Prognosis

Posted on January 6, 2012 by Doc Arnett

A dear friend of mine recently discovered a mass in a place where masses are not supposed to be. Biopsies confirmed the presence of sarcoma.

The initial reassurance that “this kind almost never spreads” was shot to pieces by the doctor’s subsequent reversal, “We’ve got to check and see whether or not this has already metastasized.” At that point, the shock of being diagnosed with cancer was greatly exacerbated by the wondering and the waiting for the subsequent tests and then, waiting and wondering even longer regarding the results. As anyone who has ever been there knows far more acutely than I know, that is not an easy time.

You try to busy yourself, hoping that busy hands will keep your mind from obsessing with the what-ifs and all of that. You go from intense periods of doing to moments of realizing you are standing still, staring off into the distance and having no idea how long you’ve been standing there, staring. You try to convince yourself of the best and yet fear the worst. And, hate the waiting, trying to belief that knowing the bad would be better than the dreading.

In this case, the waiting ended yesterday with the good news that there was no indication from PET or CT scans that there was any cancer anywhere other than in the mass that precipitated the initial attention.

There is a radical relief in such news that is not without irony. Kicked in the gut by the news of cancer yet rejoicing in the discovery that it has not spread, that the prognosis is so much better than it could have been. I am reminded, somehow, even though the parallel is rather vague, of the effect of discovering our own guilt of sin but then learning that our redemption has been fully provided and freely offered.

I believe that in both cases, our faith in the power of the cure, overwhelms our fear of the surgery.

H. Arnett
1/4/12

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Horse Sense

Posted on January 6, 2012 by Doc Arnett

I have watched the movie, Secretariat, or at least major portions of it, over half-a-dozen times in the last few months. I like the strong story line, appreciate the acting and enjoy the dialogue. The buildup to the final segment of the Triple Crown, the race at Belmont, induces a palpable excitement and tension. The opening half of the race, in which the rival horse, Sham, seems to have drawn “Big Red” into a pace he cannot possibly sustain, brings the tension to a dramatic high.

Then, in impossible fashion, Secretariat goes from fast to super-fast and Sham fades like memory. By the time the great horse approaches the final turn, he has opened up an insurmountable lead.

Then, the film goes into slow motion as the camera focuses on the rail where the fourth turn straightens into the home stretch. The yelling of the crowd is muted; time stops. Then, we hear the owner’s voice, citing once again Job’s quotation of the Almighty’s description of the horse, “He does not fear the sword…” In the midst of those lines, comes the sound of thundering hooves and Secretariat surges into view. Even though no other horse is anywhere near him, he pounds forward, straining and stretching, a graceful fury of muscle, bone and tendon in unparalleled power and coordination. He wins the race by an incomprehensible margin of thirty-one lengths.

No matter how many times I’ve seen it, that scene still brings a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes. And makes me ponder, what good might I do if I put such effort into reaching toward the heavenly prize, toward answering the upward call?

H. Arnett
1/2/12

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Winter Pasture

Posted on December 23, 2011 by Doc Arnett

There is not a trace of green
to be seen in the one acre paddock to the north,
yet the horses still find something to chew on,
pawing away the thin cover of ice and snow
to get to the blades of brome
browned by the cold.

They move from one spot to another,
bite and snatch, nimble lips sorting
what is wanted from what is not.
They lift their heads and look around them,
stems sprouting from their mouths,
jutting out into the steam of their breath.

The wind ripples their manes
and bends the ends of their tails
toward the south,
long hairs tangled with the remnants
of the rain that came
just before the freezing,
mud matted to their shoulders.

This is not the time of green pastures
and shining coats,
yet there is something of beauty
in the way they stand together,
heads lifted above the fence,
ears tilted toward what I cannot see.

There is something about unity
that pleases even the heart of God.

H. Arnett
12/23/11

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The Gift

Posted on December 23, 2011 by Doc Arnett

I’ve never been much of a gift giver. Not that I don’t try, it’s just that I’m pretty lousy at it. Some of that is due to being so oblivious, err, I mean, being so focused on whatever it is I’m doing whenever I’m failing to be keenly observant about someone else’s likes and dislikes. Randa, on the other hand, can walk into someone else’s office, home or room and in three minutes, tell you what colors they like, what sort of hobbies they have, what their sibling birth order is and how they voted in the last three elections. Basically, I can tell you whether or not they were in their office, home or room. If I really concentrate.

Occasionally, though, I’ll get lucky. I’ll actually give someone something he or she doesn’t want to immediately re-gift, re-cycle or indulge his or her pyromanic tendencies. Like my thirty-year-old’s birthday gift.

Admittedly, it was a couple of months late but that wasn’t the real issue. The real issue is that Ben, along with an increasing number of his siblings, is an avid deer hunter. I don’t know how hard it is to locate avid deer but he seems to manage, especially with the coaching of his mentor and brother, Daniel. I decided to given each of them a small, portable hunting blind. When Ben opened his, he was, well, I’d have to say “ecstatic” would not be an overstatement.

“Papa! This is awesome! I love this. This is so cool! I’ve been wanting one of these for three years.” He held the box as if it contained gold, diamonds or some other treasure. I actually thought I saw his eyes glistening. He grabbed me in a big hug and said again, “Thank you, Papa. I really, really like this.”

I thought about that all the way on my five-hundred-mile trip back home from Murray, Kentucky. I thought about the excitement on his face, the delight in his eyes and the gratitude of his hug.

I think I may have gained a gnat’s notion of a camel of how much it pleases our Father to see his children embrace with delight and excitement the salvation that he has delivered to them through his Only Begotten Son.

H. Arnett
12/22/11

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A Little Off-Target

Posted on December 23, 2011 by Doc Arnett

We’re about three inches short of the predicted accumulation but I haven’t heard too many complaints about it. Part of that is due to the fact that I haven’t heard from many people and the other part is that nostalgia is better than experience when it comes to dealing with snow.

It’s not that I’m lacking for good memories about snow. I remember March of 1960 when we got about twelve inches of the white stuff in southern Kentucky. As we made our way to church that Sunday morning in the Chevy station wagon, Dad plowed through several drifts that were close to two feet deep. He’d make a run and stop as soon as the car started to stall in the powder. Then, he’d back up a hundred feet or so and take another run. It took us about twenty minutes to go two miles but we made it through and got to church on time. Not bad, considering church was about fifty miles away. Of course, once we made it across the six miles of gravel to where the pavement had been plowed, our rate of progress increased considerably.

In the aftermath of that same storm, Paul and I built an igloo in the yard. We lacked the architectural savvy of the Esquimeaux but made up for it with determination, ingenuity and a few planks that Dad didn’t miss right away.

Another thing that we didn’t miss was any milkings or feedings during and after the storm. Running a dairy farm doesn’t offer a lot of days off and that’s a fact that nostalgia can’t cut through. I’ve missed playing in the hayloft and a few other things but the day you hear me talking about “the good ole days back on the farm” is the day that you can be sure that my mind is whacked.

We ought to be able to count our blessings and enjoy old memories without lying to ourselves or anyone else. The fact is there’s never been an easy time to live. There’s never been any lack of evil in this world since Eve plucked the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. God’s grace continues to sprout and flourish wherever it is embraced.

Even in the storms.

H. Arnett
12/21/11

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Atonement

Posted on December 23, 2011 by Doc Arnett

The early dawn sky to the west is a pale blue, tinged with the sort of soft pink that only shows in this time of night’s fading into day, the time between dark and sun. These gentle strokes of pastel suggest a tenderness that offers a soothing to the soul.

In this quietness, the horses stand together in the round pen beside the white stable, heads hung over the top rail, staring toward the house. There seems to be a reproving look in their expression, an accusation of tardiness in my attending to morning chores. Maybe it’s my slight guilt that leads to that interpretation but at any rate, I slip on my boots, pick up the feed bucket and head toward the shed. Action is often the best balm for idleness.

Jack, the black Tennessee Walker, makes a low-pitched throaty noise and moves toward the stable. I don’t know if the sound he is making is anticipation or reprimand but the fact that he is heading toward his feed bucket signifies expectation, at least. Maybe he was just clearing his throat.

I have seen with horses, at least, that little else so moves one toward pardon as a bucketful of fresh feed. How could they reject such tangible repentance?

H. Arnett
12/19/11

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Something Beyond the Cold

Posted on December 9, 2011 by Doc Arnett

As I step out of the house, the moon holds bright, shining through thin clouds. Their shapes catch the light, hold it high and translucent. A wide drift of cells, each thin in the middle with a heavier rim, stretches a bright veil of uniform pattern across the sky.

Such light as this seems to come only in the winter here when the air is so clear you can see your breath. Shadows stretch across the ground, long limbs in dark figure stark against the frost. I listen to the sound of my boots against the crust of grass and the thin frozen skin of the earth.

Hearing my steps, the horses step out from the edge of the barn, move toward me and the feed they are sure I bring. I pause beside the round pen as they step over to me. I reach through the slats, scratch Jack lightly at the back of his jaws and he stands still for a moment, his black coat thick and long for the winter.

The ground of the round pen is covered with sand, better traction above the hard packed clay, meant to be safer for rider and ridden. Now, though, it is a different matter. Wet from Saturday’s rain, Sunday’s sudden chill and four days below freezing have formed it into a mass. Each cast of horses’ feet is held hard and sharp, not at all pleasant for walking or falling.

Sometimes, the changes of life turn something once held for comfort into something that feels more like affliction. It is better, then, to hold close those things over which circumstance has no claim. Such things as faith, hope and love.

H. Arnett
12/8/11

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A Winter Prayer

Posted on December 9, 2011 by Doc Arnett

Be as fast as a dash to the car

in bitter cold

to forgive the wrongs

that you perceive done to you.

Be as slow as the passing of time

on a long, gray day

to take offense

at any sleight,

whether intended,

careless,

or only imagined.

Be as slow

as the thawing

of thick ice

in dark shade

to contemplate

retaliation.

Be as fast

as a sled on packed snow

to show compassion,

mercy,

grace.

In all that you face,

may you honor

the Presence

that gives you life.

And may you crave peace

as much as huddled birds

seek shelter

beneath the low branches

shadowing the snow.

H. Arnett

12/09/11

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Sufficient Evidence

Posted on December 7, 2011 by Doc Arnett

After Jesus had spent a while showing them how it was done, he sent his apostles out to heal the sick and exorcise evil spirits. He told them not to carry anything in which to store money; he had no intention of them leaving rich or coming back richer. Boy Howdy, how things have changed in the realm of Christendom! The apostles, apparently, did as they were told, though I’m suspicious that ole Judas might have returned with a coin or two tucked away in his sleeve. Alms for the poor, of course…

At any rate, the apostles came back and reported to Jesus and he continued doing what he’d been doing: driving out demons, giving sight to the blind, making the lame walk, restoring speech and hearing to the mute and deaf and, every now and then, raising a dead person back to life. In other words, doing things that the Messiah would do. Oh, yes, and forgiving sin, something that the Pharisees found particularly annoying.

One day, he asked his disciples something to the effect of, “So, what are folks saying about me? Who do they say that I am?”

They answered with a short list: John the Baptist, Elijah or one of the other prophets from long ago. Speculation from the bewildered and amazed. People confronted with a power beyond their comprehension, knowing that such miracles as they were seeing were well beyond the usual tricks of magicians and sorcerers.

Turning from the question of public opinion, Jesus made it more personal and asked his disciples, “What about you? Who do you think I am?” Peter famously responded, “You are the Christ of God.” Made perfect sense to him after what he’d seen and heard.

What strikes me as rather interesting is that Peter didn’t reply, “Oh, Teacher, don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, but… well, they’re on to you. They know we’re just tricking them, making this stuff up. They see right through all this supposed healing and everything. They know we’ve planted our own people and they’re just pretending to be sick or afflicted. Dead, whatever.”

No, it was long, long after all the witnesses were dead that scoffers came up with one version or another of that story. Long after all the people who died for their own version of the truth had been tortured and executed, and still refused to say, “Hey, we were just playing around; we made it all up.” Not even Jesus’ contemporary enemies dared say that it was all hoax and hokey-ness. Not even the ones who hated him so much they wanted him dead.

I am sure that one day, every soul will admit the true identity of the Carpenter. I just hope it’s in time to do them some good.

H. Arnett
12/7/11

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Short List

Posted on December 6, 2011 by Doc Arnett

Randa and I were sitting at the small dining table, playing cards with her daughter and son during the Thanksgiving holiday. Jay’s kids were upstairs playing video games when Christy’s oldest son walked by on his way to better entertainment. Randa stopped him with a quick hug around his waist, “What do you want for Christmas, Hunter?”

The thirteen-year-old replied quickly, “I already have an iPhone and we have a PlayStation so there’s really not anything else I need…” Here, his voice trailed off and Hunter stood there in thought.

I joined him, since there seemed to be plenty of room for both of us. “This is pretty neat,” I reflected silently, “Here’s a kid who obviously hasn’t been spending most of his waking hours thinking about all the stuff that he doesn’t have and doesn’t need but wants anyway.” As he stood there, looking down at the floor and scanning through his mental files, I thought, “Maybe there is hope for this generation.”

In a moment of quick conviction, I remembered the things that I would have wanted at that age, all the pages of the Sears and Montgomery Wards catalogs that were filled with pictures and prices of things that I would never have but would hear my classmates at school talking about after Christmas break. I remembered the old rusty rim of the basketball goal in our back yard. Its few tatters of what was once a net drooped down from one side of the goal. The split and weathered planks of the backboard seemed to lose another piece every time Paul or I made a hard bank shot and the post wobbled in a hard wind. If we’d had a new goal and backboard, we’d have thought we were princes of the kingdom.

I was pretty sure that Hunter’s lack of a quick list was a sign of appreciation and contentment, not an indication of spoiled affluence. That’s the funny thing about many of the affluent; they can always think of a few other things they’d really like to have.

Just as I was about to launch into some socio-economic, philosophical exposition, Hunter’s frown vanished and his eyes lit up. “Maybe a new basketball,” he suggested, “or a football.”

I’m sure of it; there is hope for this generation.

H. Arnett
12/6/11

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