At the Corner of Royal and St. Peter

Posted on June 13, 2012 by Doc Arnett

She stands in the street,
heat and humidity of a New Orleans afternoon,
flailing at her guitar and wailing her song.
Sweat streaks down her cheeks,
drips from her jaw,
speckling her thick cotton dress.

A plastic bucket sits on the asphalt,
an empty vault, mocking her blues
and giving body to them.

Strangers walk by,
some giving no more notice to her
than to the concrete under their feet.
Some few pause for a moment,
perhaps wondering whether a coin or two
might help end her efforts
or merely encourage her to sing longer.

Whether for empty bucket or full sun,
she finishes the song,
gathers up her stuff,
moves slowly along the alley,
wondering where faith and hope
might meet in this hardened world.

I cannot for the life of me
determine whether I have witnessed
some quiet, almost ethereal determination
or a screaming desperation echoing along
the brick and iron of this balconied street.

H. Arnett
6/13/12

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Polite Refusals

Posted on June 12, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Randa and I are dining at an outdoor balcony table on Decatur Street in New Orleans, diagonally opposite Jackson Square and a block or two away from the river. A lovely breeze washes over us as the shadows climb the buildings to the east. Automobiles, bicycle taxis and mule-drawn carriages pass by beneath us while we eat. Pedestrians throng by in pulsing progression, pausing at intersections and storefronts.

I take the last bites of a crawfish cake sandwich while Randa finishes her seafood salad. In the dying light of the city, the air and evening have the fine feel of a summer day whose heat has ebbed to gentle warmth.

I notice a middle-aged man, medium in height and weight, his face and neck bearing the deep flush of the perpetually intoxicated. He staggers across the street, stops three steps away from the curb and calls up to Randa, “Honey, would you do me a favor? Would you please just jump down here into my arms?”

She pretends not to hear or see him and we both ignore him, a very different tactic than that used by the drivers trying to move through the intersection and turn onto Decatur. They honk their horns and yell, “Get out of the street.”

He stands his ground with the blind courage and oblivious determination of the devoutly drunk, using a very limited vocabulary in both verbal and non-verbal forms to inform the drivers that his romantic pursuits will not be altered by their harassments.

His focus diverted by the honking, he wanders down the side street, arguing with a couple of restaurant workers and then a bike taxi driver. Each session yields the same lack of desired result and ends with him yelling the same two words, then shuffling on to his next opportunity.

Perhaps due to my being one floor above all this and the advantage of being spectator rather than active participant, I find myself somewhat amused by the interlude. I also find myself soon shifting my focus to the other sights, sounds and smells of the evening. Randa and I sit and talk, taking our time and enjoying this rare venture.

I admit without embarrassment that I take no small satisfaction in her choice to continue with me rather than accepting a stranger’s invitation in spite of his obvious charm and courage. I have witnessed, from closer proximity than I’d like to admit, poorer choices.

I can also vaguely imagine the sorrow it brings our Maker to see his children leaping from the balcony in response to the red-faced biddings of our Enemy.

H. Arnett
6/12/12

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Praying for Rain on a Lord’s Day Evening

Posted on June 11, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I lie awake
a little past ten,
still praying for rain,
even while watching the lightning
as the storm creeps its way in
from the west.

I walked the pasture on Friday,
spraying the pokeberry bushes
and the infernal, eternally sprouting ailanthus.
As I moved from patch to patch,
my shoes crunched against the brown stubble,
bare earth showing
where the horses had eaten to the nib
every green thing that horses eat
unless they are starving.

Across the bottom,
up on the fields bordering the bluff,
corn waist high twisted in the heat,
while nearby, newly planted beans
waited for the cue of moisture
to send them surging toward sunlight.

Road banks and fields
showed the hues of August
two weeks before
the calendar’s starting of summer.

For an hour,
flashes bracket clouds,
gradually shifting from broad strobes
to stark etchings of white-hot static

and then I hear
the first thumping of hard drops of rain
coming against the panes beside the bed.

I drift off to sleep,
thinking of green pastures
and sure promises.

H. Arnett
6/11/12

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Theology in a Dry Spell

Posted on May 31, 2012 by Doc Arnett

dark clouds
full of hope
gather over
push east

least bit of wind
stirring from the north
dark spots showing
on the concrete

a few flashes of lightning
barely audible sound
of rain falling
on the dust covered grass

I pray for a long night
and a following day
of slow, seeping rain
bringing a gain of green

to lawn and garden
hay, corn and beans

wake in morning
to less than wanted
less chance than hoped for
a bit disappointed

remembering
it is not for quick answers
that I worship
the God Who Gives and Takes Away

nor because of the ease of my life
the blessings of this day
immunity to disease
lack of pain

but because of
evidence
faith
sustaining

I worship
the God Who Walks Beside Me.

H. Arnett
5/31/12

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Intentionally Invitational

Posted on May 30, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I’d love to know how many hours Randa and I have spent in conversation with each other over the past twenty-three years! Offhand, I’d guess that if we added up all the time spent in the car, on the road, at breakfast, in those easy mornings and soft nights out on the patio or porch, on our sporadic walks, during the sabbatical almost twenty years ago when we spent days hiking the forests of eastern Kentucky and all of those other times together, it’d be a few thousand hours.

The result has been a kind of closeness that surpasses acquaintance, companionship and camaraderie; it enters the realm of oneness in a way that I have seldom witnessed. Of course, we still discover previously unheard gems of experience or thought, still find some nuance, a reflection gleaming in a different way off a facet not previously brought to light.

But we know each other, genuinely, deeply, appreciatively.

We have cultivated this sort of knowing over the years, through the experiences, the talking and the seemingly infinite number of observations. Mostly, though, we have developed this relationship by deep commitment and continuous conversation.

It is the same sort of deliberateness that is required of those who want to have a significant relationship with God. The kind of closeness that sustains us through all things does not come through opportunistic happenstance or the chance of casual encounter; it comes through intentional, continual pursuit.

And is worth every minute of every effort.

H. Arnett
5/30/12

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Toward Peace

Posted on May 29, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Sometime between the sun’s last ebbing
and actual darkness,
I finish watering the small trees.

Feeling the evening’s shift toward cool
and the strong breeze,
I ask Randa if she wants to sit outside
with me for a while.

She gets the new collapsible reclining chairs
from the dilapidated little garden shed
and begins spreading hers into its shape
on the flat of the concrete patio.

We sit, then, sipping cold drinks
and watching the moon slip its way
into the branches of the pin oak.

While the wind blends tones from two bottles,
we throttle back from the day,
feet toward the west
and welcoming this stage of rest.

It takes more than this for peace:
a deeper sensing of what you believe
and a willingness to receive life’s offerings
of both giving and taking away,
a firm knowing of a home that lies beyond
the sun’s last setting.

I take the last sip from the bottle,
watch the wind bending the locust tree
and the moon rippling through oak branches.

It takes more than this for peace.
But this is a fine moment
for remembering those other things.

H. Arnett
5/29/12

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Used Car Salesmen

Posted on May 25, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I have a 1997 Ford Ranger pickup that has spent most of its entire life carrying more weight than it was built to carry. In that regard, it’s kind of like a few people I’ve seen in Wal-Mart. Unlike them, my little truck isn’t dressed in Spandex and polyester. Appearances and aspirations aside, it’s about four cylinders short of pulling a fully loaded horse trailer.

And so, I find myself on this adventure of looking for a good used pickup truck.

I was one phone call late on the Deal of the Century yesterday. A 2006 Ford F150 Crew Cab in excellent condition with lots of highway miles and priced $3000 below the NADA average trade-in value, $6000 below retail. Dang!

And so, I ended up in Independence, Missouri, last evening, crawling around under a black 2000 F150 with extended cab. From a couple hundred feet away, it looked pretty sharp. Unfortunately for the wannabe seller, I was not inclined to settle for inspection at that distance. He’d already said he’d take a thousand bucks off the price when I called him in the afternoon.

What he didn’t say and the pictures didn’t show was that the truck was rusted along the bottom edge around its entire perimeter, that there was no radio/CD/cassette player, that the light switch was broken or that the body panels were completely covered with scratches. On the positive side, there was no evidence underneath of any oil, transmission or any other fluid leaks.

When I checked under the hood, I found the transmission fluid had good color. Power steering and brake fluid levels were good, as was coolant. But when I pulled out the dipstick, there wasn’t a drop of oil on it. Not a good sign. Should have walked away then.

Instead, we added a couple quarts of oil before starting the test drive.

Ready for the road and with hopes we might still salvage this deal with another thousand off, I started up the truck, engaged the four-wheel drive and backed out the driveway. Well, I almost got out of the driveway. As soon as I started backing up, I could feel a bumping in the drive train. Halfway out the driveway, the truck stopped and wouldn’t move any farther in reverse. I pulled back up to where I started. Turned the truck off, got out and handed the guy the keys. He didn’t look the least bit surprised.

Knowing all the stuff that’s wrong with a used vehicle and not telling someone who’s about to drive eighty miles to come look at it is pretty close to dishonesty. Nearly as close as the evangelist who tells you that all your troubles will disappear if you’ll just turn your life over to Jesus.

H. Arnett
5/25/12

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Good Measure

Posted on May 24, 2012 by Doc Arnett

In the strong stir of southern wind,
the long, slender limbs of locust
bend to the north in sweeping crescents
of graceful submission,
spreading the hard push along the whole length
rather than against a single point.

The birches flinch and turn,
each surge sending some fresh shudder
through the tree,
un-joining the brittle branches,
leafless sticks caught in the chance
of force and direction.

It will take more than this
to make the harsh breaks
that send thick sections of cottonwood
crashing into the fence below,
something pushing the Beaufort scale
from “breeze” into “gale.”

I think it is good in life
to keep the mark of our passing
not measured by the force of our push
nor in the damage we do,
but in the caressing softness
of gentle touch and deep refreshing.

H. Arnett
5/24/12

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Blair, Kansas

Posted on May 23, 2012 by Doc Arnett

The least light of a pale blue and an even lighter hue of pink edge the eastern horizon. The silhouette of an eighty-year-old maple stands above the reach of elms and chokeberry in the fencerow running south between our place and Fleek’s Market. Beyond the trees, their plant nursery, car repair, used car sales and produce buildings line the north side of Highway 36 and comprise the most prominent visual aspect of Blair, Kansas. Unincorporated.

Burlington Northern took out the rail line several years ago, a few decades after it was last used. The only evidence I’ve seen of Blair Lumber Co. is their stamp on some of the rotten rafters I tore out when I built a new roof for the back porch that had been converted into a mudroom. That would indicate that the lumber yard was a going concern in 1917 and probably for some time after that. I’m guessing, but don’t know, that there also used to be a grocery/general store, a post office and probably a smithy of some sort. The big horse barn was turned into low-rent apartments years ago.

There are bound to be a hundred stories here, buildings that used to host something resembling a flourishing business, once-fine houses now lived in by the last, poorest cousin of some entrepreneur, once-occupied, now empty lots including the one where they finally tore down the old school. The north branch of Randolph Creek forms the eastern edge of the town, village or whatever you call a settlement of this size. All of the newer homes have been built up the slope on the west side. There are several here that are comfortably well off and a few more than that who appear to be struggling financially. I’m guessing there are fewer than fifty people who call Blair home.

It is not a place of much significance except to the people who live here, those who love them and those who enjoy the convenience of not having to drive to Saint Joe for whatever plants, produce and automotive opportunities are provided by Fleek’s Market.

But since Jesus is among those who love the people who live here, it is a place worthy of sharing his love, his life and his message. Like each starfish thrown back into the ocean, those who receive will believe that the effort was not wasted.

H. Arnett
5/23/12

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The Long Walk

Posted on May 22, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Randa and I walk over to the apartments toward the end of a long Saturday that began with waffles before six-thirty. Soon after that, I was on my way to the recycling center with a month’s collection of bottles, cans and newspapers and a winter’s worth of cardboard. Picking up feed for the horses and the cat in proportional amounts rounded out the return trip. Then, I worked on the guest bath: making, painting and installing trim. I changed oil in the pickup and worked on Reese’s little wooden sailboat. Randa spent the day shopping and sewing. We were both tired but I felt a tugging toward this visit.

After slipping between the wires of the horse fence, we walked along the old lane in the shadows of elm and maple. As we slipped down the steep bank to the flat of the apartment lawn, I saw Barry taking trash to the dumpster. He was back to his apartment before we reached the parking lot.

Screenless windows stand open as does the door, an indicator on a warm day that either the air conditioner isn’t working or the electricity has been shut off. I know that in this case, it is the latter. His girlfriend just sold her car to pay toward the rent they owed.

Another item on the list of things Barry has not been able to buy during his unemployment is the medicine he needs for some psychological issues. “When he’s on his meds, he does great,” his girlfriend explained. “When he ain’t, look out! He’s a real bear.”

After months of unemployment, now, Barry has finally found a job through a temp service. He works in a huge freezer all day, loading fifty-pound boxes of frozen food into truck trailers, his toes getting number by the hour. Three times last week, he walked the twelve miles to work at Saint Joseph.

Poor, maybe. Dented by life and scarred by bad choices, definitely. Lazy? I’ll forgo the entirely appropriate expletive here and just say “No!”

H. Arnett
5/22/12

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