A Very Convenient Truth

Posted on June 1, 2011 by Doc Arnett
I pretty much knew as soon as I walked up to the sabino gelding that he would be going home with us. It wasn’t that he indeed looked very much like the pictures Shelley had posted on Craigslist but that certainly didn’t hurt. As I reached to pet his head, he didn’t jerk away. He just stood there, letting me rub the side of his face, under his chin, between his ears. I stood beside him, and patted the opposite side of his neck as I pressed my face lightly against the side of his muzzle. He just stood there, calm and gentle.
I couldn’t help thinking of that line from Jerry Maguire: “You had me at hello.”
Of course, Randa and I still went ahead and rode him and went back three days later to bring the Tennessee Walker/Missouri Foxhound cross home with us. On the way home, I thought I might name him “Moses” because he seemed so meek. But I figured everyone else would think, “That’s a dumb name for a horse,” so I kept it to myself.
With his distinctive gray and white coloring and gorgeous long mane, we tried to think of names that matched his looks: Shadow, Cloud, Stardust (yeah, I know…), Silver, Moonglow, Puzzle, Jigsaw and on and on. One or two of them sounded like they’d work until I stood out by the corral and actually tried them out on him.
After a week with no success, Randa finally had an inspiration. “Why don’t we quit trying to name him after his looks and name him after his personality?” She asked or suggested. Well, actually, it was both, a suggestion in the form of a question, which seems more polite. “He’s so gentle and meek, why don’t you call him ‘Moses?’”
Now friends, I’m not going to suggest that God helped us name our horse but I will tell you that when Randa said that, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. Whether there was some supernatural sharing or not, I’ll leave alone.
But I will say that something like that ain’t entirely common, either. And that right there is reason enough to be grateful for such.
H. Arnett
6/1/11
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Trouble Shooting

Posted on May 31, 2011 by Doc Arnett

I’m a bit suspicious that our society spends too much time complaining and too little time praying. We treat inconveniences as if they were afflictions and afflictions as if they were torture. Take me and the weather, for example.

I prefer a slow change of seasons, a gentle turning from one to the other and time to take the turning by stages. I like the subtle shifting from heavy dew and foggy mornings to that first forming of frost, light in the low spots across the fields and then, later, that solid coating that turns everything white. I love it when spring moves from one bloom to another and another, each taking its turn and moving bit by bit into that burning of summer.

That’s how I like it, but that’s not how it is this year.

We jumped from frost to ninety and back to freeze back in April. And then, we stayed closer to freeze than ninety for several weeks. It’s been less than two weeks since our last frost and now we’ve leap-frogged from that into the nineties again.

I’m sure any conspiracy theorist worth his talk could surely find some sort of secret government experiment stolen by the utility companies and used to manipulate the weather in order to maximize their profits. There are people like that, I know, and they always seem to have enough of an audience that they can get at least one talk show going.

I guess there’s nothing quite like a little shared anger and frustration to draw people together. Whether it’s the weather or Washington or the cost of cereal, it seems like there’s no shortage of reasons to get all bent out of shape anymore. But if it’s being mad about something that brings some folks together, what good is that unless they do something good about it?

Like me, going from griping about how cold it is in May to being grouchy because I woke up sweating the morning after Memorial Day. Maybe it would be more productive if I would just put on a short sleeve shirt and turn on a fan.

I might even give the repairman a call and get the AC fixed!

H. Arnett

5/31/11

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Later than Expected

Posted on May 27, 2011 by Doc Arnett

Well, I’d have to say the man sounded like he knew where he lived and the best way for me to get there from where I was. Sounded like he knew. As it turned out, I’m a bit less convinced of that now than I was yesterday evening.

That’s when Randa and I drove over to Oak Grove, Missouri, to pick up our new horse. This one is so calm, laid-back and well trained that even an idiot should be able to ride him without getting hurt. And he looks cool, too. In addition to buying my first horse at the tender age of not-quite-sixty (me, not the horse), I also wanted to pick up a small disk to use for working ground around the place here.

I’d searched Craigslist and found lots of large disks that were apparently made for farmers who prefer to till their three thousand acres in a single afternoon. I preferred one that would fit inside something smaller than an airport hanger and could be pulled by something with less than eight thousand horsepower. I found a disk that was in good shape and seemed small enough that a few young children should be able to pull it around. Provided, of course, they were well fed and the harness fit properly.

So, I called the fellow, asked the price, thought it was reasonable and told him I’d take it. And, since Excelsior Springs was only fifteen miles or so from where we were going to get the horse, I thought it’d be mighty handy to get both in one trip.

I did see the wisdom of not loading the horse and the disk both into the trailer. If you’ve ever seen a disk, you will agree with me that having a few hundred pounds of metal frame with a couple dozen sharp metal blades suddenly go flying into the back of a horse might impede his gait a bit. But, I was pretty sure the four-foot wide disk would easily fit into the back of the pickup truck we’d borrowed to pull the trailer.

It did. After we drove eighty miles out of our way to get to a place that was not more than twenty miles away from where we were at the time I called Man Who Owns Disk to get directions. Three minutes with a road map would have saved us nearly an hour of driving.

That is why we should spend more time reading our Bibles than listening to some guy who thinks he’s figured out when the world is going to end. Of course, as long as you eventually get to the right destination, it’s all good, I reckon. But there are some trips where it really is better to not have to take the long way around.

H. Arnett

5/27/11

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Driving Back from Oak Grove

Posted on May 26, 2011 by Doc Arnett

Coming in from the east,

we see the lightning around Kansas City,

large, diffused reflections

rippling the dark curves of clouds

and etching the fringe of night.

The rain and traffic lighten a bit

as we pass the Sports Complex

and turn north onto 435.

The lightning gains some definition,

an occasional glimpse of a spike

in the dense dark of the storm

to the west side of the city.

We watch it all the way to Saint Joe,

catch the warning on the radio

of severe storms with winds and hail

trailing from somewhere out in Kansas

to somewhere just a few miles from here.

Just south of the city

where the Pony Express began

and Jesse James ended,

we exit onto 229,

and move beyond the edge of the storm:

Pupil-shrinking stabs of lightning

fire again and again

and thunder rocks the car.

We drive through slabs of rain

traced out by sheets of wind

that send hammerings again and again,

drops of rain that sound like

they’re coming right through the roof.

Then, without transition,

the pounding stops

and the sky lightens.

We drive on,

close to home

and grateful.

H. Arnett

5/26/11

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Cedar Blossoms

Posted on May 24, 2011 by Doc Arnett

It’s not something you’d have much reason to notice, really. Nothing as obvious as the white that covers locust trees or the exotic plush of magnolias. In fact, it’s so subtle that you could walk right past a cedar tree and never take a second look.

But the cedars are blooming, kind of a pulpy mass that looks more like something you’d see in the ocean than on an evergreen in the corner of Kansas. If you imagined three or four very small starfish kind of melted together in the center with soft, rusty orange spikes radiating outward, you’d have a general idea. Not the sort of thing that makes people ooh and ahh, really.
But it does provide the basis for forming the seed that keeps the species going and that’s pretty much the point, more than the appearance. Not every good work is as pretty as pie delivered to the front door, welcoming the family that just moved in from Minnesota. Not all of charity is quite as photogenic as the crippled child with the beaming smile, grateful for the lifting hands.
Sometimes, it’s helping fix a broken sewer line or pulling a bleeding drunk from an overturned car. Sometimes, it’s picking up some sweat-drenched hitchhiker or taking a bag of groceries to a dingy trailer with a yard full of dog dung and dandelions and stepping up onto a plank porch tilted in four different directions.
But whatever it is that is done in sharing the love of Christ sows the seed of the Kingdom and lifts up its fragrance to heaven. I suspect that a Savior born in a stable quite understands the organic nature of humble love.
H. Arnett
5/24/11
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Miscarriage

Posted on May 23, 2011 by Doc Arnett

When an old person dies,

the family flies in from hours away.

They gather for a few days

cry together

share stories and tears

and that healing laughter

that eases us through such times.

When a parent dies,

the children join together,

tethered to memories and meanings,

each one gleaning from both pain and pleasure,

all taking measure

of what is to be kept in the heart

and what is to be given to the earth.

When a child dies,

even neighbors come

to show their shock,

to help bear the grief

of things which are not

as they should be:

ache-racked shoulders

heave with the weight,

numb to the touch

of all but closest friends.

But how, then,

do we ease the pain of the loss

of the un-named child?

Of the unborn?

When those barely formed in the womb

are taken before others even know they live,

how then do we give our grief ?

To the mother

who heard the heart beat

but never felt the kick beneath her ribs?

To the father with such great plans

having never felt the belly swollen

beneath his hands?

There is no gathering of sorrow

on the morrow of the monitor’s

cold news,

only a strangely solitary sharing

perhaps with one parent or the other,

maybe a sibling or two

or of that one who is closer than a brother

or a sister.

In the midst of this most private loss,

of this un-shared mourning

comes an awareness that in heaven

every child has a name

in a place where all are held close

and every tear will be wiped away.

Even these.

H. Arnett

5/23/11

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Adjustment

Posted on May 20, 2011 by Doc Arnett

I went to bad sad last night. Sad but grateful.

We sold one of our Arabian geldings earlier this week and the new owner came yesterday afternoon with a friend, a truck and a trailer and got him. As they headed out, Tango and Shiloh called back and forth to each other. Tango from the trailer and Shiloh from the paddock. We could hear Tango still whinnying as the truck and trailer disappeared around the curve a quarter-mile away. Shiloh spun away from the fence and raced across the pen, punctuating his despair with a buck and kick. He made a couple of runs around the perimeter, then calmed down and came up to the shed. Randa fed him a handful of sweet feed and rubbed his neck a little. Then, he trotted back over to the southeast corner of the lot and stood there, ears perked forward, looking over the fence in the direction the trailer had gone.

I didn’t run or kick or yell but I do miss Tango. He was the first horse I ever spent any significant time with even though I’d been around a couple others many years ago.

Dad bought a big pinto pony named Sam when I was twelve or so. He bucked me off the first time I rode on him. I avoided him for a while after that but later started going out to the pasture alone with a halter and some sugar cubes. He’d let me ride him bareback around the field. Two or three weeks after I’d started doing that I came from school one day, changed clothes and headed to the field. Sam was gone.

“Where’s Sam?” I asked Dad. “I sold him.” I couldn’t believe it.

“You sold him?”

“You kids weren’t riding him or anything, so I sold him,” Dad replied, more firmly than necessary.

“I’ve ridden him every day for the last two weeks,” I responded, eyes burning and throat tightening.

“Well, I didn’t know that.”

That was the end of the discussion and the end of my horse experience until six years later when my sister-in-law finally persuaded me to get on her horse. He took off running through the woods while I hung on, hunkered down beneath the branches and kept jerking on the reins until he finally turned out of the trees. As soon as we cleared the last limb, I jumped off and swore off of riding. Well, at least I swore.

Tango didn’t run me under any branches or buck me off in the pen or pasture. He just wasn’t trained enough to make riding him a relaxing or pleasurable activity. Even though she is an excellent rider, Randa found him frustrating and aggravating.

We debated for months about what to do with him, whether to hire a trainer or just sell him. In the end, selling him won out over putting more and more money into a horse that would still be neurotic, even after the training. I know we made the right decision but sometimes, even the right decision can leave us with a bit of sadness. We wanted a horse that would be safe for me and the grandkids. But man, oh, man, Tango was a beautiful horse. The pictures we posted on Craigslist and EquineNow look like something from a calendar.

But a few bad habits can overcome infatuation and a fully trained horse with slightly less refined features is much preferred here over an eight-hundred-pound self-propelled lawn ornament. Which is why Shiloh is still in the pasture this morning.

And I am remembering that God prefers obedience over sacrifice.

H. Arnett

5/20/11

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Extending the Pasture

Posted on May 18, 2011 by Doc Arnett

We work along the eastern edge, cutting back the branches and bushes that have pushed out into the field. With one horse and good rains, this small pasture would be large enough. But in the strange dry and chill of this spring, this is not enough for two horses.

And so, we pulled up the posts on this side, Randa wrapping the chain at least twice around the T-formed steel, then me raising the lift on the tractor. The posts come out easily with that hydraulic strength. She unfastens the chain and we move on to the next one until the whole line is lying on the sod.
Then, we turned to the trimming, ending up with four packed loads of branches in the bed of the truck. Over at the burn pile, we drag them off, swing them over into a twisted, jumbled tangle of leaves and limbs.
As the dusk shifts toward darkness, we finish the last load, then go over to the stable and feed the geldings. While they eat the ground feed, I put another bale of brome into the lot, break it open and kick a few chunks to spread it out a bit.
I had hoped to finish the fence but not in the dark. We waited a couple hours too late to start and there was quite a bit more brush than I had thought. There often is when we finally get around to the work of untangling our lives.
But it is worth it.
H. Arnett
5/18/11
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Heavy Dew

Posted on May 17, 2011 by Doc Arnett

Such cool mornings

bring a dense forming of dew:

fescue so wet it’ll soak

through your jeans

in just a few steps

and your shoes

won’t dry out till noon.

So long ago

it seems like another life

I walked through the alfalfa field

on the first morning

after school was out:

my dog and me

headed toward the woods

just because we could.

It took something more

than the chill of drenched clothing

to chase off that feeling of freedom.

The dog stopped a few feet

into the woods and shook,

swooping arcs of spray

caught in shafts of sunlight

coming through oak and ash,

shining like joy

in being so far from the barn

that my father’s voice

could not reach there

to tell me there was some new chore.

I stood

in the half-shadows,

grinning at the collie,

glad in our aloneness

as if I had just risen up from the River Jordan

and stood pure and holy

in Canaan’s fair and lofty land—

touched by God’s own hand

delivered.

H. Arnett

5/17/11

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Of Altars and Incense

Posted on May 16, 2011 by Doc Arnett

If you can find a stand of locust trees on a day when the breeze is light, or sometimes a single tree in the evening just between dusk and darkness, there is a certain scent, a soft perfume, sweet and delicate as the memory of something you can’t quite describe but know it’s there. A single blossom carries such a light notion of the smell that you can’t really tell for sure whether it is actual aroma or just the suggestion, a slight trace that made you think of something good and pleasant, something from long ago that you couldn’t forget but can barely remember.

Maybe other things come to us like that as well, something so good and pleasant we had to tell it to someone cherished, some best friend, someone that we could depend on to appreciate the value of it, even though we knew we couldn’t quite express it in the way it happened. Something like the moving of the Spirit in an old-fashioned Quaker service of silence. Not a radical outpouring like Pentecost but a sweet, still voice speaking to the hearts of believers. A gentle convicting of sin, of the need to change how time is spent or of some possession that should be given up for the good of others in need. Maybe it came as a gathering of prayer around a stranger who felt some mysterious pull to stop that morning on his way to somewhere else. They all gathered around him, close hands touching him and others touching the shoulder of the ones in front of them, a gathering of gentle faith and hope and love.
And though no single person in the church could quite explain it to someone who wasn’t there, they all knew it; even the un-dedicated could not argue but that something warm and wonderful had brought its witness into their midst. It was not the service they had planned, not the service they had expected but it was exactly the service they had needed.
And so they left slowly, lingering in groups along the pews, at the back of the sanctuary, in the hallway. And as they walked out into the strange coolness of a Lord’s Day morning in the middle of May, they could see the hills covered with locusts blooming.
A prophecy of summer’s coming and none of them the same as when they had walked in an hour earlier.
H. Arnett
5/16/11
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