Playing in the River

Posted on May 13, 2014 by Doc Arnett

Heavy branches hang over the edges
of this stone bed river
in central Arkansas.

A light mist sits above water
slightly tinged by heavy rains
that fell the day before.

Diffused by the fog,
the dark greens of these hardwood hills
fade into grays and blues.

My son and I step out into the shallows,
feel the brace of cold
rising up from the ankles to our knees.

Dark clouds block the sun
and its healing warmth
but the river calls us further in.

Here, just above the bridge,
the Caddo splits into three streams,
slight rapids running the seams of rocks.

We have studied from the bank;
I am almost sure we can glide over
the two smooth ledges
and avoid the strainer formed
where old branches are snagged
against the base of the bridge.

We step out into the stream
where the chute forms,
current pushing hard against our legs.
“Remember,” I remind him
above the noise of the current,
“Feet first, butt up, head back.”

The key in making these shallow runs
is to stay as flat as you can,
keep a cushion of water between you
and the things that hurt.

He laughs as I lean back
and release myself into the flow,
letting the river carry me
but still steering as much as I can.

He laughs but follows me into the chute.

Below the riffles,
we rise from the water,
stepping carefully across slick stones,
laughing like children
playing in God’s own back yard.

H. Arnett
5/13/14

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Trouble in the Orchard

Posted on May 8, 2014 by Doc Arnett

Two years ago last November, I made an unsupervised visit to Moffet Nursery in Saint Joseph. Unfortunately, I had a trailer as well as my little Ford Ranger. I came home with both of them fully loaded! Two red oaks (7 feet tall), two dwarf peach trees, two dwarf apple trees, two Crimson King maples (12 feet tall) and my real coup de gras, a Norway maple (18 feet tall). The owner had been so impressed with my enthusiasm and keen eye that he rewarded me with a free wisteria plant.

I finished planting all of the trees in early December. Knowing a bit about wisteria, I haven’t let that little monster loose even yet; it stays in a tub so I can keep it from grabbing hold of the house and pulling it off the foundation.

Thanks to a late onset that year, all of the plants made it fine through the winter. All of them put out buds in early spring and leaves a bit later. The two little peach trees flowered in late spring and bowed themselves over with branches loaded with large fruit in the summer. Nothing from the apples, not even a single bloom. One of the oaks withered in August, ostensibly due to a lack of consistent watering. At least that’s one theory. The Crimson King maples grew a couple of feet taller and the Norway maple gained about four feet.

The following spring, the peaches bloomed again while the apples did not. A late freeze killed the upper third of the Norway maple but left no visible damage on any of the other trees. I proceeded to kill the second little oak tree with a similar pattern of inconsistent watering. Maybe there’s some Freudian issue here from all those early winters of splitting oak for firewood back in western Kentucky; I don’t know.

What I do know is that for the third straight year now, the apple trees have failed to produce a single bloom. While I am unfamiliar with the onset of adolescence in dwarf apple trees, I am getting a bit suspicious and frankly a little impatient. They have grown quite well, having nearly doubled in overall spread since I set them. I did not intend to purchase non-flowering ornamentals and I see very limited potential for a shade tree that never gets over fifteen feet tall.

I do, however, see a potential parallel for those of us planted in a better vineyard. I think it’s mighty easy for us to be satisfied with the illusion of growth and blossom and forget that our actual purpose is to bear fruit.

H. Arnett
5/8/14

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Moments of Meaning

Posted on May 7, 2014 by Doc Arnett

Sometimes there comes a moment that tells you a particular thing has changed and will never be the same again. It might be that day when you realize that your daughter is no longer a little girl. The sure signs of adolescence take hold, you can’t pretend you haven’t noticed and it’s inevitable, despite the longing you have for it not to happen: she will become a woman.

It might be the first time you notice that break in your thirteen-year-old son’s voice, that sudden switch from bass to falsetto, and you know that soon he’ll be shaving and behaving like a teenager. There is both hope and sadness, satisfaction and fear, knowing the nearness of adulthood brings its own pains and pleasures.

There are those darker moments, too, when you see clear through the façade of your own self-deceit and know that the person you love does not love you, at least not in the way that holds things together, the way that brings people closer as time goes on. In a similar but less bitter way, you wake up one day and know that the gnawing in your gut that starts as soon as you open your eyes means its time to start looking for another job.

In a brighter way, there are also those moments when you look at each other across the room and smile, knowing in your deepest heart that you never would have guessed that two people could still like each other this much after this many years. There are the moments when you remember that even if you haven’t spoken to your friends from grad school in three years, you could pick up the phone right now and call and it would seem like you hadn’t missed a beat. There are the moments when you finish some task at work, turn away at the ending of a chance encounter and you know, really know, that this is why God has put you here, right where you are. Or, it’s the moment when you think about all you gave up so you could be close to your family or even home school your children. You think of all the things you can’t afford, you can’t do and your small child looks up at you and you know that it was all worth it; it was the best possible choice you could have made.

And maybe you take all of those moments, the good and the bad, the pleasure and the pain, the grief and the joy, and you know that every single one of them has brought you to this place, made you this person, given you this life. And when you can think of all that, smile sincerely to the very core of your soul and nod your silent praise to the Giver of Moments, the Giver of Life, that may be your finest moment.

H. Arnett
5/7/14

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A Powerful Dawning

Posted on May 6, 2014 by Doc Arnett

Through the thin blue light
of this slight dawn,
I look out across the lawn,
see the breeze pulsing the leaves
of the cottonwood
rising dark, dark and high
above the horse pen.

The wind bends branches
in a soft dance of motion,
shaping the morning,
forming patterns of dark shadow
against the faint form of the hills
a half-mile away.

I find this soothing,
a quieting of the soul,
hold still for a moment,
absorbing the silence;
even the beat of my heart
slows in this peace.

We are often surrounded
by the drumming of a world
we did not make,
forced into the slip
like clay molded into unthinking likeness,
our lips speaking the words of others.

Though imperfect in my following,
I have chosen a better forming,
a deliberate imitation
of a pattern of peaceful rebellion,
to bear within my heart
a reflection of greater light,
a letting go of those impulses
that would carry me
beyond this large cottonwood tree,
beyond this weaving of light and shadow.

I have chosen a raging peace
that teaches me that moving to a better place
often begins with accepting where I am.

H. Arnett
5/6/14

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Changes Comin’

Posted on May 5, 2014 by Doc Arnett

Well, folks, I’m going to go right on out on this fresh green limb and tell you that I think maybe winter is over, finally.

It’s not just the foot-high grass in the lower lawn that was too wet to mow last week. It’s not just the fact that the dandelions are blooming faster and thicker than politicians re-formulating their positions based on the latest poll. It’s not just that the apple trees are blooming profusely and even the oak trees are showing signs of color on the hills.

Now, I don’t want to downplay all of those indicators because they definitely play a key role in this optimistic prediction of mine. But there is another reason why I believe we have seen the last of winter in these parts for a while: the National Weather Service has forecast an expected high of ninety degrees here on Wednesday.

That’s right, ninety. We’re getting a bit of a transition, though. We had a high of 76 on Saturday and peaked at 79 yesterday. We’re predicted to have a high of 80 today and 85 tomorrow. So we have a little while to get ready for that taste of summer on Hump Day.

On the back side of the hump, Thursday’s high will be about fifteen degrees lower as we’re expecting a possibility of thunderstorms and a return to more seasonal temperatures. For those hot-weather lovers among us, I guess that’ll be a bit of a disappointment. But I think all of us winter haters will be able to handle it just fine.

In greater seriousness, I’d have to admit that anyone whose joy and fulfillment in life depend upon the weather is likely to find a great deal of frustration on this planet. Even in its finest places, some days are cooler than others. And even in its worst places, some days are better than others.

Most days are whatever we make of them and the deliberate habit of finding good in all of them is a pretty good habit to cultivate.

H. Arnett
5/5/14

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Women Leaders in the Church

Posted on May 2, 2014 by Doc Arnett

On the first weekend in May every year for longer than I’ve been in these parts, there’s a big flea market at White Cloud and Sparks, Kansas. I’m told that people travel hundreds of miles to set up their wares there and I know from personal observation that at least hundreds of people go there to browse, barter and buy. I think it’s probably actually thousands of people. It’s a sure slice of Americana, with everything from fresh Indian tacos to antique corn shellers to handmade quilts and just about anything else you can imagine, including fresh morel mushrooms.

A good part of the traffic to and from the markets at White Cloud and Sparks comes by our church on Highway 36 between Wathena and Troy. And that is why the hard-working women of our church decided this would be the best weekend for our current rummage and bake sale. Boy Howdy, have they been working!

Sharon and Kim, Betty and Betty, and I don’t know how many others have spent dozens of hours bringing in items, sorting through items that others brought in, pricing items, arranging items. Others have brought in homemade noodles, pies, cakes, rolls and cookies for the bake sale. On top of that, they’re going over at six or six-thirty each morning to start preparing breakfast as an additional service for shoppers and fund-raiser for the church.

Now, in slight fairness, some of us men have put in a few hours preparing for the event, too. We’ve helped move some tables and set up in the gym to sell a bunch of leftover construction materials and such items and have donated some used tools and stuff like that. So, yes, we’ve done a bit.

But the true bulk of the work has been done and is being done by the women. Which has got me to thinking once again about their role in thousands of congregations across the country.

In many of those congregations, most particularly among the sorts of relatively conservative, sort of fundamentalist groups with which I have chosen association, women are not allowed to fill any sort of “leadership” role. In some, they aren’t allowed to lead public prayer, do the scripture readings or serve communion. In one congregation I heard of, they didn’t have a man who could or would lead singing. So, they had one guy stand up and announce each song. Then his wife, seated in front of him, would start the song while he continued standing and at least pretended to join in the singing. In their religious group, it was important that they preserve the illusion that they did not have a woman leading worship. Otherwise, other congregations would have withdrawn fellowship from them.

Regardless of the illusions, games and strategies, the simple fact is that our church and many, many others would not exist except for the work of the women, whether in teaching classes for the kids, cleaning up the building or putting in the hundreds of hours of work it takes to conduct a rummage sale.

In my view, the simple truth is that every one of these women are, in fact, true leaders of the church. They are leading us all in applying that often ignored and sometimes forgotten principle that The Carpenter tried to teach us: “Let him who would be great among you be your servant.”

H. Arnett
5/2/14

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Days Such As This

Posted on April 30, 2014 by Doc Arnett

We spend such days as this
in the long gray longing
of spirits yearning for sunshine,
burning for brighter hours.

In the slow drizzle of cold rain,
we sense the pain of disappointment,
feel the dullness of dreams
that have faded in the long slowness of life.

Heavy clouds sag around us
and the fog closes in,
a drooping shroud that seems to say,
“There is no sun.”

But, if we choose,
we can remember:

the fierce clearness
of December’s harsh winds,
the piercing lance of January’s storms,
the fury of cold that made even February seem long,

the sintering heat of summer
when July’s long days left us wilted as dying leaves
and a brick kiln sun turned everything around us
brown as the drought-baked banks of dry creeks.

We can also remember:

the promise of seasons,
the beauty of flowers,
the blessing of fruit
born in the buds of slender branches,

that rain comes in the season of planting,
that the seed must die
before the plant can live,
and that harvest comes

for those who hold to hope,
who know that above the deepest, darkest sky,
the same sun that warmed our best days,
still burns brightly.

H. Arnett
4/30/14

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Running the Race

Posted on April 28, 2014 by Doc Arnett

I had a scheduling conflict last Saturday; there were two different obstacle challenge races and I wanted to do both of them. One of them was hosted by the school for which Randa and I both work, Highland Community College. The Scottie Dog Dash, named after the school mascot, was held on the land donated to the College a few years ago, the Klinefelter Farm near Hiawatha. The other race, one of the Warrior Dash series, was slated to be held at Circle S Ranch, near Lawrence, Kansas.

I had missed the inaugural Scottie Dog Dash, held last fall, and I didn’t want to miss the second one. On the other hand, I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to do a Warrior Dash that was this close, either. Since I didn’t want to choose which one I would do, I decided to do both of them.

Being sixty years old and not dedicated to the level of training required to be truly competitive, I accepted at the outset that there was no way I was going to do two 5K cross country obstacle races in one day and truly compete in both of them. In fact, I accepted that I was not going to be competitive in either one of them. It was not my goal to be a top finisher in either event; I would celebrate doing two races in one day. Provided, of course, that I would actually be able to finish both races…

The first wave of the Scottie Dog Dash was supposed to be for the fastest runners and everyone who’s ever seen my run knows I’m not one of those. Nonetheless, I easily persuaded our Director of Student Activities, Tyler Nordstrom, to let me run in the first wave so I would have the maximum amount of time between races. I did that three-point-two miles of northeastern Kansas hills, woods and cropland in about forty-three minutes. Unlike several of the younger runners in front of me, I also completed every obstacle challenge, including flipping the big tractor tire, crawling through the mud and running across the creek four or five times. I wanted to hang around and celebrate with the other runners but instead, I had to get back to the house, clean up a bit and then head toward Lawrence.

The hills at Circle S Ranch were bigger and steeper and there were more of them. The obstacle challenges were also bigger and steeper and there were more of them, too. In addition to running into and wading through a few muddy water crossings, we had to swim out to and climb over three successive floating pontoon crossings in a pond, then swim our way to the opposite shore. There was also the three-stage climb to the top of “Goliath” and then the slide down a forty-foot half-pipe into water. “Feet first and lean forward,” was the instruction we were given at the top. I must have been going twenty-miles-an-hour when I hit the water! The impact slammed my upper body backwards like I’d been hit by a lineman. Yes, by the way, it was quite fun!

It was sure a different kind of fun a half mile from the end of the course, when both calf muscles began cramping. My right knee had been hurting somewhat ever since the first mile. I’d scratched my left leg on a thorn bush. I jogged across a small stream and headed up the last hill, slowing to a fast walk. “Well,” I told myself, “if I was going to quit when it started to hurt, I wouldn’t have come down here.”

As soon as I walked out of the trees and looked downhill toward the huge mud pit finish line, I saw Randa watching for me. I waved and she waved back and I started to trot down the hill. I paused and posed for my last semi-clean picture and headed to the slurry mix.

Halfway through, ducking beneath the strands of barbed wire, I slipped and fell on my left side. I was immediately covered with the thickest, stickiest mud I’ve ever been in or even seen. When I made my way out of the pit, I carefully slid and slipped across the treacherous last thirty yards. One of the workers hung a medal around my neck and I lifted both muck-plastered arms and shook my hands above me in celebration.

Whether crawling or standing, it's about finishing the race!

Whether crawling or standing, it’s about finishing the race!

I was tired, aching, sore and spent, but I had finished the race, I had stayed the course and the look on Randa’s face was worth every step. She was smiling almost as broadly as I was.

Most of the things we do in life probably make more sense to other people than does this hobby of mine. But I have an absolute blast doing it and its lessons are so valuable: train well, endure the pain, go the distance, help others along the way, expect to fall but decide before hand you’ll always get back up. Keep focused on the prize and the eyes of those who’ve gone before us and never ever forget the joy that awaits us when our race is over.

H. Arnett
4/28/14

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Following the Trail

Posted on April 24, 2014 by Doc Arnett

It is a lovely day in mid-April in western Kentucky. As our daughter-in-law, Christie, drives us behind Susan’s car toward Kenlake Resort, I look out at the signs of a spring a few weeks ahead of us back home in northeastern Kansas.

Redbuds line the edges of woods and lawns with their pleasant lavender blooms. Wild plum, pear and crabapple trees shine their fine clusters of white blooms along the road banks where stretches of fescue add its deep green sheen. In finely kept yards, and some not so finely kept, both pink and white dogwoods display dense branches and blooms above beds of daffodils and jonquils. In the woods, the branches and blooms are thinned by the overhead canopy of larger trees but their whites still gleam through the bare trunks surrounding them. The tall oaks, elms and hickories have barely begun to leaf out.

I love this season.

Susan and Christie park at the pullover of the Chickasaw Loop, a short half-mile trail that is ideal for small children. Daniel and Ann Marie are as eager as you’d expect pre-schoolers to be. June, still a bit of a toddler, is no less enthusiastic but not as quick on her feet, which is not altogether a bad thing. Susan and Christie help each other strap the babies, Jeremiah and Dalton, into front packs. We start down the trail from the upland end.

Daniel and Ann Marie run on ahead, despite repeated warnings, stopping occasionally to pull up a handful of tiny pale blue wildflowers. Eventually, we make them walk behind us for a while and that seems to tame the runaway instinct. Well, at least temporarily. June holds my hand and I try to keep her maneuvered around the soggiest parts of the path. At the lower edge of the loop, the trail runs along a small stream. In a small bush on the bank, a cluster of caterpillars writhe inside their spidery web. Daniel and Ann Marie are quite fascinated by them so we pause for a while then resume our walk.

At a couple of places on the upswing, runoff from the hill has formed a stretch of muddy trail. I carry the two girls across, then come back and get Daniel. Randa, Christie and Susan opt to cross on their own power and we all are glad for that choice.

It is indeed a lovely day and I remember miles and moments of hiking when my kids were small. Randa and I continued the tradition when we lived in the Lexington area, regularly taking them to Raven Run, Natural Bridge and Red River Gorge. Susan cannot remember being too young to go hiking because she never was. I used to carry her in a back carrier until she was old enough to propel herself along the trails and across the creeks, up the boulders.

It is deeply pleasing to me that she has chosen to shoulder this same tradition, this devotion to the outdoors. I am delighted that she and Christie seem to share this pleasure with their children. As I hold June’s hand near the end of the trail and watch Daniel and Ann Marie run up toward the cars, I cannot help thinking that God himself must delight in seeing his children continue the loves they have learned from him.

H. Arnett
4/24/14

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Things Change

Posted on April 23, 2014 by Doc Arnett

We have come to what was once called a “nursing home” in Mayfield, Kentucky, to visit Mom on a beautiful Easter morning. The knot that has been forming in my gut for the last thirty minutes twists tighter as we walk down the hall to her room.

She is sitting in her wheelchair, wearing a blue dress. Her hair is neatly combed and fastened up behind her head. She has cleaned her breakfast plate, unusual for her this last year or so. That lack of appetite is vividly reflected in the fact that she now weighs less than ninety pounds. If her spirit continues its current cohabitation for another few months, she will be ninety-nine years old.

Not much of the past few years could rightly be called living. She hasn’t recognized me in over two years. She shows not even the slightest bit of emotive response when Randa and I walk into her room. I tell her that it’s Easter morning and have to repeat the statement two more times. Mom gives up on understanding what that means and shakes her head a couple of times.

I take a seat on the bed, right beside her and Randa sits beside me. “Do you want to drink some of your juice?” I ask Mom, picking up the small glass on her tray. “What?”

I repeat the question and lift the glass toward her mouth. “What is that?” she asks and I tell her that it’s apple juice. “What?” I repeat, louder, “Apple juice.” She barely touches it to her lips and takes a tiny taste. I put the glass back on the tray and she comments, “That’s sweet,” but she has no interest in any more of it.

She keeps staring down at her feet, lifting them up over the bar of the rolling stand, studying them as if trying to figure out to whom they belong and why they are attached to her legs. Or maybe she’s puzzled about the shoes. Her legs are thin and bony and covered with bluish marks. I look up from her legs and look at her hands.

Swollen by arthritis, her knuckles seem huge, exaggerated by the loss of weight. Or maybe it’s not exaggeration, just harsh truth without the deception of surrounding flesh.

From time to time, in between the times of asking me if I have a big family and where we live, she repeats, “Things have changed.” After a few minutes of nearly shouting to try to help her understand what I’m saying, I give up. She isn’t able to answer in a coherent fashion anyway. In a little while, I tap Randa on the knee and nod my head toward the door. Just then, Mom reaches over and lays her hand on my left arm. I quickly put my right hand over hers. Her flesh is cold and soft and I rub my fingers lightly over hers.

We sit like that for several minutes. Mom continues to inspect her feet, shake her head slowly and say again, “Things change.”

Finally, I tell her that we’ve got to go. She seems startled and sad. “You’ve got to leave?” As I stand, she begins pushing herself up out of the wheelchair. Randa and I look at each other, surprised and unsure of what we should do. Mom walks carefully over to the door, gripping the edges of chairs, cabinets, doorframe. A couple of nurses come over to us. Mom reaches up to hug me and the twist in my gut rises up to my throat. I manage to keep the sounds stifled but I cannot stop the heaving of my sobs. I kiss her and turn away so she cannot see my face.

Somehow, even though she showed no recognition of me or Randa or of the names of the siblings when I asked if she’d seen them, there was some sense of connection. Something in her made her reach over and lay her hand on my arm, some deeply buried sense of emotional attachment pulled her up out of that chair. Not even the fierce silence of dementia has yet been able to erase all notion of affection, no matter how little else of cognition remains.

“Things change.” And one day, that change will set the spirit free from the body the mind has already left. And One Day, my mother and I will be together again, and she will know it.

H. Arnett
4/23/14

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