A Warm Cleansing

Posted on February 23, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I rise in the chill of winter,

know that this degree of cool

in my own house

is due to my own frugal choosing.

Apart from that

and the fact that I did not get up

when the alarm first sounded,

I could stand here in the shower,

lost in an hour of leisure,

feeling the hot water

pounding against my neck and back,

letting go of the tension,

feeling the water’s soothing

running through me

like some greater warmth.

I have been lost in better moments,

standing in deliberate surrender,

surrounded by sharing,

hands lifted toward heaven,

feeling the filling of a Greater Presence,

sensing the power of submission,

letting that soothing work through me and in me,

healed and held

by the wonder of worship.

H. Arnett

2/23/12

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Talk Time

Posted on February 22, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Having started a conversation during the commercial breaks, Randa and I continued it after the conclusion of Leroy Jethro Gibbs’ latest successful investigation of the untimely and unjust death of yet another naval officer. At the rate they’ve been getting taken out over the past eight or ten years, I’m surprised there is anyone left to run the Navy. But I suppose that as long as writers write and addicts like me watch, there’ll be enough left to eke out a series or two.

Only a couple of minutes into NCIS: Los Angeles, I decided there was more contrivance than I could stand, so I muted the show and resumed the conversation with Randa. After a few minutes, I turned off the TV. An hour and a big bowl of popcorn later, we were still talking. We covered a fair segment of theology, a good bit of needs assessment on a couple of students that we both know at the college and a few other sundries. Such conversations end with a sense of closeness, a genuine intimacy.

It’s an easy thing to let our entertainments take over our lives, to seek out the diversions that keep us from sharing about significant issues. But when we deliberately mute the world, focus on the things that matter and actually, genuinely, communicate with one another, we strengthen the ties that bind and build our relationships. Such times and sharing not only endure but strengthen us as well. Our connections with one another are rarely static; they tend instead to become stronger or else fade.

That includes our connection with The One who made us and The One who died for us.

H. Arnett
2/22/12

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Lost in Lincoln

Posted on February 21, 2012 by Doc Arnett

This was my first experience with Dare 2 Share, an evangelistic encounter designed to get teens involved in witnessing to others, sharing the gospel. You could say that I was a bit apprehensive about joining our youth leaders in an overnight trip to Lincoln, Nebraska, with over forty adolescents. On the other hand, you could say that I was nearly terrified but that would be, well, at least a slight exaggeration.

The two-and-a-half hour bus ride wasn’t too bad. Not getting more than three or four hours’ sleep that night in a motel was a foregone conclusion. A moment or two here and there of potentially embarrassing juvenile behavior is an accepted aspect of the adventure. All part of the deal. But then, there was the other part.

Nearly six thousand of us came together in the Pershing Center in downtown Lincoln. The worship band, the speakers and the drama group brought more than enthusiasm; there was a clear and convincing focus on Scripture and ample evidence of sincere conviction. This was more than a pep rally for Jesus; it was a weekend of genuine Gospel.

Standing with this multitude, thousands of voices lifted together, hands raised in reverence and adoration, I was willing to lose myself, to let go of my focus on me and my worry about the kids. In those moments when our praise brings us to the point to where there is nothing else in the world but us and Jesus, we worship.

We encounter heaven.

H. Arnett
2/20/12

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Tough Situation, Easy Decision

Posted on February 21, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Following my friend’s cancer surgery, her surgeon told her that he was “pretty sure,” or some similarly reassuring technical term, that he’d gotten all of the tumor. He also gave her his version of the odds that the cancer could reappear, reactivate or whatever technical term means it could come back. The comparative odds of its return with and without radiation treatment were sufficiently close to make her have to think about whether or not the treatment would be justified.

I’ve never been in the place of having to make that kind of choice. So far, my medical choices have been pretty simple. Back when I was in my early twenties, there was the “Have this procedure done or risk becoming sterile.” I chose the procedure. Five kids later, there was a similar but opposite choice to be made. Then, there was the kidney stone back in 2002. “Do you want us to go in and get it or wait and see if you can pass it?”

I’d already had a week of Option B. Option A’s successful, though not uneventful, conclusion revealed the wisdom of that choice. Imagine two miniature goats’ heads, interlocked with the pairs of horns turned in opposite directions. That boat would have never come through the canal, even if the channel had been three times larger. Although the recovery did not go as smoothly as the doctor’s prediction, I was still grateful for the procedure’s successful deliverance from the torture of the stone.

Such choices as that seem clear and easy to me. Like the choice between salvation and damnation.

H. Arnett
2/21/12

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February Dawn

Posted on February 17, 2012 by Doc Arnett

The last crescent of a winter moon gives its glow to the snowy frost along the hill sloping toward the shed. Between the moon and the ridge, elm trees along the fence line stretch the black of their brushy ends against the orange rim of the eastern sky. That color fades into the blue of earth’s great dome while the brighter stars keep hold beyond the light of the moon.

Somewhat closer to the ridge than to the moon, I walk through the crusted grass, my boots breaking loose the frost in passing. The horses snort and trot up from the lower end of the lot, shaking their heads in anticipation. As I open the door to the feed room, they stand in the round pen, blowing a fine vapor into the clear air.

I mix the feed, shake Cisco’s share into the feeder inside the shed, take Jack’s around to the one hanging outside. While they go about their business, I go about mine, carrying a bale of hay to the feeding rack fastened against the outer side of the shed. Jack seems oblivious to me as I break open the bale, lift packed flakes of brome over the top of the rack.

That done, I fill the water trough, pick up the empty bucket and head back toward the house. By now, the sky is brighter and only a few of the brightest stars remain visible. In another ten minutes, even they will disappear.

Often in the darkness of this world’s nights, there are many things that seem to gleam and beckon us. But those who have seen the Son as he truly is have found a light that does not fade with the passing of days.

H. Arnett
2/17/12

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Truck Drivin’ Man

Posted on February 13, 2012 by Doc Arnett

We were down to four bales of hay left in the barn. Since the horses are chewing their way through one to two bales a day, I decided it was time to get some more brome. So, I hitched my little trailer to my little truck and got my little self ready to go get some more hay.

After Wendell and his assistant helped me load up the last time, it was obvious that the truck tires were a bit low on air. Actually, they had less than half the recommended PSI. Wendell happened to have an air tank with enough left in it to bring me up to safety. So, having learned from that, I checked the air pressure in the truck tires before I left. Still good.

So, an hour-and-a-half later, with a good load of hay on the truck and one on the trailer, I headed back home from the hay barn, which is thirty-four miles away.

Not quite halfway home, the trailer began slewing ever so slightly back and forth. I slowed down to fifty. Another mile and I had to slow down to forty-five. Something was up, definitely.

Fortunately, I had already slowed down a bit more when I saw the trailer start pitching sharply from one side to the other. Braking slightly and easing toward the shoulder, I looked into my right rear-view mirror just in time to see that little puff of blue smoke that tells you your weekend is going to include the opportunity to replace a trailer tire.

By the time I’d come to a safe stop, with both loads of hay still intact, I’d reached a conclusion. When I’d had my little air gauge out, a couple of hours earlier, I should have checked the tire pressure on the trailer tires, too.

It’s not terribly uncommon that the small part of our lives that we fail to examine is the part that blows up on us.

H. Arnett
2/13/12

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The Witness of a Greater Light

Posted on February 10, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I love the look of a winter moon,
barely past full,
just that slight slump of the middle
suggesting it is only slightly less
than the night before.

I love the way it shines through
the bare branches of the locust tree,
giving the least luster
to the rounded edge of smooth limbs
in the dim glow before morning.

I love the way the grass,
bleached by months of cold,
seems turned to snow
in this bright night
caught between darkness and light.

Yes, I love these sights.

But it is not such nights,
not the light of the moon,
or of the sun,
nor heat nor frost,
that gives me hope,

but rather
the promises
of him who made the moon and stars,
the sun and the galaxies beyond,
and even the grass that passes from season to season.

It is him who has made this day,
and not the day itself,
gives me reason to rejoice,
to believe,
to hope.

H. Arnett
2/10/12

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The Adopted

Posted on February 9, 2012 by Doc Arnett

The tiny kitten I found in the ditch beside a gravel road on the first Sunday of June last year is no longer a kitten. Ginger is now full-grown. Well, at least physically. The orange tabby weighs nearly twenty pounds. She’s an indoor/outdoor cat who loves spending time down at the barn but often wants to come inside to use the litter box. Thirty-eight tons of sand in the round pen and she wants to come inside to relieve herself!

I think she knows that cat litter by the box is much more expensive than sand by the truckload. Of course, I believe that all domesticated animals conspire to maximize the expenses of their owners, even going to the point of deliberately contracting various diseases for the primary, even sole purpose of making us spend money on them.

I’m convinced they have bragging sessions. In fact, that’s probably the sole reason they traverse to distant yards and corners of pastures, simply to brag about how much money we have to spend on them.

The cat, of course, starts the contest. “Oh, my master had to take me to the vet; I cost him over seventy-five dollars.”

“Hah, that’s nothing!” snorts the horse. “I’m too big to take to the vet. The vet has to come to me.” Then with an assertive tossing of the head, “That’s at least another hundred bucks, just for the travel. Plus the meds.”

Well, enough of the Wall Street syndrome. Back to the cat.

I thought that in her appreciation for my rescue, she would be a devoted lap friend. I thought she would surely delight in snuggling up with her rescuer. It hasn’t quite turned out that way.

Her usual response to any attempt at petting is to bite my hand. Unless, of course, she already snagged me with a quick swipe of her paw as I was reaching toward her. I don’t even try to pick her up unless I’m wearing welding gloves, a face shield and Kevlar. She clearly does not understand the obligations of the redeemed.

In that regard, she’s not as different from me as I would like to believe. Smitten with honesty, I suppose I would have to admit there’s been a time or two when I have arched my back and hissed at God.

And yet, he still loves me, still waits for his grace to have its full work within me.

H. Arnett
2/9/12

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The Freezing Fog

Posted on February 6, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I can feel it freezing on my face,
tiny needles barely touching,
leaving a wondering
whether or not this is real
or some imagined sense
feigning the brain’s sending of signals
rather than receiving.

The steel chain links on the round pen gate
feel real enough.
The cottonwood lifts long limbs,
sketching dark shapes against the densing mist.

Looking higher,
I see a nearly full moon
bright enough to stop me
in mid-reach for the latch
and I hear myself gasp
at the unexpected wonder;
I thought the clouds were too thick and heavy,
to let the lesser light that rules over the night to shine through.

An hour later, walking yet again
from the shop to the house,
I look up to catch the glory of subdued image
and cannot find the moon.
Even the lights of the closest neighbors
are dimmed in the settling fog.

I know though,
that the moon has not moved.

I cherish the image of black branches
caught against the shrouded glow
and know how important it is
that I not allow change to mute good memory.

I learned, too, many moons ago,
that we must strive in the shadows of clouds
and never allow our seeing to vanquish vision.

H. Arnett
2/6/12

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Stormy Morning

Posted on February 3, 2012 by Doc Arnett

Something in the sound of strong wind
and thunder
could make a Kansas man wonder
what happened to the calendar;
this is not the stuff of February,
not here on the cusp of the plains
and the Dakotas so close.

The two inches of rain
they say is on its way here
is not the sort of storm
we normally expect
the day after Groundhog Day.

But, we know,
if we endure the temporary
of something other than expectation,
life has its way of turning back
to the ways that need less explanation.

And in those other situations,
like tornadoes and cancer,
we sometimes learn that our strength
is greater than we thought

and comes closer to what we believed.

H. Arnett
2/3/12

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