Revelation

Posted on July 12, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Isn’t it sometimes odd and interesting what particular pictures our minds store in memory’s albums? I remember a quote that I read years ago that went something like this: “Memory is an arbitrary and capricious creature. You never know what pebble she may choose to pluck up from the beach and store in your mind.” With more time and ambition, I guess I could find who wrote that and more exactly how it was stated. But, at this moment, I’m more interested in getting to this specific memory than to Google.

I was riding in the back seat as Deb Harrison drove the Antioch Youth Fellowship into Murray on a bright summer evening. AYF at that time consisted of from five to ten Browns Grove area young adults and teenagers. The lack of a youth minister or program wasn’t an issue for us; we were our own program. If we wanted to get together for softball on a Sunday afternoon, we got together. If we wanted to go bowling on a Friday evening, we went bowling. If some of us wanted to go frog gigging, we’d find a flashlight or two, borrow an old pickup and head out through the fields after it was dark.

I can’t for the life of me remember what particular activity had us headed to Murray that day. There’s a good chance that Tom’s Pizza would be involved at some point. What I do remember is looking over Deb’s shoulder at the driver’s mirror at just the right moment to catch the sunlight coming through the window behind me at just the right angle.

What made me think it was just the right angle was that every little hair on the side of my fifteen-year-old face was lit up, glowing for all the world to see. Well, all the world who shared that particular perspective actually. That, of course, included no one else in the world, even the people riding with us.

That didn’t matter to me. Eager for older and jealous of my older brothers and every other kid who started shaving at thirteen, I could see in that instant that there was hair on my face. Not just one or two, not just a thin scattering of soft wisps of peach fuzz; it was definitely hair. Something that would turn into whiskers in the near future, that could some day become a beard.

There are times when the illumination of heaven reveals to us a wonderful potential, a promise of growth and maturing and fulfillment. In those instances when hope burns within us and we suddenly see the evidence of God’s touch upon us, we are changed. And if we hold on to that, devote ourselves to its fulfillment and refuse to allow others’ lack of sharing that vision to deter us, we empower ourselves to realize the power of God’s work within us.

H. Arnett
7/12/12

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Answered Prayer

Posted on July 10, 2012 by Doc Arnett

After these weeks of triple digit heat
in a summer that began in April,
this second season of drought
that turned half of the state brown in May,
we prayed for rain at church.

With the grim red showing severe
on the western third of Kansas,
we acknowledged that we do not deserve
to be blessed while others suffer
but asked for blessing anyway,
for both the blessed and the suffering.

We confessed in the passing sparkle
of Independence Day,
that we are completely dependent
upon the Hand of Heaven
for rain, for food, for life.

On the afternoon
of the second Lord’s Day in July,
it rained.

We sat outside on the next evening
following the rain,
a north breeze sifting the leaves of the locust,
its lacy shadows framing the moon.

I leaned back, shirtless in the dark,
welcoming the soft stirring of cool
against the sweat and soreness
of a long day.

This is as close as air can come
to defining grace.

H. Arnett
7/10/12

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Battle at Randolph Creek

Posted on July 9, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I guess it might be a bit presumptuous to say the Lord was thinking of little boys when He made creeks. I think it would be fair, though, to say that there’s little else like a creek when it comes to entertaining a boy. Some of my favorite memories from the years when Paul and I were growing up in western Kentucky are from the creeks we played in on and near our farm. Creeks are a wonderland for kids.

There are snakes and snails and crawdad tails, fish and frogs and slippery logs. There are limbs and leaves and climbing where you please, holes and poles and tiny tadpoles. And, of course, tons of mud.

It was the mud that led to some of our most memorable moments when I took three of our grandsons over to Randolph Creek a couple of weeks ago.

Where Randolph Creek passes through and near Blair, Kansas, here in Doniphan County, it provides two creeks in one. In the shallower parts, water rolls across flat stones and bedrock, occasionally creating tiny riffles and eight-inch waterfalls. There are a few places where large boulders shoulder the channel and others where the stream has cut holes over three feet deep. Then, in some places, where the current slows, there is the mud.

Given the nature of young humanoids and the encouragement of an old guy who thinks fun is almost mandatory at some point on a blistering hot summer day, a mud fight seemed perfectly appropriate, if not inevitable.

At one place at the foot of the bluff, an eight-inch layer of mud covers the stone that bottoms the creek. The upper part was just a silty mush, not much good for throwing. But the lowest level was a sticky gray clay, almost perfect for throwing. This was the spot for the Battle at Randolph Creek.

There were ambushes and close quarter attacks, long range launches and mid-range volleys. In charges and retreats, mud flew through the air and splattered on bodies and boulders. No one was spared, not the smallest kid or the gray-bearded old guy. Well, at least the parts of his beard that weren’t covered with mud were gray.

Then, when the final truce had been called, in the nearest pool of the least muddied water, we washed away the stains of battle. At least, washed away what we could in the creek. Then, back at the house with the water hose. Finally, in the showers.

There are times when a great memory is more important than dignity. Especially when the grandkids live ten hours away. And whether or not the Lord was thinking of us when He made creeks, I’m quite sure He was watching us that day.

And I’m pretty sure He was smiling. He knows all about getting rid of stains.

H. Arnett
7/9/12

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Of Toads and Timbers

Posted on July 6, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Nathan was born near Washington, D.C., two weeks prior to the 9/11 attacks. He is the first-born of my first-born. He is here with his nine-year-old brother, Josh, and their seven-year-old cousin, Reese. Following our twelve-hour drive/tour here yesterday, I was hopeful they all would sleep in a bit and give me an hour or two of extra sleep. Reese had other plans.

After waking up at six-thirty, he rouses the others from their sleep. Gramma Randa makes her famous tailored-shape pancakes for breakfast: horses for the boys and a tractor for me. Afterwards, we go out to work on the deck. While sorting through the small stack of trim pieces right beside the construction project, I am startled by a large toad that has taken to the shaded space below the boards. Nathan laughs at my response, “I bet if you were eighty years old, you’d have had a heart attack!”

A custody battle immediately ensues between Reese and Josh that is resolved quickly with a joint arrangement. They accept with appropriate enthusiasm my offer of the scrap boards and quickly set out building a toad house/fort/prison. Being much too old and mature for such nonsense, except for occasional inspections of the younger boys’ work, Nathan helps me with the deck building.

We begin with finishing the sleepers, four-by-fours laid in on the gravel to provide a floating foundation for the low platform. He comes to see, eventually, that the pattern of string stretching across from center to edge is to help keep the sleepers even. When the last one is laid in and leveled, we start the flooring.

With some effort, he lifts the treated two-by-eights and places them one at a time on the sawhorses. We chalkline for the tapered cuts. Using the worm drive saw, I rip them into tapered pieces for the fan pattern. Then, I show Nathan how to check for cup. “Cup side down,” I tell him, showing him the space that shows below the edge of the square as I hold it across the surface of the board. He figures out for himself that the narrow end goes toward the tree in the middle of the deck, wide end toward the corner.

He drills starter holes for the screws and helps pry or clamp as needed to make a straight edge on each board, then sets the next board up for sawing. Throughout the morning, Josh and Reese bring us updates on the toad. Nathan goes over, slightly disdainful but always interested. We manage to get about half of the remaining boards fastened in before the shade has shifted away from us and it is too hot to work here.

Lord willing, we will finish this part in the morning. For now, there is lemonade to drink and a toad to tend. And, after lunch, remote controlled Hummers to be raced.

It is in the careful blending of work and play that boys become healthy men. And the men who can still be boys at the right time just might become the kind of Granpa’s that boys want to visit again. Even when they’re old.

H. Arnett
7/6/12

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A Small Triumph

Posted on July 5, 2012 by Doc Arnett

It is the day of the Warrior Dash, another hot day in late June in central Kentucky. For the last six weeks, there hasn’t been a night that I have not awakened, thinking about this event. For the last three days, nothing I have eaten has been properly digested. I’d like for you to think that it’s because I’m so excited. The truth is, I’m scared.

I’m scared that I’m going to embarrass myself, embarrass my daughter and my son who are running this 3.4-mile cross-country event that includes several military-type obstacles. I’m scared that my time will be laughably slow, that there will be some obstacles I can’t complete, scared that I might not even finish the race and/or be so sore that I won’t be able to get out of bed tomorrow.

The fact that the race organizers have issued warnings about the heat today hasn’t calmed my fears much. Three consecutive doses of Imodium have helped with some of the symptoms. Susan and her friend, Heather, and Dan have all reassured me that they will not begrudge having to slow their pace to accommodate me. And, like most challenges I have faced, I have included prayer and preparation.

During my workouts, during my runs, during those semi-insomniac nights, I repeat again and again, “Lord, keep me safe. Help me to do this, please.”

It’s not an elaborate prayer but it is faith and sincerity that are key in heavenly solicitations, not the gift of gab. Perhaps it is the prayer that led me to the Imodium. At any rate, I am able to retain the scrambled eggs from breakfast and the snack-sized serving of tuna salad from lunch. And, I have downed enough PowerAde today to float a small fishing boat.

Just as we start out in the 1:45 wave of a few hundred people, a light covering of clouds moves in overhead. “Thank you, Lord,” I whisper.

One mile, two miles, three miles. Throughout the race, Dan, Susan and Heather keep offering encouragement, through the tangled tires, across the cargo nets, under the wires, over the barricades, up the walls: “You’re doing great,” “That was awesome.”

Fifty-one minutes after leaving the starting line, we crawl our way through the mud pit, keeping our heads beneath the barbed wire. Covered from chin to sole with the brown muck, we run toward the finish line. I raise clenched fists, hammer them in celebration toward the sky.

“Thank you, Lord,” I whisper.

To conquer our fears and attain our goals, is exhilaration. To do it with the support and encouragement of those we love is but little short of heaven.

H. Arnett
7/5/12

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An Unseasonable Heat

Posted on July 3, 2012 by Doc Arnett

The air rises around me,
hot and smothering,
trees wilt.

The grass on berm and bank
is dry and stiff,
the color of despair.

The leaves of locust
hang brown and lifeless,
August come to June.

It will take more
than a single shower
to turn all of this

back into green.

It will take a deeper refreshing,
a more meaningful change,
something more pure and powerful:

like what brings hope into night,
light into darkness,
caring into numbness.

It will take the hand of God.

H. Arnett
7/3/12

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Valor vs. Discretion

Posted on June 19, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I spent the morning working on the deck on the north side of the house. When I started, it was about seventy-five degrees outside in the shade. By ten o’clock, we were in the eighties and well on own way to a predicted heat index of a hundred-and-one. My occasional bits of work in the un-shaded parts soon had my clothes soaked with sweat. I took a couple of short breaks, elevated the leg that is still plagued by after-effects of a massive blood clot from three years ago, and drank a half-gallon of water.

In spite of all that, by early afternoon, I was feeling the heat, so to speak. Seemed like a good time to head over to the college and turn in the paperwork from my last couple of conference trips. The idea of not being reimbursed can lead me to surprising degrees of compliance and cooperation.

Another idea that occurred to me was that I could go to the Wellness Center at Highland and get in a good forty-five minute workout while I was there. So, I packed my gym stuff into my gym bag and headed over.

As I finished up the paperwork and delivered it, I became more and more aware of the messages my body was sending me: slight headache, quasi-queasy feeling in my stomach and that sort of tiredness that seems a bit like sickness. I figured I could push through all that, do my workout and increase the odds of opportunity for the Wellness Center staff and local EMT squad to put their first aid training to good use.

Or, and this is the one I chose, I could listen to my body and not provoke it into outright rebellion.

There are times in life when determination can lead us to greater accomplishment, greater achievement and greater satisfaction. There are other times when it can lead us to wrecked marriages, damaged relationships and devastated lives.

I’d like to think that not every experience I’ve had in life has failed to engender some measure of insight and understanding. But I’m also still aware that cowardice and laziness often mask themselves as discretion. Some of these distinctions require the wisdom that comes from above, that is first of all pure and peaceful.

H. Arnett
6/19/12

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Stamina

Posted on June 18, 2012 by Doc Arnett

On a Friday afternoon in June, preparing for the Warrior Dash, I pull on my running togs and head out the door. It is cloudy with no wind, two factors that are definitely in my favor, at least for the short term. In reality, it would be better preparation for the event if it were ninety degrees or so, more like the conditions likely for the race a week from tomorrow. But today, I am grateful for the clouds, cooler temps and the possibility of rain.

After a brief bit of stretching in the kitchen, I head out the door and begin my slow jogging trot down toward the highway. At the mailbox, I turn east and set my pace on the wide graveled shoulder. I have two goals for today: one is to run a full mile without slowing to a walk and the other is to complete this run in thirty minutes. Actually, there is a third goal; I’d like to not be in agony when I finish.

Past Fleek’s Market, I begin choosing targets: the utility pole in the curve, then a road sign, finally the “No Passing” marker. I keep pushing the goal just a bit further but keeping it within determination’s reach. Finally, just beyond the yellow marker, I give in and begin my segment of walking rest.

Absorbed with the running, I barely notice the fields and traffic. Finishing my minute rest, I resume the jog and turn off the highway onto Saratoga and 190th. Just before I get to the top of the first rise, I feel the pain start in my left knee. The same pain that would start sixteen years ago during the downhill parts of our long hikes in Kentucky’s Red River Gorge. The same pain after every basketball game since I was thirty years old. Not debilitating, just aggravating.

Alternating walks and jogs, I make my way back to Blair, back past Fleek’s and up to the house. It took thirty-three minutes, not too bad for just under three miles. After icing both knees and changing clothes, I check the distance by driving the truck around my route. As I approach the yellow sign that marks my first rest point, I realize that I have done something that I have not done in forty-one years.

For the first time since my senior basketball season, I have run a mile without stopping. It’s not much for any decent athlete but six weeks ago, I couldn’t jog a quarter-mile without a break. It’s not too surprising that a couple of Bible writers use physical exercise to teach us about spiritual endurance. It’s always the giving in that holds us back, the pushing forward that takes us beyond.

H. Arnett
6/18/12

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A New Path

Posted on June 15, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I never liked running for the sake of conditioning or training or as a means of transportation. Admittedly, I did enjoy the occasional romp along a dusty cowpath, feet tromping up little clouds of dust, arms outstretched and veering through each turn like an airplane. Those small diversions rarely lasted more than a quarter-mile or so and were limited to the days of youth.

When it came time for basketball conditioning, I hated the laps in the gym and the mile runs outdoors. After my senior year of high school, I never again ran or jogged unless someone or something was in peril. And, offhand, I can’t remember a single time in the last forty years when anyone or anything with whom or which I was associated was in that degree of peril.

So, how is it that I recently found myself running/jogging/walking 2.2 miles in 27 minutes? I blame it entirely on my daughter, Susan.

I called her last month to finalize plans for a visit. As we discussed my proposal to have a family gathering at Kentucky Lake on the fourth Saturday in June, she said, “Can we change it? I’m running in a Warrior Dash that day.” Then, possibly joking, she said, “You could run it with me.” In response, definitely delusional, I said, “Sure. Let’s do it.”

If you want to more fully fathom the degree of my insanity, check out “Warrior Dash Kentucky” on the web. For now, let’s just say it’s a 5K cross country run with thirteen intriguing obstacle segments, several of which seem to have the potential to induce debilitating injuries. For a young person in prime physical condition, it should be an interesting manner in which to spend a half-hour or so gaining an assortment of injuries and aches. For a flabby guy closely approaching the senior years, it seems more like hari kari in slow motion.

Although it’s not an easy sell, Susan and I were able to recruit one of her four brothers to join us. Dan, apparently, thinks it will be worth his while to watch such a rare spectacle at close range. As for me, well, it’s the idea of the biggest physical challenge I’ve ever accepted in my life and the opportunity to do something like this with a couple of my kids. I just wish I could be their age when we do it.

In spite of my lack of youth, I have seen considerable improvement in my stamina over the past few weeks. All those hours on the elliptical, the track and alongside the road have really helped; I’m confident that I may very well cover half the course before I need the paramedics. And, I hope to raise a thousand bucks or so for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital.

In regard to the results of my spiritual conditioning over the past fifty-plus years, I’m a bit more confident. I’m pretty sure that I will finish the course. And gain a far better prize.

H. Arnett
6/15/12

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Instruction

Posted on June 14, 2012 by Doc Arnett

We learn hope early
or never,
disappointed in God
and life
or else knowing
all things
work together for good
for those who love Him.

We learn late
or never
that things
that must be grasped
with the hand
cannot be held
for long.

We learn love
in the cradle,
in the nursery,
in the schoolyard,
in the workplace,
in the neighborhood,
in the home:
everywhere or nowhere.

We learn to treat others
as we would be treated
rather than as we have,
otherwise
we pattern ourselves
after those
we least respect.

We learn forgiveness
flows in every direction
or not at all.

We learn mercy and grace
do not always hold the same space
and both
are more abundant
the more they are sown.

We learn justice
is great
for others
and that hate
consumes the giver
more than the receiver.

Perhaps the reason
that God has claimed vengeance
for Himself
is that He
is the only one
great enough
to survive it.

H. Arnett
6/14/12

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