Direction from a Hitchhiker–Part II

Posted on August 2, 2013 by Doc Arnett

Although my primary means of income is from the small community college where I work, I’ve been pastoring a small church whose building is right on Highway 36, only a quarter-mile from our house. It’s also less than two miles from where I stopped and picked up Mike as he was walking from Troy toward Wathena.

“I’m the pastor at New Life Church back there at Blair,” I cautioned, “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions if you don’t mind.” This is kind of odd for me because I haven’t been the kind of pastor who goes around talking to people about religion. I’d like to say that’s because of my deep sensitivity and respect for people’s opinions but the cold truth is that it has more to do with my lack of courage and fear of rejection. But desperate times lead to desperate measures.

“You ever had any bad experiences with church?” Mike looked a bit surprised, maybe puzzled. “No,” he shook his head, “I used to go to church with my grandmother until she died. Haven’t gone much since then.”

“Just got out of the habit?” He nodded.

“Well, we’ve been thinking about starting some small groups. You know, just have people meet in someone’s home to study the Bible, maybe pray or just get together and talk about stuff that’s going on in their lives. You think that would work?”

“Yeah, I think it would. I think that’d be good… I don’t like big crowds; that’s why I don’t like going to church.”

Encouraged by that, I ventured my next bright idea. “I’ve also thought about getting an old school bus, taking out most of the seats and putting in some little tables and chairs or benches. Then we could drive that to different neighborhoods and have ‘Sunday School’ right there where the kids live. What do you think about that?”

Mike actually seemed enthused about the idea. “I think that’d be great. The kids wouldn’t have to get dressed up and their parents would know right where they are. I think people would like that.”

By the time we’d finished the conversation, we were at the less-than-modest old hotel where Mike and his wife were living. He could not possibly have any idea how much this conversation had helped me. When a man with eleven kids and twenty-five grandkids talks about what he thinks people will like, I’m inclined to listen.

We’ve been debating, discussing, arguing and cussing for months about what to do to make our church grow and ignoring the fact that God doesn’t call his people to grow churches; he calls them to grow the Kingdom of Heaven. He calls them to serve, not to fill buildings. His promises are based on seeking first his Kingdom, his righteousness, not on meeting their goals. With each new criticism, each new failed idea, each disgruntled departure, I’ve grown more and more discouraged as a pastor, more and more unsure of what to do.

Over the past months, even years, I’ve grown weary of ideas and opinions about church growth. People’s preferences cloaked as spiritual concerns. A stranger who hadn’t been in church in twenty years had now given me a sense of direction, a clear notion of purpose.

As Mike got out of the truck, he turned back and said, “God bless you, Doc.”

Boy Howdy, he just did! I felt as if a load had just been lifted off of me and I could finally see a clear path before me.

We’re going to find out whether or not my church is going to follow me. I know Who I’m going to follow: a God whose angels sometimes need a ride.

H. Arnett
8/2/13

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Direction from a Hitchhiker–Part I

Posted on August 1, 2013 by Doc Arnett

Something about the way he was walking on a humid July afternoon made me suspicious… suspicious that he wasn’t just out for his daily constitutional. Of course, a good part of that observation was due to my keen perception of detail: he appeared to be sane. No sane person would take their daily exercise on the shoulder of Highway 36 between Troy and Wathena. Still, I knew it was possible that he was simply taking advantage of the blessing of being para-ambulatory. He was, after all, walking on the opposite side of the road, following the pedestrian rule for facing traffic.

Nonetheless, I quickly checked my rear-view mirror. Seeing no immediate opportunity for litigation, I hit the brakes sharply and pulled over onto the shoulder. Checking my mirror again, I saw him immediately cross over the highway and walk toward me. I backed the truck up a bit to cut the distance. I’m sure he appreciated every step I eliminated; he’d already walked three miles.

“Where ya headed?” I asked as he slid onto the truck seat. “Elwood,” he responded, “Thank you very much for stopping. I’m Mike,” he concluded, offering his hand in a firm shake. “You’re welcome, Mike. I’m Doc… like Bugs Bunny.” “Good to meet you, Doc. Thanks again.”

He looked to be in better than average shape for a 65-year-old man but I’m not sure he would have looked that way after walking another nine or ten miles.

I actually wasn’t headed to Elwood; our house was only a couple of miles up the road from where I stopped to give him a ride. But, I was planning on going into Saint Joseph a bit later anyway. “I need to stop by the house and get my fence charger. Need to take it in to Saint Joe and get it checked. That be okay with you?” I think anything that didn’t involve walking or waiting more than an hour or two would have been fine with Mike. “Sure,” he said.

He was much more coherent and articulate than any of the other hitchhikers I’ve picked up in this area. He wasn’t out on the road and homeless. Even if it’s nothing but a cheap hotel with low weekly rates, a roof over your head and a bed to sleep on moves you way up the existential ladder, at least in my estimation.

I swung into the parking lot, traded phone numbers and wished him well. “God bless you, Doc,” he said, easing the door shut and limping over toward his wife who stood there waiting for him with the smile of someone who has stood by her man through thick and thin, and maybe more thin than either of them would have ordered. He turned back toward me after a few steps and said it again, “God bless you.”

He already had… more about that tomorrow, God willing.

H. Arnett
8/1/13

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After the Rain

Posted on July 31, 2013 by Doc Arnett

I come down the stairs
in the faint light
of night’s easing into day.

In the misty gray of wet dawn,
I see the lawn drenched in green.
Branches heavy with wet leaves
bend toward earth,
slight shade showing around their bases
in the subtle light.

In the kitchen,
I drain the last remnants of coffee
into the sink,
rinse out the carafe.

I lift out the old filter,
put in the new,
measure in the last batch of fresh grounds
and pour in water.

I check and check again
to make sure the basket
is fully seated;
the slightest thing out of kilter
with this temperamental maker
will send hot coffee spilling out
above the filter
and onto the counter,
then the floor.

Even small things
must be done carefully,
else the good we intend
for those we love
will seem more like cursing than blessing.

And a cup of steaming coffee
on a foggy morning
is surely meant for blessing.

H. Arnett
7/30/13

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Rain Dance

Posted on July 30, 2013 by Doc Arnett

It is not often that in July
that a rain will come as nicely as this one did:
two-point-seven inches of rain in eight hours
and not a puddle anywhere except on pavement.

A good, slow, soaking shower that lasts for hours and hours
gives just about every drop to the soil that needs it.
In the planted fields,
it spatters against blades and leaves and slips down stems and stalks,
heavy drops broken into smaller ones,
all of them moving into the earth
and down, down to the roots,
down to the deeper places.

For such a rain as this, we should offer sacrifices in the temple.

A sacrifice of praise that comes from the heart,
a sacrifice of joy that radiates from the core outward,
a sacrifice of thanksgiving
that carries the pure essence of genuine gratitude on reverent lips.

I am convinced that the Lord would not be the least bit offended
if I danced before him,
a rhythmic offering of delight and exultation in his benevolence,
feet bouncing from wet grass,
arms and hands shaken in the reverberations of adulation.

Whether or not we are worthy of this blessing,
I will give thanks and be glad for it.

There is nothing like a season of drought
to bring about godly joy
in the deliverance of a good rain.

H. Arnett
7/29/13

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Seasons of Refreshing

Posted on July 29, 2013 by Doc Arnett

Three folding lawn chairs
sit on the deck beneath the branches
of the maple tree, facing east.

We sat there yesterday morning
in the least heat
of the last Saturday in July.

The house blocked the noise of the traffic
and the trees along the lower bank
blocked the sight of neighbors.

There was a fine feel
in the unseasonable coolness
of October air sent into summer,

like the moving of the Spirit
in a soul sensing the nearness
of its exhaustion,

or a heart long heavy
with loss and sorrow,
pondering whether or not

a particular day
should even have
a tomorrow.

To such who seek Him,
whose findings do not come
by ease and good fortune,

the Maker sends such as this:
good friends on a lovely morning,
coffee forming tiny traces

of steamy vapor,
drifting away slowly in the shade
of a good summer day

that He has made.

H. Arnett
7/29/13

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Fishing with the Grandkids

Posted on July 26, 2013 by Doc Arnett

I have long been mesmerized
by the magic of fishing,
spending long hours alone as a child,
contemplating the mystery
of what happened beneath the surface,
the excitement of a plunging bobber.

Later, at thirteen,
I discovered accidentally the thrill of bass
when reeling in my bluegill bait
and taking a three-pounder
from under the willow tree on a small pond.

I fished avidly from then
till in my mid-twenties
when the demands of feeding a family
left little time for “because I enjoy it”
and my own notions of what I had to do
sacrificed a few of the things I loved to do.

Some thirty years later,
on an exceptionally pleasant July morning,
we are taking two of the grandsons fishing.
We wake them early,
stirring in the shadows of dawn
for warm scones and juice,
get to the small lake at Atchison by seven.

Tiny ripples form
from the occasional sprinkling
as slate blue clouds drift over northeast Kansas,
a lone heron rises from the rocky point,
flies beneath the branches, rises over the dam.

I am happy to see
that even in this age of iPods and iPhones
and perpetually instant gratification,
I am not alone in this ancient fascination;
the art of angling still holds its draw,
even when bass fishing seems like too much work
and the fourteen-year-old
catches a turtle instead of a channel cat.

Sometimes it is the unexpected moment
that makes us glad
for cameras and pliers
but it is this few hours
of being together
that measures the meaning of a morning
when old folks and young
forge a stronger bond of common satisfactions.

H. Arnett
7/26/13

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A Good Pattern

Posted on July 24, 2013 by Doc Arnett

Lord willing and weather cooperating, Randa will be riding again today with a friend of hers. The plan is for them to rendezvous at Honey Creek, a heavily wooded and definitely hilly Missouri wildlife sanctuary or recreational area or whatever it’s called, a bit north of Saint Joseph. The weather should be much better today than of late, a few degrees cooler and several decibels lower on the relative humidity scale.

This must be, like, the tenth or eleventh time she’s gone riding with a friend this year, which is about three or eight times more than she went during the whole season last year. Make that more than the previous two years combined. It’s not just that she finally has a truck to pull the horse trailer. It’s not that she finally has a saddle that fits her and the horse. The key difference is that she finally has a horse that can go from A to B without spooking at everything it C’s.

Apparently, having a horse that can go up and down hills, across gullies and ditches and through running or still water without jumping at every tree, shadow, sound or twitch of a gnat’s ear is not only considerably safer than the other type of horse; it’s also more enjoyable. In trying to relate this to something I actually understand, I’m sure my wood-working hobby would have languished considerably if every time I fired up my table saw, it shocked me, kicked out random pieces of two-by-four or if the blade frequently turned in the opposite direction I wanted it to go.

Gospel Ryder’s Lil Journey, known to friends, admirers and owners simply as “Journey,” is working his way pretty quickly up the Randa Scale of Equestrian Value.

Her previous Rocky Mountain gelding, Cisco, had Brad Pitt’s good looks and Charlie Sheen’s behavior. The one before that wasn’t too bad; the one before that was “looks like Paul Newman and acts like Pee Wee Herman.” Journey (who is pretty much on the George Clooney/Denzel Washington scale for looks) has aced a number of field tests, including recently calmly gaiting past a bloodhound and its buddy who were trying to use sonic energy plus a direct assault on the chain link in order to break their way out of their kennel. “He didn’t even turn and look at them,” Randa exclaimed, with the look you’d see on a mother’s face when she announces that her daughter has just won an Olympic gold medal, saved a boatload of refugees from drowning and been nominated for President.

With his smooth gait, winsome personality, sure-footed manner and confidence in various settings, Journey is earning Randa’s trust, respect and appreciation. It doesn’t hurt anything that he’s also just a fine-looking horse. It makes sense that she wants to spend more time with him and put herself in situations that let the mysterious bond between horse and equestrian deepen and grow.

It might be that folks, churches and families that want to build stronger relationships could learn a thing or two from a good horse. I’m taking notes…

H. Arnett
7/24/13

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A Softer Dawn

Posted on July 23, 2013 by Doc Arnett

There is a particular light that comes
in the early passing of night,
in that little while after darkness
and before the sun reaches the horizon:

yellow becomes orange,
green seems tinged with blue
and every hue is somehow muted
yet more dramatic in its gentleness.

Maybe it’s the lack of harshness
that seems to soothe my spirit,
nothing stark like sunlight
on the white boards of the barn,
nothing sharply defined like gravel and grass.

There is simply a suggestion
in the shadowy places
that this is where the lane
passes through the trees,
no need for clear and crisp distinctions
or recognitions of individual boundaries;

just more a peaceful blending,
each thing existing fully
without ego depending
upon some implied claim
that We cannot be
unless You know
that this particular shadow
is Me.

H. Arnett
7/23/13

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A Chance of Rain

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Doc Arnett

All day long,
the long gray clouds
have kept rolling in,
drifting across the dry face
of northeast Kansas,
a perpetual feeling
that it could start raining
at any moment.

From the upstairs window,
I see the browning fringe
of patches in the pasture
where the grass is passing
from growing to dying.

In mid-afternoon,
a few showers and sprinkles
trickle dark spots
on concrete and bare ground,
but not enough to wet the dirt.

That night,
mist steams from the earth
in the breezeless air,
rises from the bottomland,
lifting to the top of the bluff.
A full moon sets a ruffled glow
showing through the clouds,
a vague and veiled testimony
like the hazy kiss of fog against the face.

I am growing more comfortable
in knowing more than I can explain;
I do not have to define its shape or plane
to know that there is a Light
breaking through the lying clouds
of this dry earth.

H. Arnett
7/22/13

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A Modest Suffering

Posted on July 19, 2013 by Doc Arnett

Friend of mine from many years ago
used to get these migraines
that would tie up the verbal center
of his brain so much that he couldn’t talk.
They didn’t make him mute, completely,
just hid the words
so that he couldn’t think of the ones he needed
to say what he wanted to say.

That was the start of one.
The finishing part was pain that would get to the point
to where un-anaesthetized brain surgery
seemed like a pretty good option
even if a man had nothing more than a hammer and screwdriver.

Most of mine start out with an amazing visual aura,
a series of connected trapezoids,
like a string of boomerangs
with bands of incredibly brilliant blinking colors:
black, purple, blue and red.
They dance for a while in the gaps between
the gas vapor blanks in my vision.

Sometimes the pain comes afterward
and sometimes it’s just sort of a wilted feeling
like someone or something pulled out some part of your brain
that’s not fully in charge of a single thing
but affects everything that requires thinking.

These little strokes aren’t much fun,
these days when the affliction
pokes another hole in your life
and leaves you lying on the couch
and hoping the butterflies don’t start yelling again.

Right now–
knowing at least a dozen people who are battling cancer
and some of them thirty years younger than me–
I’m grateful that this small affliction is the one allowed me.

But I’m not praying for more of it;
I’m thinking that sometimes
a modest suffering
seems completely sufficient.

H. Arnett
7/19/13

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