Driving Rain

Posted on May 3, 2012 by Doc Arnett

The first sound of thunder came during that phase of slumber when we tend to think the rumble might have come from the power of imagination, some disturbing aspect in the crumbling edges of a dream. I had no such doubts about the second; it rattled the windows and shook the walls. The even rhythm of the rain was syncopated by harder beats as bits of hail fell against the flat roof right outside the west window of the bedroom.

I rose in company to more rumblings and flashings and looked out the window. It was still too dark for detail but I could see the lights of two tractor-trailer rigs pulled onto the shoulder of Highway 36. When I see the OTR truckers pulled off the road in a downpour, I’m pretty sure the red section of the weather radar is making its way through.

Checking the National Weather Service’s website a bit later confirmed the suspicion and revealed a pretty fast moving system. It had shifted east nearly thirty miles in the past forty-five minutes.

There are times in our lives when the storm moves through quickly, other times when it seems to settle around us and rain for months. Sometimes, we continue moving ahead, slowing a bit perhaps, but still focused forward. There are other times when we need to wait upon the Lord, praying that he will give us greater vision and wait for him to clear the way. It is seldom in life that we gain greater advantage by pushing blindly ahead, not compelled by faith and wisdom, but driven by the stubbornness of our own determination.

H. Arnett
5/3/12

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A Preparation of Peace

Posted on May 2, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I step out the back door into the pleasant air of morning. A dark blue edge shows in the sky, high and to the east, tracing the form of the passing storm front. The horses look up from the low edge of the paddock. They swing around and head toward me, heads bobbing in fast walk.

I carry the feed bucket toward the trough, pausing to shut off the fence charger before I slip through between the wires that keep the horses away from the dangers beyond.

They have lost the heavy scruff of their winter coats now. Even in the soft light of clouded morning, their hair shines with the buff of spring. They swing around, hooves hard against the soft ground, eager for feed. I watch carefully as I step between them, wary of any contention regarding which end of the trough either of them might choose to defend. Their ears hold forward, signaling a lack of threat to one another or any beneficent bystander.

As soon as the feed spills from the bucket, the chocolate Rocky starts in, taking a mouthful at a time. The black Walker waits for a moment, moves in beside him. I tap out the last bit of feed, bunched in the bottom of the bucket.

Beyond them, the grass lies wet and heavy, flush with rain and spring. The trees rise beyond the fence, the hills beyond them. All is green with hope and promise, all continuing the cycle of seasons. New corn sprouts and rises in fields tilled in trust, labor expectant of harvest.

I turn toward the house, walking on damp gravel, ready for the work of my day, believing that the Lord of Harvest will bless its yield.

H. Arnett
5/2/12

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A Higher Compliment

Posted on May 1, 2012 by Doc Arnett

It is not in the accolades of easy friends
that we gain the higher ground,
nor in the shallow flattery of those
fixed upon their own ends.

It takes the hard words, softly spoken,
to bring to bear the smoothing edge
of iron against iron,
to hone away the dulling shard.

We need the close acquaintance
of those we trust,
the occasional friction
that rubs through the rust

of corrupting change,
returns the keen surface
that keeps us sharp to our work,
faithful to our purpose.

From these, then, whose word we know
carries the weight of honest love,
we take genuine encouragement
in the compliment of correction.

H. Arnett
5/1/12

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A Closer Witness

Posted on April 30, 2012 by Doc Arnett

There is no notion of sky this morning,
just a low-lying grayness that closes in,
shutting off the sense of anything
beyond the near bluffs and hills
just past the creek.

The dark of yesterday’s rain
and the heavy of this dawning’s dew
still shows in the gravel of the driveway
and the pitted concrete sidewalk
from the patio to the garage.

Some would say it is the start
of a gloomy day,
something heavy and dreary,
perhaps some sort of retained sadness
seeping from the sky into the heart.

I suppose it could be,
that sort of prophecy often eases
into its own fulfillment
and I am not one prone
to finding lift in the heaviness.

But I have noticed the way
that this sort of light,
spectrum filtered by layers of cloud and mist
causes the colors of trees and grass to deepen,
an incredible sense of spring
impossibly green in the low sheen
of mornings such as this.

Sometimes, I think,
the Lord has to dim the call of distant beauty,
the broad expanse of the world beyond,
so that we may marvel
at the droplets on the rose
hanging delicately over the low stone retainer.

H. Arnett
4/30/12

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Reflecting on Fifty Years of Change in Societal Beliefs

Posted on April 27, 2012 by Doc Arnett

The westward bend of the Bradford Pear this morning
lends a bit of belief that the cool has come,
a rendering from the east to separate
the least and greatest temperatures of April.

Two days ago, I stood at the counter
of Triple L Tires and joked
that surely when the temperature hit ninety
it was time to swap out the snow tires.

Now a forming of gray clouds and a chill breeze
makes me believe the frost warning
forecast for the beginning of next week
might be something more
than the perennial pessimism
of a place where I once saw a foot of snow
come after Easter
and have heard that it can snow in May.

Some folks say “it’s only weather”
and I’d say that most days
it is sort of trivial conversation
but then again, I guess tsunamis and hurricanes
are weather, too.

With that sort of view
and in a place where tornadoes take towns off the map,
it’s hard to blame a man for keeping an eye on the sky.

H. Arnett
4/26/12

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A Hard Spring

Posted on April 26, 2012 by Doc Arnett

This must be the strangest spring that I have ever seen: ninety in March, cool and rainy in the early part of April, followed by several hard frosts, and now ninety again for the past two days. This morning brings a gorgeous dawning, clear skies and pleasant temperatures, more moderate, more seasonal.

This is a place of seasons, distinctive and progressive in a normal year. The locusts usually bloom in May but began a month early this go-round, a fringe of white just starting to show on the branches three or four weeks ago. Then the near-freezes came, putting things on hold and they held, that fringe, dull and pale, caught in some sort of time warp. The latest warmth sent them surging forward. The hills of Doniphan County seemed wrapped with bright white stoles, thickets of locusts in the full flush of their blooming.

A thousand miles away from here, in an even more unusual spring, my sister has gone through six weeks of radiation therapy. She has endured the tethering to the clinic, going every day, five days a week, held by the routine. She has endured the discomfort and the pain, the wrestling away from the things she would normally do. In spite of being unable to use the usual crème treatment for the burning of the skin, she has held up remarkably well. Nearly to the end of the series, the staff suddenly remembered an alternate product for those who can’t use the usual. It brought immediate relief, a bit more tangible than the relief of their repeatedly telling Freeda that they could hardly believe how well her body was holding up to the treatments. “Most people don’t even make it this far; they’ve burned so much and are in such pain they just give up.”

Giving up has never played much of a role in her life and I suspect that she’s had more prayer support than most of their clients. Last night, after church, they had a celebration. Those of you who have joined me in praying for her were included, even though unknown. Your lifting has raised her up. We both thank you for it.

Because of that, I believe that Freeda will be able to get back up to the mountains she loves in time to see at least the last phases of spring along the Blue Ridge Parkway. And in that returning, I believe her celebration will sound a stronger chorus, resonating with the bark and blooms of the Appalachians, a full resounding with all that God has made and done.

H. Arnett
4/26/12

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Neighbors

Posted on April 23, 2012 by Doc Arnett

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed an ambulance over at the old apartment building near our house. At the time, I thought I should go over a while later and see if there was anything that we could do for the family. I guess yesterday was a while later.

As I was taking a load of my dirty clothes down to the basement, I felt a sudden conviction that I should follow through on that idea.

As I walked across the pasture, I surveyed the parking lot. None of the vehicles I saw seemed to be less than ten years old, with most being closer to twenty or more. Though the exterior of the converted stock barn has been painted in recent years, the sixteen or so apartments show some signs of un-restored abuse.

The screens have a ragged look and the frames are dinged and scraped. The entries have no covering; there is just a small slab of concrete outside the door. As I walked to the apartment where the ambulance had parked, I felt a heavy sadness, a deep sense of intense needs and oppression. As I neared the door, a forty-ish woman and a teenage boy stepped out from their door at the next unit.

She was smoking a cigarette, talking on a cell phone. As I knocked on her neighbor’s door, she called out, “They’re not there; they’re around on the other side, drinking.” As I hesitated, I heard her say to whomever she was talking to, “After you get the beer, come on over here.” Walking closer, I could see the details of leathered skin, frayed hair and the dullness in the eyes that often belies a hard life uneased by a few diversionary habits.

“Is this the apartment where the ambulance came a couple of weeks ago?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Grandpa had another one of his spells,” she responded. I introduced myself and told her that my wife and I go to church just over the hill here. “I thought maybe it might be someone that needed some prayer.”

Her face softened instantly and she nodded her head quickly. “Oh, he sure does.” Even though the elderly man is not actually her grandfather, he’s dealing with depression, breathing problems and heart problems. I asked for his name, then met Rose and Ben. She thanked me and then went back inside her apartment as if she suspected I might soon want to ask about her spiritual condition.

We live in a world more open to prayer than to the gospel. Perhaps, responding to the first might help pave the way for the second.

H. Arnett
4/20/12

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Well-Grounded

Posted on April 23, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Stepping out of the car at First and Main in Fort Scott, Kansas, carries some notion of time travel; the brick street, old brick buildings and Courtland Hotel’s huge glass windows make it easy to imagine stepping into the morning a century ago.

It is not that I am nostalgic about the beginnings of the Twentieth Century; I have no desire to land in the swirling fevers that followed the Civil War, Bleeding Kansas or the age of excess that preceded WWI and the Great Depression. I do, however, like to see the occasional downtown that does not look like an architectural junkyard. I like to see fine old buildings deliberately cared for, restored and preserved. I like to see such visible appreciation for what has stood some test of time, a notion that even brick and mortar need some attention over the years.

There is something in such awareness that transcends the contemporary, that speaks of things more solid than fad and fancy. These buildings have survived the changes of style and the currents of politics. They have withstood the onslaughts of wind and rain, extremes of flood and drought. Over the decades of thrift and flush, and the ebb and rush of settlers and travelers, tourists and traders, they have held to the shape of the architect’s mind and the builders’ hands.

They are not unlike lives founded on faith and shaped by obedience.

H. Arnett
4/23/12

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Bailout

Posted on April 19, 2012 by Doc Arnett

On the better nights, traffic is light, I am tired and my mind is clear. Or else, my mind is so fogged I can’t sort one thought from another and there’s some sort of numbing that keeps any one thing from drumming out whatever is needed for sleep. On these nights, I rest well.

On the others, there is this frustrating lift and swell of the sounds of truck tires and engines and the occasional irritation of a high-revving motorcycle screaming its twelve-thousand rpm’s through my much too rare REM’s and making it less than difficult for me to imagine becoming a character in a B-grade movie that involves dark streaks of face paint and ridiculous amounts of remote-detonated explosives.

The more acceptable, and at least currently, more likely solution is to finish remodeling the master bedroom. They, Randa and I can move our sleeping quarters back from the highway side of the house to the other side, which is far better insulated from the noises of the road and the rages of externally induced insomnia. I suppose too, that soft earplugs and some sort of suitable white noise generator might be options worth considering.

On the other hand, being a privileged person in a privileged society, I believe there are other options. I could contact my elected officials and propose that this section of the highway should be re-routed in such a way as to eliminate any irritation to me and inflict it upon my neighbors. They, of course, should also bear the entire financial burden of my relief. I don’t think it would be too difficult to generate any number of reports demonstrating tremendous social and economic benefit to the area, even though that is utterly beside the point.

I can’t help wondering, though, just how well that sort of thinking is going to hold up when I have to stand before my Maker and give an account of how I expected those less blessed than me to furnish the comforts of my life. Hmmm… maybe I should quit yammering and start hammering. He was a carpenter, too, you know.

H. Arnett
4/19/12

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Long Distance Love

Posted on April 18, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I guess there aren’t too many of us who haven’t played the “What If?” game a time or two. What if I’d taken the other job? What if I’d moved back there? The game can be anywhere from interesting to torturing, amusing to masochistic. I try to not spend too much time with it but there are occasions when it’s just too cotton-picking easy.

Most of those times happen whenever something potentially traumatic is going on with one of our kids. An accident, a calamity, a job challenge, trouble in the family, stuff like that. I begin thinking that if I’d made a different choice at some point in my life, we’d be close enough to get there in a lot less than eleven-to-twenty hours and stay there longer than it takes to get there.

As you can imagine, after my daughter, Susan’s, exhausting week of emergency C-section, blood transfusions and return to the hospital a few days later, the “What If?” game has really been rattling its box. One of the hardest things for a parent, at any age, is to not be able to be with a child during times like this.

Of course, the reality of life is that our making different choices doesn’t guarantee the desired result; other people might make different choices, too. If we’d decided to stay in central Kentucky, Susan might have married someone else and stayed in Alaska. If we’d decided to move back to western Kentucky, Dan might have taken a job in Alabama and Ben might have stayed on in Jamaica.

Ultimately, the “What If?” game is at best, an amusing exercise in imagination. At its worst, it is a senseless and counter-productive waste of time. It is far more profitable for us to accept the responsibilities of our choices and exploit the opportunities that we do have for doing good wherever we are. As one of my all-time favorite preachers once said about prospective missionaries, “If a lamp ain’t burning in Texas, there ain’t no need to send it to India.”

And, it might be true, too, that if I won’t make a phone call in Kansas, I wouldn’t make a short drive in Kentucky. There is always a way to love, whether we can see one another’s faces or not.

H. Arnett
4/18/12

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