Of Floods and Droughts

Posted on August 31, 2012 by Doc Arnett

According to
the National Weather Service
Hurricane Isaac
will make a sharp right hand turn
about fifty miles
too far south of here
to bring us (me)
any relief
from the drought.

It would be pretty easy
to complain
about this
or
the four more inches of rain
that came last week
to my colleagues
only twenty miles from here.

But I find it easier
to feed an extra bale of hay each day
to the two horses
standing in dry pasture
than to sweep
the mud and flood
from the rafters of my house.

This reminds me, too,
somehow,
that it is far easier
to give alms
than to endure poverty.

H. Arnett
8/31/12

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Isaac Makes Landfall

Posted on August 29, 2012 by Doc Arnett

In the surge of the storm
one finds a focus
so easily lost
in the days of ordinary ease
and comfort.

In the lash of wind and water
and the pounding grind
we find what endures
what does not
and the value of what is lost.

There is little else
that makes so clear
what is dear and precious
as spots on film
and waiting for word
on the biopsy.

There are things
that levees cannot hold back,
pressures not measured
in millibars:
you cannot put
life on a leash
nor collect hurricanes
in glass jars.

But faith, hope and love
can move mountains,
conquer the grave,
cover a multitude of sins

and save souls from death.

H. Arnett
8/28/12

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One Piece at a Time

Posted on August 28, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I don’t know when it was, exactly, or even approximately, that Dad replaced the squeeze board on the old cider mill. By “squeeze board” I mean the round disc of wood that is pressed down against the ground apples to force the juice out of the pulp. I believe it was after 1971, the last year we used the mill together, and before 1982, which was when I rebuilt the frame and main box. What really matters, in this brief accounting, is that while I may not be able to give an accurate report of when the piece was made, I can quite accurately say that its last date of use was August 22, 2012.

The three-quarter inch plywood that Dad used had functioned satisfactorily for many years but when I used the press last Wednesday evening, I finished its tenure of service. As I turned the long steel threaded shaft that forces the piece down against the pulp, it broke. Not just chipped on an edge or gave slightly, it broke.

I would be considerably less than honest to say it was a surprise. The layers of the plywood had started to separate several years ago. It was only the fact that it has been used so little for the last several years that it lasted this long. I’d thought “I should replace that press piece” at least five years ago. But, like a lot of other humans, I waited until it was no longer usable. In fact, I waited until it made the whole cider mill unusable before I took the time to replace it.

At least I’m doing it right, though. Instead of a rough piece of plywood fastened under a decaying piece of poplar, there’ll be a very smooth piece of hard maple mounted under a cross brace of two more layers of hard maple. It won’t turn the whole thing into a completely remade cider mill, but the press unit is going to have a mighty fine squeeze board.

Whether you’re talking about mills or marriages, or a whole lot of other things, fixing one part is a start to things working better.

H. Arnett
8/28/12

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Rain Dance

Posted on August 27, 2012 by Doc Arnett

This sort of freshening
does not often come in August:
soft and slow,
a gentle seeping
from cloud to earth,
each drop sinking,
soaking into the soil.

An inch of rain
spread over two days
and two nights.

It is a perfect answer
to imperfect prayer,
softening the soil
deeply cracked
by three months’
lack of rain.

I danced in its
sweet relief on Saturday night,
my unseemly joy
concealed by the darkness,
plopping my bare feet
on the wet concrete
beside the back door,
turning my face up toward the heavens,
hands lifted in adoring gratitude.

There are blessings
for which a simple nod of thanks
is not enough.

H. Arnett
8/27/12

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Fruit of the Spirit

Posted on August 24, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Love
Joy
Peace
Forbearance
Kindness
Goodness
Faithfulness
Gentleness
Self-control

To sincerely desire and work for the good of others
To celebrate and honor the things that are truly good
To seek and promote that which builds relationship with all
To willing endure the weaknesses and faults of others
To avail every opportunity to grant mercy and blessing
To imitate God in ever action and decision
To always maintain the bonds of loyalty and honorable commitment
To ensure that strength and might are always administered softly
To focus restraint first of all upon our own desires

And if such is
the fruit of the Spirit
we ought, everyone,
to seek the most genuine flames
of Pentecost.

H. Arnett
8/24/12

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From Dust, Angels

Posted on August 23, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Held to earth
by body and breath,
rarely eager for the death
that brings us that final release,

we walk about,
learning to endure
both drought and flood,
fire and rain,
loss and gain.

Yet, it is easier to embrace
the need of others
for repentance,
to see their guilt,
abhor their sin

than to realize
that deep within us
is that same calloused rust:
lust, envy, pride
and fear.

Nearest to the heart of God
are those of secret prayer,
private alms,
genuine love
and humility

that can discern the germ of God
in the weakest,
poorest,
filthiest,
those most wrecked and racked by life.

Blessed are the merciful,
the meek,
the poor in spirit,
for they have already
seen God.

H. Arnett
8/21/12

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Cider Makin’

Posted on August 22, 2012 by Doc Arnett

In the middle of August, on a Saturday that seems more like September, Randa and I are making apple cider from the windfall apples that we picked up in the three-tree orchard last evening. These are not the apples that would sell at a stand; they are bruised and blemished but not spoiled. It is not for their beauty that we have gathered them but for the bounty of what is held within.

I turn the heavy crank, spinning the cutterhead while she drops in the apples a few at a time. Their ripe chunks fly out below, caught in the slatted oak cylinder beneath. As it nears full, I pause for bit and wait for the cutter to quit spinning. Then, I reach underneath and press the pulp down a bit so we can grind a few more apples.

With the basket full, I slide it over underneath the press. As Randa turns the press handles, I guide the flat press piece into the basket. She continues turning, forcing the flat down against the pulp. By the time it is halfway down, a full flow of fresh juice pours out through the opening of the collector. It spills through the strainer into the pan. I finish out the press, cranking down the last couple of inches to squeeze out the last bit of juice.

A few days of aging, two more steps of straining and we will have some fine, sweet cider. Chilled in the basement refrigerator, it will yield its full flavor and character. From all of those apples, none of them perfect, all of them blemished, comes a sweet and pleasing refreshment.

When we submit our will to His and humble ourselves in the service to which we are called, we produce fruits far finer than the branches. It has never been about our own perfection but rather, our complete yielding to His.

H. Arnett
8/22/12

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Incomprehensible

Posted on August 17, 2012 by Doc Arnett

The vastness of the universe
reflected
in a single drop of dew
blazing like the sun

Immutable energy
suspended
in a single leaf
fluttering to earth

Irresistible force
frozen
in the glacial wall
sliding imperceptibly
toward the sea

Indescribable love
focused
on unfathomable guilt

The eternal
become mortal
in order
to bring immortality

Righteousness
bestowed
upon the unrighteous
so that flesh
made from dirt
could inherit heaven

H. Arnett
8/17/12

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The Conjoining

Posted on August 16, 2012 by Doc Arnett

What wisdom it is
to know whether a word or a touch
will speak
the most tender blessing
or whether
a compassionate silence
would be the more welcome expression.

What grace it is
to speak words of healing
to the aching wound,
the grieving heart,
the friendless soul.

What courage it takes
to endure
the rasping rake
of a sharp tongue,
a haughty look,
or the chilling lance
of hate-filled eyes.

What beauty it is
to see the humble heart,
unfeigning its genuine regard
for others of lower esteem,
the raw power
of deep meekness
submitting to the weak.

What glory it is
to know
that wisdom,
grace,
courage,
and beauty
became Flesh
and walked among us,
wielding an unbreakable
humility and meekness,
conquering kings and powers and dominions:

the frail sheep
bleating and bleeding
a Tender Mercy
that broke
the very gates of Hell.

H. Arnett
8/16/12

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The Sound and the Fury

Posted on August 10, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I could see that it was raining west of Highland when I headed home late Wednesday afternoon. I could also see the big, blue-black cloud forming larger. By the time I’d reached Troy, it was the biggest and darkest front I’d seen in three months. It continued pushing, growing, coming closer. Around six-thirty, I saw little dollops in the belly of the storm, lighter colored clouds that looked like they’d been scooped out of the larger ones. I also saw the tinges of color in clouds to the west that speak of hail and strong winds that declare “severe thunderstorm.”

In the garage, I quickly moved the table saw out of the way so I could move the car into the bay. I parked the Ranger under the birch trees, hoping those slender branches might at least reduce the impact of hail. Just as I finished unhooking the horse trailer so I could move the Silverado, the microburst hit.

With no warning other than the signs of the clouds, we went from not even a breeze to a gust of western wind that snapped off small branches and sent the garden cart tumbling across the driveway. The branches of the cottonwood and every other tree bowed and swirled. Dust ripped across the pen and fields. By the time I’d driven the Chevy over under the spruce tree, the wind had shifted from the north.

Along with the fear of wind and hail, there was still a glad expectation of rain. “Ah,” I thought, “we’re going to get a good one out of this.”

Thirty minutes later, the wind was still bending the branches, still shuddering the limbs. But there wasn’t enough water to even cover the bottom of the bucket. We’d received the storm but without the rain we crave.

Somehow, in all of that blowing and shaking, in the dark blast of rain-less wind, I thought of those people who seem to be more about what they condemn rather than what they bless. To be sure, there are times for righteous indignation in a wicked world. But we should also keep in mind that we were not saved by the whip with which Jesus drove the money-mongers from the temple. We were saved by the cross on which he sacrificed himself. We were not saved by heaven’s fury, but by a gentle stream of mercy.

H. Arnett
8/10/12

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