Reflections by Doc Arnett

We ought to hold—

in hearts so gentle

the slightest ripple of pain

in others

can move us,

with eyes so open

to the needs

of others

that the slightest

pang of hunger

sends us with food,

with ears so eager

to listen

that even a sigh

on a busy day

catches our attention,

with hands so supple

in doing good

that they move

almost without thought

to wipe away a tear,

to rub a sob-racked shoulder,

to help lift the soul-bending burden—

a love so tough and stubborn

that it could even embrace

someone just like us,

and not let go

though the whole world

try to turn us.

H. Arnett

5/12/11

In the slight shadows

of a rain cloud morning,

I step out underneath the awning

of the flat porch roof.

Only patches of darkened concrete

suggest memory of light rain

that came in the night

in the brief stirring of wind in the branches

of the maple outside

the open window of the bedroom.

I turn a bucket upside down,

cover its wet bottom

with an old T-shirt

and begin my makeshift breakfast:

a glass of tea, crackers and cheese.

I sit, shirtless,

looking out across the horses

grazing in the pasture,

the tree line leading to the road

and the creek beyond that.

In the intense green

of such a morning,

I see the dim whites of locusts

in blossom on the side of the bluff.

This sudden pouring of warm weather

as we have gone from frost to ninety-three

in one week

will trigger blooms and storms

and sudden growth

from what is not ruined.

H. Arnett

5/11/11

Last week, I happened to see a news clip of an Army Corp of Engineers representative being interviewed regarding the flooding. He described the intended plan to blast away a long section of levee near the convergence of the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers. At the cost of destroyed homes, property and farmland to one hundred-and-fifty Missouri farming families, the little town of Cairo, Illinois would be spared from more severe flooding.

I’m not always sure the “greater good” is what it claims to be. Sometimes, it seems, that claim has justified taking away the homes of the lesser poor to make transportation more convenient for indifferent others. In this particular case, I don’t know how much property damage was prevented for the twenty-four hundred or so residents of the small river town. I do know what I saw happen when the Missouri River flooded in ’93.

Thousands upon thousands of acres were ruined when the levees gave way near Columbia. Soybean and cornfields were turned into wasteland when the piles of sand and debris covered the bottoms. Today, wild brush is growing where farmers lacked the means of reclaiming the once-fertile land. So, having seen that and having seen families driven from ancestral homes and farms in Kentucky’s Land between the Lakes to make way for public recreation has made me a bit cynical about the greater good.

More than that, though, it was the Corps spokesman’s particular language that really caught me. Speaking of the farm families, he said, “Their sacrifice will really help spare these other families.”

I’m sure he meant “the sacrifice they are making.” But what is taken away from people who have no choice is not a sacrifice they are making; they are the sacrifice. It will be interesting to see if several hundred of those folks in Cairo volunteer to spend a few weeks helping reclaim the farmland that spared their belongings.

Just as it’s always interesting to see what sort of real gratitude we show for the sacrifice that saved us.

H. Arnett

5/9/11

I know that there has long been a tension between traditionalists and non-traditionalists, between those who welcome change and those who cling to how things have “always been done.” I see it in churches and schools, in families and city councils, and in most every election. We see it played out in the streets of the Middle East and in the small town cafes of the Midwest.

It is not always an easy thing for one group to perceive the potential good of some projected idea, or for the other group to understand how the first group could fail to see the benefit. Not even the Son of God was able to persuade his opponents to see the Light.

It is an easy thing to believe that those who fail to receive gladly the benefit of our wisdom are simply too stubborn or too stupid to agree with us. An easy thing to believe that were they reasonable and open-minded, there would be no argument between us. In fact, it is so easy that they often have remarkably similar thoughts about us!

Even when granting that humans often share the trait of being resistant to notions that did not hatch in their own minds, we ought to be careful, nonetheless. We ought to be open to the possibility that is fear or pride rather than wisdom that is guiding us, whether we are proposing change or fighting against it. God’s own people have often resisted the leading of his Spirit and that has always been to their detriment.

Sometimes, they have resisted by turning away from the traditions that derived squarely from his commandments. Sometimes, they have resisted by their devotion to traditions that are entirely of the making of humans. When we are most dangerous, it seems, is when we believe the latter to be the former. Indeed, it was that rather particularly which led to the execution of the Christ.

It is the following of the Spirit that is key to our vitality, whether departing from one thing or returning to another.

H. Arnett

5/5/11

Into this world

of rage and fury,

of broken hearts and spirits,

of deep angers and raw loneliness,

he came,

Speaking

mercy and grace,

faith and forgiveness,

courage and compassion,

of rain sent upon the just

and the unjust.

He made a scourge

of twisted braids,

wrecked the tables

of the thieves whose den

defiled the courts of God,

who preyed upon the praying.

He called

the children,

walked among lepers,

dined with whores and traitors,

smiled at adulteresses

and told them all

to quit sinning.

Mercy and righteousness

joined together

in such an un-political way,

which lesson

both Democrats and Republicans

need to learn today.

Along with the rest of us.

H. Arnett

5/4/11

A stand of rough trees lines the eastern edge of the property, bordering the pasture. Mostly elm, they still carry some dead limbs, broken by the ice storm from three years ago. A bucket lift and a half-day with a chain saw would clear that pretty well but that particular opportunity doesn’t seem to be high on the priority list at present. Instead, I attend to morning chores and hope I remember later today to get the supply line connectors so I can get the new kitchen sink put into service.

Tango, eager for sweet feed, comes and stands expectantly by the fence as I flip the charger to the “off” position. I walk across the drive toward the round pen and shed to bring the new gelding over. During his transition from stable to pasture and from hay to green grass, we keep Shiloh fastened up at night. He presses his nose against the gate as I bring out his halter. Eager for food and fellowship, he tries to move me along a bit faster.

The pair touch noses while I fasten the top strand of electric wire back in place. As soon as I take off his halter, Shiloh pivots and bolts away. Tango turns toward him and they both romp for a bit. Tango swings his backquarters toward Shiloh, bucks and delivers a double kick but Shiloh is twenty feet away and ready to play.

This pair of Arabians could pass for brothers, if not twins. Tango is a darker bay and barely taller, of finer features. Shiloh’s color has a reddish tint. They each have a narrow blaze that runs the length of their face and one white foot. Rear left on both. Tango’s white runs a few inches higher, though.

I go back to the shed to get their feed and think of my own needs: more humility, more faith, more devotion. To hunger for righteousness as this pair loves grazing and ground feed. To stand in eager anticipation of each lesson, each filling, each teaching. To become so like Jesus that others see such resemblance that the kinship is undeniable.

The geldings quiver as I bring buckets to the fence, slip each his own feeding underneath the lowest strand and set them far enough apart that they are out of kicking distance, just in case some dispute or jealousy arises.

I head then toward the house, boots crunching the frost-crusted clover. I take one more look back toward the horses, and see early sun filtering through the trees, casting broken shadows on grass that needs more growing.

H. Arnett

5/3/11

Remodeling by stages has its disadvantages. The dust and debris of tearing out the old can cover the new with a layer that one’s wife may not find particularly amusing or refreshing. In fact, it can test the relationship. So, I fastened up a sheet of heavy plastic to close in the area where I was tearing out the old sink, cabinets and wall.

I worked through the layers of paper and plaster, catching as much as I could before it fell to the floor. Even with the plastic stapled along one wall and the ceiling, there’s always some dust that somehow seeps around, under, over or through on its way to Grandmother’s house. Or her brand new gas stove.

There were no real surprises across the upper part of the wall. The plaster came off in predictable chunks and the lath strips came off without much ado. As expected, there was no insulation in the wall. At least, not until I’d stripped down to the level of the sink. At that point, I found the spaces between the studs filled with what looked like the stuff I’d seen mixed in with potting soil during the previous century. “Perlite,” I think it was called.

Imagine light, spongy granules a bit larger than B-B’s, black and gray and silver. Thousands upon thousands of granules, spilling out of the wall with each strip of lath removed. A bucketful of them wouldn’t weight a pound. Whether or not Perlite was ever marketed as insulation or not, I don’t yet know. Maybe the previous carpenter had an uncle who operated a florist shop and gave him a couple of bags of “free insulation.” Maybe some frustrated housewife got fed up with stuff freezing under the sink and decided to pour in a bunch of the stuff and see what happened.

There was one more bit of evidence to be uncovered at the bottom of a single space that leads me to believe someone was both desperate and creative. The last ten inches of insulation in that space, down below the three feet of Perlite, was something I’ve never seen used for insulation in a wall. Styrofoam peanuts. Yep, those little white puffs that plagued many a post office, packing room and parents of toddlers. Hundreds of ‘em.

I wonder how often God looks down at us and wonders, “What will they think of next?”

H. Arnett

4/29/11