pulaski, Tennessee. Unfortunately, the U. S. military has pretty limited flexibility on personal schedules so the two oldest sons won’t be able to join us from Key West and San Antonio.

We will miss them but we will miss them while we’re having an awesome time being together. I’ve rented a vacation home in Hohenwald that has an gazebo on a small island in a pond outside, a heated pool and a furnished music room inside and space to sleep ten adults.

Those adults will include three of my sons and their significant others, my daughter and her boyfriend, and Randa and me. Current estimates are for four grandkids to join us with Randa agreeing to help monitor juvenile behavior during the mud run. We anticipate that most of the juvenile behavior will come from the children but I’m not covering any bets to the contrary. And, thanks to some young women that I admire, I’m counting on having six of my kids running the race with me.

Two daughters-in-law and another one that I hope will become a daughter-in-law have been training and are registered for the event. And, since my daughter is using her pregnancy as an excuse to drop out of the race, her boyfriend is going to step in for her. So, I won’t have six of my “kids” joining me; I’ll have seven!

Most people might figure there can’t be much of a connection between remodeling, mud runs and heaven. Me–I can barely think of a closer one. The notion of getting a new room that’s been specially prepared for us and the joy of reunion and celebration with people who love us enough to join us in taking on the muck and mud of life’s little challenges… well, if that doesn’t make you want to go, I don’t know what would!

H. Arnett
9/30/14

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Setbacks, Adaptation & the Corn Belt

I spent most of last week in St. Charles (the one in Illinois, not Kansas), participating in a workshop along with several of my colleagues from Highland Community College (the one in Kansas, not Illinois.) The AQIP Strategy Forum was held at the Q-Center and conducted by our accrediting agency, the Higher Learning Commission. We spent several hours conversing, converging and occasionally arguing with one another, in the most respectful manner possible, of course. In between, we enjoyed some mighty fine food and slept in the tiniest rooms I’ve ever seen outside of a monastery. As our academic V-P quipped, “The rooms are so small you have to go outside in the hallway to have enough room to change your mind.”

In the larger rooms where we met, we did change our collective minds a time or two and managed to conclude our fifteen exercises in a very impressive fashion according to one of the two facilitators. Over the course of the week, she said several things about which we were somewhat skeptical. We managed, however, to end up with a plan of sorts about things that we thought might improve HCC and were looking forward to being back home in Kansas by late Friday afternoon.

A small disturbance Friday morning at the FAA building in Chicago disrupted our anticipation somewhat. Funny how a little fire or two can shift so many people’s plans in such a short time, especially when that fire affects air traffic control for two major airports in a hub city. With the news that all flights at both airports were being cancelled, held up or otherwise importuned, our group quickly concurred with the idea of seeking alternate transportation.

Through some nimble facilitation by our student services V-P, we ended up taking a minivan back. So, instead of getting in a limousine at twelve-fifteen, we enjoyed the “We’ll pick you up” aspect of Enterprise car rental and headed out of St. Charles around noon. It was a pretty nice minivan and our V-P did all the driving. The legroom was comparable to what we would have had on the airplane and the in-flight service was only slightly less indulgent. We got a pretty close look at a good segment of the plains and prairies of Illinois, Iowa and Missouri and made it back to St. Joseph by around seven-thirty or so.

Thanks to more nimble arranging by the student services V-P, a couple of helpful souls had picked up the College van from the airport in Kansas City and had it waiting in the most remote corner of the parking lot at Menards. Our tech programs director returned the rental van to the airport and picked up his own vehicle while the rest of us continued our way across the river. I was home by eight-thirty, only a couple of hours later than I would have been by the original flight schedule.

No one in the group grumbled about the tight leg space or the extra hours of travel, no one complained about the frustration or aggravation. So far as I could tell, we all made a pretty good effort to make the best out of a situation that was other than what we had expected or desired. That might be the best thing that we brought back from the conference. It would certainly be a good thing if we made a commitment to responding to future disappointments in similar fashion.

H. Arnett
9/29/14

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God’s Will

“This is God’s will.”

The words carry such weight, such strength, such power. Sometimes they are spoken from the desire to comfort, sometimes from the urge to afflict. Sometimes they soothe the spirit, ease the aching heart. Sometimes they provoke contrition, submission and acceptance. Sometimes they provoke anger, hurt or resentment.

When we contemplate good and pleasant circumstances it is easy to believe that God has smiled upon us. Never mind that a few million other people in the same general area of the world were not so smiled upon; we were, God is good and this is just fine with us. Turn the circumstances around so that we become the Left Out or the Unchosen and the smiles are a mite harder to come by for a while.

I once heard a man “testify” in church in Kansas, praising God because his vacation home garage on the Texas coast had been spared by a hurricane. He didn’t say one word about the several hundred Mexicans who were killed by the same hurricane a couple hundred miles farther south on the same coast. His garage was still standing, God is good and this was just fine with him.

I know and believe that nothing happens in this world that God does not allow to happen. So, I guess in some sense, we can say that everything that happens is his will. Factor in human choice and circumstance, though, and the whole blame and credit thing changes rather dramatically. Jesus himself said that some things happen by chance. Carefully re-read his telling of the Story of the Good Samaritan; you’ll see.

I believe in God’s intimate familiarity with every detail of my life but I don’t believe that he’s such a busybody that he has to choose what pair of socks I’m going to wear today. It’s okay with me if that’s what you believe but I suspect that if that’s the case, you might occasionally be inclined to use God as your scapegoat, too. Pretty easy to blame our bad choices on his divine providence. Pretty easy to excuse ourselves from any sense of responsibility or compassion once we realize that poverty and sickness are God’s will… for other people.

I believe in submission even though I struggle with it. I know that God’s ways are not my ways and that his wisdom is far beyond mine. I know that I can neither comprehend nor explain him. I know that life is not fair and I give thanks for that every day. If it was, I would have been dead and reserved for hell long ago.

I will accept his will but I will not use it as a dodge for my bad choices. I will teach that we should all submit to his will and I will pray devoutly for wisdom to determine what his will is for my life. And along the way, I will try to pattern my choosings after the teachings of his Son. I am quite convinced that my imperfect attempts to imitate his perfection will be far more pleasant and productive than would be the alternatives.

H. Arnett
9/23/14

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The Evidence of Experience

When smiles are true
and the greeting of hand-to-hand
is sincere and genuine,
when heads bow in common seeking
and prayers spoken
are quiet and humble,
when hands are lifted in reverent joy
and voices join in celebration of devotion,
when hearts rejoice
in the Divine Presence
and spirits resonate
in an inexplicable harmony,
when the message spoken
brings hope and healing
and faith rises up
through the ceiling of the soul,

then we know
that we have worshipped
and that it is the Unseen
that is much more real
than anything we have ever touched.

H. Arnett
9/22/14

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