Lawn Chair Evangelism

Posted on May 21, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Randa sat on the doorstep outside the tiny dilapidated apartment and let me have one of the folding chairs. Bryan’s girlfriend sat in the other while he leaned against the railing. The sounds of loud music and louder voices hammered along the line of doors with peeling paint and sagging gutters.

After a few minutes of small talk, Barry told me why he’d wanted to talk to me after church the last Lord’s Day. I offered a couple of ideas that we discussed for a while. Then I asked Barry if we could pray for him. “Sure,” he replied, “I need all the help I can get.”

I suppose I might have seen it coming, that this man who hadn’t been in church for fifteen years was about to put some devout Sunday-Schoolers to shame, about to teach me another lesson in the power of poverty.

When I asked if he wanted to go inside or just pray where we were sitting, his response was both earnest and simple.

“We can pray right here,” he said, “I ain’t ashamed.”

What power there would be if all those who claim to follow Jesus could so declare with such lack of hesitation!

Maybe I’ll suggest to my church that we move our Bible study and prayer meetings from the air-conditioned privacy of our classrooms into the hard-stoned grit of the project’s parking lots. Yeah, I’ll do that. Right after I suggest we forget ordering the two thousand dollar fiberglass baptistery and keep using the horse trough that has worked just fine for the previous three dozen baptisms.

H. Arnett
5/21/12

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Five Generations of Sawdust

Posted on May 18, 2012 by Doc Arnett

The high-pitched shrill of small orbital sanders pierces the morning. We tried to fit the soft plastic plugs into Reese’s ears but the adult size doesn’t work well for seven-year-olds. I invited him to help me out with this project of prepping the door trim for the guest bath upstairs. He and my son, Dan, stand in the garage, watching as I start the sanding.

I begin with 100 grit on the old DeWalt sander, “Be sure to go slow. Keep the sander flat like this and run with the grain but go slow.” He watches, more patiently than most kids his age. I finish, move the board to the lower stands for him and give him the Craftsman sander with the 120 grit. I watch him for a while, then turn to the next piece and start with the 100 grit on it.

Dan keeps an eye on his son and coaches, “Here, Reese, use both hands like Papa Doc. See, like this.”

I smile to myself, continue working on the six-foot-long piece. Dan goes to check on Ann Marie, his eighteen-month-old with a definite tendency to extend her boundaries. Reese works his way along the board, keeping the sander flat and moving slowly. When he has finished the flat surface, I’ll do the edges.

At least, that’s the plan. But when I look over a couple of minutes later, he has already tilted the piece up on its side and is moving the sander slowly along the edge. I am impressed by his initiative and by his ability. A lot of men have trouble steadying the piece for edge work. Not only is this kid keeping the piece steady, he’s also keeping the sander flat as he works along the three-quarter-inch surface. “Has to be genetics,” I joke to myself.

Whatever it is, it is joy to me, sharing this talent and interest of my father and my grandfather. Teaching my grandson and seeing him perform the work of my hands. I believe that in this old garage, with pine dust lifting and swirling around us, I touch on the delight that our Father takes in seeing us in our most earnest imitations of Him.

H. Arnett
5/18/12

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Hitchin’ Post

Posted on May 17, 2012 by Doc Arnett

It used to be pretty routine for me, officiating weddings for people I didn’t know. Part of the job, goes with the territory, that’s what ministers do, etc. I’d guess that over half of the weddings I’ve done since 1975 were for people I’d never even met until they decided they wanted a legal union.

The very first couple I married was over twice my age, each’s previous union having been severed by death years and years before. I did the wedding in the living room of the groom’s son. The next one was for a teenage couple. Then, there was one for a couple who seemed selected to reinforce every Hollywood notion of the backwoods pair. I guess those stereotypes do come from somewhere.

He was gangly and tall, missing a couple of teeth on the left side, (at least it wasn’t the front), and her with strawy hair and a prominent swelling of the abdomen. They certainly had the most fun of any two I ever hitched. During the reception at the Holiday Inn, they smeared cake in each other’s face and ended up chasing each other through the lobby.

Over the four decades that I’ve been doing this, I’ve done weddings in backyards, country clubs, living rooms, chapels and churches. I’ve married some couples that pledged and kept their pledges. Some that divorced a few years later. Many of them, I’ve had no contact with since the wedding. Some seemed genuinely grateful and appreciative of my efforts to make the ceremony something more than empty ritual. A few seemed barely tolerant of me as if I were nothing more than a necessary mechanism.

Which kind of brings me to an interesting question. Well, at least one that interests me: If you don’t even know a preacher or a priest, then what difference should it make to you whether or not you get married by one?

Funny thing is, I know the answer. In the areas where I have lived my life, thus far, it is a definitely prevalent notion that weddings are supposed to be in churches. Of course, there are the exceptions of home, forest, baseball diamond and tennis court weddings, but by and large, there’s supposed be a steeple standing over you when you exchange your “I do’s.” Since most people can’t rent Churchill Downs, they end up in some local church standing in front of their family and friends and a preacher they just met.

For many of them, it’ll be the last time they’re in church, at least until someone else they know gets married or dies. But, in some cases, it’ll be the start of a changed life. I know this, God’s commitment to blessing them and their marriage will match whatever commitment they make to Him and to each other.

H. Arnett
5/17/12

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More than Trophies

Posted on May 16, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I watch my son belly crawl alongside the gray log lying in the fencerow underneath Russian olive trees. “Stay there,” he murmurs to me, “Be very still.” We are dressed in camo from toe to tip, caps over our heads and our faces covered with thin camo mesh. According to Dan, turkeys can’t smell worth a hoot but their vision is legendary. I stay and stay still as he finishes elbow-walking his way to the edge of the cornfield that stretches out over the next two hills.

Two toms and a hen are in the field. The hen came in to within forty yards of us in response to Dan’s calls. One of the toms is in full strut three hundred yards away, the other just hanging out as if he is waiting to see whether his buddy’s routine works or not.

Dan continues the calls and works the tail fan he took from another bird. The toms move toward us. At least one of them sees the fan and Dan works it, shifts it sideways then back and forth, returns it to horizontal.

There is a gamble with using the fan while turkey hunting. A dominant or aggressive tom will charge in to defend his territory, slashing with those four-inch spurs to drive out the intruder. A submissive, less aggressive male will get the heck out of Dodge, so to speak, running for the nearest cover.

In our case, the gamble works. The unstrutting tom comes in on a beeline, covering the last fifty yards or more in a near run. Only thirty or forty feet from Dan, he apparently begins to wonder about that pale hand holding the black fan. He paces back and forth two or three times, then takes off along the fencerow. It would have been an easy shot if shooting had been the goal today. It wasn’t.

We came to do something together, something that I’d never done before with anyone. Dan wanted to show me the experience of turkey hunting and I wanted to be with Dan while he does something that he loves to do, something that he is very good at doing. Like true evangelism, this is about relationship, not trophies.

H. Arnett
5/16/12

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Late Night Ruminations

Posted on May 15, 2012 by Doc Arnett

With nothing particular on my mind and no dietary suspects, I cannot explain the trouble I had in getting to sleep last night. Sometimes, I think such times might be the result of some deeper concern, something disturbing the spirit, something beyond normal thought. Something lying beneath the surface and even the depths of the conscious, stirs the mind below the level of specific awareness.

Whatever it was, it reminded me that I’ve heard said that poor health is sometimes because of what we eat and sometimes because of what’s eating us.

I’ve gotten better over the years at taking care of both issues. In regard to the first, I’ve managed to avoid eating so much fried food, stopping with one serving of dessert and not buying those little devil’s food, chocolate-iced treats that I love so much. In regard to the second, I’ve gotten better at confronting issues, talking with people directly and forgiving.

Which isn’t to say there’s no room for improvement. Sometimes, I should stop before dessert and I admit I should do more talking with than talking about the ones with whom I’ve become upset.

It is a lifelong process on both counts, apparently. We never live beyond the need for moderation, restraint and deliberation. That applies to the food part, too.

H. Arnett
5/15/12

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An Ancient Art

Posted on May 14, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Less than ten minutes from the truck, I am glad that I listened to Dan’s suggestion to switch from the athletic shoes to the high-top rubber boots. Where we parked, on top of the ridge, a gentle wind had kept the grass free of dew. Here, along the line of the woods stretching along the ditch, the brome and fescue are heavy with it. I would have been soaked from foot to thigh already. Wet feet would ruin a good hunt.

My third son, Daniel, has been the premier outdoorsman of the family since his youth. His dedication has cultivated a skill level that rivals that of anyone I’ve ever met. Although we have fished together since he was a kid, this is the first time we’ve ever been on a hunt together.

This one is happening now because he and Christy made the five hundred mile drive from western Kentucky with their two children, arriving just after ten o’clock Thursday night. He and I are here on a church member’s farm in Doniphan County, Kansas, by five-thirty the next morning. We would have been here a half-hour earlier but he could not convince me that it would be daylight this early. It is not the first time that my opinion substituted for knowledge; it might not be the last time, either.

What is knowledge in pretty short order is that my son is very good at stalking and calling in wild turkey. Despite the disadvantage of never having been in this area before, within two hours he has gained return calls from several turkeys and made visual on at least three birds. In less than an hour the following morning, he located three birds and brought a tom in from over four hundred yards away to within forty feet of our position.

We end up leaving perhaps the largest turkey that Dan has ever seen still roaming the woods and fields of northeastern Kansas. Leaving the guns at home and the permits unpurchased, we chose to make this a hunt for memories instead of feathers, flesh and trophies. And, we have succeeded even beyond my expectation.

Walking back to the truck, I think about the years, the miles and this experience. I think, too, about how pleased our heavenly Father is when we dedicate ourselves in this way to cultivating our spiritual gifts.

H. Arnett
5/14/12

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Lemonade

Posted on May 10, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I was reminded recently of an old, old truth: When we learn how to turn misfortune into opportunity, we have touched one of the great secrets of victorious living. Over the years, I’ve learned that a tool or machine is like an attitude: sometimes the best way to fix one is to just get a new one. Now, this is not an election-year story of rags to riches or of fame to shame. Just a man and his mower. Well, former mower…

I bought my small Yard Man riding mower, used, several years ago. Aside from being small, noisy, underpowered and ragged looking, it was a great little mower. No, wait, it was also hard to steer and had the same turning radius as a Ford F-350 SuperCab. Other than those few drawbacks, it was almost ideal. For the relatively small yard we had where we lived then, its thirty-two inch swath was fine, certainly saving me time and labor over the twenty-two inch push mower from WalMart.

When we moved over to the quasi-country place we have now, it was not quite so fine. Going from a tenth-of-an-acre to an acre-and-a-half was quite a change. My mowing time went from thirty minutes to two hours. I began to lose my enthusiasm for keeping the place neat and trim.

A month ago, as I was mowing along the edge of the driveway, I noticed the mower seemed to lose power and run rough. I was nearly finished anyway, so I continued without a great deal of alarm or concern. That pair showed up early in the next mowing, though.

By the time I’d finished my second sweep across the front yard, the mower was shaking heavily. Halfway through the third lap, it was shaking violently. I don’t suppose a four-cycle Briggs and Stratton motor can vomit but this one was definitely trying. Just into the fourth and final lap, the thought occurred to me, “I’ve got a leg on each side of this engine. If it explodes, I’m going to catch shrapnel in at least one leg.”

Cheered by that notion, I yanked the lever to disengage the blade and headed up the slope to the garage. I’d barely cleared the edge of the grass when the mower took its few surrendering heaves. It died on the gravel driveway, only forty feet from the garage door.

I’ve no complaints, really. A three hundred dollar riding lawn mower that lasts six or seven years is not a bad deal. I bear neither bitterness nor resentment toward its failure. In fact, I’m grateful… every time I start up my brand new John Deere D140 with hydrostatic drive and forty-eight inch cut.

H. Arnett
5/10/12

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Recovery

Posted on May 9, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I had a three-pronged kidney stone that had to be mechanically extracted about eleven years ago. After two weeks of periodic episodes of fairly acute pain, I embraced the notion of getting that critter out of my body. The urologist told me, before initiating the procedure, that he would insert a stent to make sure that blood and urine would continue draining during the first week of healing. “When we remove the stent,” he assured, “you’ll feel better instantly.”

All full of hope, optimism and confidence, I reported for the removal. The next several hours were all full of pain, nausea, vomiting and an intense desire to implant a stent into that urologist. I’m sure he wasn’t worried in the slightest; he knew there wasn’t a chance in thunder that I was going to do anything requiring physical activity beyond reaching the rim of the porcelain receptor.

I was reminded of that yesterday after talking to my sister about the aftermath of her thirty-three radiation treatments. Like many others questioning the wisdom of their choices, she has discovered the intensely painful truth that recovery is worse than treatment.

As the nerves begin regenerating after their several weeks of submission, the body begins to be fully aware of just how much abuse it has suffered. From the deep soft tissue to the skin on the surface, all flesh in the affected area has been burned. With each new revelation that was previously hidden, downplayed or only vaguely mentioned, patients like Freeda must cope with the deeper dimensions of agonizing physical elements. In addition, many of them also gain a greater sense of skepticism for pre-procedural medical advice.

For some reason or another, I am reminded of evangelists who invite sinners to the altar of salvation, talking only of this marvelous moment of miraculous deliverance and saying nothing of the entire life of obedient sacrifice that Jesus demands. If we truly believe that the cure is dramatically and incomparably better than the disease, can’t we be confident that full disclosure is the only sensible practice?

H. Arnett
5/9/12

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Extenuating Circumstances

Posted on May 8, 2012 by Doc Arnett

The storm that came through a couple of weeks ago broke out a couple of large, but not huge, branches from the cottonwood tree that towers over the horse pen. Their transfer from tree to ground brought about no corresponding damage to either of the geldings or to the fence or corral panels. Nor, apparently, was there any handicapping of the tree’s reproductive power. Although the leaves wilted, the buds proceeded to open, flower and generate prodigious amounts of the cottonwood’s infamous seed.

Imagine a twenty-ton dandelion, sixty-to-seventy feet tall and with branches extending thirty feet in every direction. That’s what the cottonwood tree is like during its month-long spawn.

In order to share the blessing, I hired fifteen-year-old Ben to come over and give me a hand. I knew he needed the money and I could stand the help. Using a pruning blade in my reciprocating saw, I cut the fallen limbs into pieces more easily handled. With the vibration of the sawing, small puffs of seed separated and drifted. When I began tossing branches over the fence onto the driveway for Ben to pick up and put in the truck, the small puffs turned into an onslaught.

By the time we’d loaded the truck and then unloaded everything on the burn pile, I looked like Yeti of the Plains.

I had cottonwood seed puffs on my neck, on my face, in my hair and in my nostrils. I felt like I was covered with the things. Somewhere in the midst of my slight misery, while I was wiping off my arms and face, two things occurred to me.

One was the fierce survivalist determination of the cottonwood. Even though the limbs had been severed from the tree for two weeks, they still produced their seed. I suppose I could conclude that even when I find my situation less than ideal, I can still be productive, still achieve the purpose for which I was planted.

The other thought that came to me was that if I had taken care of this task immediately, there wouldn’t have been a single piece of fuzz drifting through the air. If I had done all my cutting, lifting and packing within a day or two of the storm, none of the pods would have yet formed. Life must have a thousand ways of teaching us that procrastination bears its own rewards.

H. Arnett
5/8/12

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The Incredible Wealth of Scraping By

Posted on May 4, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Making my way across the freshly mowed grass in the last hour of daylight, I see Ben and his mom outside their tiny, rough apartment. Smoke drifts out from a small grill and Ben is bent over the front wheel of a small bicycle. He looks my way, straightens up and waves, “Hi, Doc!”

I am struck by the friendliness of his voice, having only met him once before and talked but briefly. I speak to Rose and then take a closer look as the fifteen-year-old tightens the nuts holding the wheel into the front fork of the bike. In response to my question, Ben replies, “Yeah, this wheel is pretty bent up.”

Finished with the straightening, he takes hold of the wheel and gives it a hard jerk. It should spin freely but stops after less than a full turn. “Let’s take a look at that,” I offer and he loosens the nuts. I hold the wheel and ask him to turn it. I cannot keep the axle bolt from turning, too. I know without looking that the bearing is shot but I look anyway, then show him the ruined sleeve. “Ahh, we’ve got lots of wheels,” he says.

Just then, the kid from next door comes riding up and Ben greets him, “I need that wheel.” Isaac gives up the bike with little argument. Maybe it’s not his bicycle; it’s often easier to surrender something when we understand it wasn’t ours, anyway. Within minutes, the swap is made and the one bike is ready to ride while the one that was being ridden needs another wheel.

On one level, I was amused by Ben’s calm, quick efficiency. I remembered how my brother, Paul, and I used to swap parts among the three or four old bikes that we had on the farm in the middle part of the previous century. And then, I remembered what it was like to know that swapping one old thing for another old thing was the only choice we had. That part wasn’t so amusing.

But there was yet another part to this. It is this other part that reaches down deep and makes me think that this kid just might have more of a chance in life than his present circumstances might suggest.

Ben has the ability to see the opportunities within a situation instead of resenting the lack. Even in his poverty, he has gained a freedom and power that often escapes many who experience greater financial fortune. And, by the way, people like Ben are more fun to be around, too.

H. Arnett
5/4/11

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