Reflections by Doc Arnett

After dismissing my Careers in Sports and Fitness class at 1:20 yesterday afternoon, I asked, "Do any of you want to help me eat a pizza?" They looked at me, then one another, but none of them said anything. Darrius was blanketed with that look that people get when they want to either ask or answer a question but aren’t sure that they want anyone else to hear them.

"What is it?" I asked him.

"Well, you asked us if we wanted to help you eat a pizza. I’d love to help eat a pizza, but…" here he paused and looked around the room, "I don’t see any pizza."

I grinned, "No, there’s no pizza in the room, at least not so far as I know. If you want to help me eat a pizza, follow me over to Clark’s."

Clarks is a gas station-convenience store and Laundromat that sits on the opposite side of Main Street, facing the building in which our class meets. Bill Clark and his employees also cook pizzas and have seven or eight booths where people can sit, drink coffee and chat. Or… eat pizza.

My students are unusually helpful people; six of the seven decided they would, indeed, help me eat pizza. I choose a couple of booths and told my students to get themselves something to drink. "Be sure to show the cashier what you got so she can write it down on my ticket." They scattered like bees in a flower garden. Then, we sat down to wait for the cooking.

Even when the bread we break is the thin crust of a loaded pizza, it’s a good thing to break bread together. It is an ancient fellowship by which friends grow closer, strangers become friends, and some, without knowing it, have entertained angels.

I don’t believe there were any visible angels at the table, but it was a good time. Four of the kids sat at the adjoining booth while the two guys who drew the short straws sat with me. We all had time to visit in a different setting and get to know each other a little better. The kids seemed to really enjoy themselves, especially the ones who’d had to skip lunch so they could get to class!

So far as I know, none of them were skipping someone else’s class so they could eat.

I don’t know that I’ll alter anyone else’s life by taking time to buy pizza and sit and visit for a while with a half-dozen young adults.

But I do know that it broadens mine.

H. Arnett

2/23/11

There are those who go to church on a Sunday morning with an eager expectancy. They are quite confident that they will experience the presence of God, sense the leading of the Holy Spirit. They will exult in praise and as they lift up their worship, will find themselves lifted up. They will experience joy in their adoration, feel a filling of their spirit and leave with stronger faith, greater hope and increased love. And, if the sermon happens to be pretty good that day, well, that’s just icing on the cake.

There are others who go to church knowing that regardless of what lack there may be of spiritual communion, they will have done their duty. They will have been obedient to the teaching to "not forsake the assembling of yourselves together." It being the Lord’s Day, they will have gone to the Lord’s House and done their due diligence. It will not matter to them whether or not the sermon is dry, the singing uninspired and the prayers superficial. They will come and go with clear conscience and it is that which they seek.

There are others who go with little thought about praise or worship, perhaps even slightly indifferent to the notion of drawing close to God or of achieving a more faithful walk with the Lord. They are devoted to the people and it is that interaction that matters to them. There is some degree of vague shared belief but what really unites them is the social interaction. They like having some notion of religion but genuine spirituality isn’t the goal. Secretly, or not so secretly, some of them are even quite skeptical about some key aspects of orthodoxy. But, they like the traditions and the semblance of ceremony, and of course, the being together.

Of course, there are more than these three groups. Some want to hear a good rock band playing Christian music, others adore the pipe organ, some just can’t get enough of that good ole four part harmony and, possibly, some scattered few just can’t wait to hear some new bit of what they call "news." They call it that because "gossip" is such a dirty word and cheapens the value of the information. Whether or not it is their purpose, still others seem to come for the next good reason to criticize the singing or the preaching.

Regardless of collective or individual aim or focus, what strikes me is that nearly every one of these folks just about always gets exactly what they expected! Kind of like honey bees and dung beetles as they go about their daily pursuits…

H. Arnett

2/22/11

Before his presentation to my Careers in Sports and Fitness class, Rick and I sat in a booth, eating burgers and fries and sharing stories. I asked him if he had ever seen circumstances that he couldn’t explain working together to shape his life.

"I was raised in the Byzantine Catholic Church, with mass spoken in Romanian. I never understood a word of it," he confesses, "and at the time, didn’t get anything out of it." He reflected another moment and then said, "But I’m glad I had that experience."

Then, he shared a different experience that had moved him from that fringe edge of indifference into the realm of faith.

"I was the GM of a minor league team and was helping announce a game. I looked down at my stat sheet for a moment and when I looked back up, couldn’t understand what was going on. The game had stopped and everyone was standing up and looking at the front row right by first base."

What had happened was that a line drive foul ball had hit a five-year-old kid in the temple, dropping him like a shot bird. "When I got down there, that kid was dead. He had blood gushing out of his ear. No pulse. They defibrillated him and got his heart going again."

"He flat-lined again in the ambulance. They life-flighted him to a children’s hospital. While he was on the helicopter, he flat-lined again."

"Three times?" I asked.

"That kid died three times," he nodded.

"We went back to the stadium and the players from both teams were all in our dressing room. Our manager said, ‘Boys, this kid isn’t going to make it. But we’re going to pray for him anyway.’

"A lot of those guys were crying openly. We all kneeled down in that dressing room and we prayed for that kid."

"Next morning, we called the hospital and they said, ‘We can’t tell you about his condition,’ but they did confirm that he was still alive. We drove over to the hospital and found out what room he was in."

Rick paused, looked away and forced himself to keep his eyes clear. But he couldn’t keep his voice from thickening. Then, he looked back at me and finished. "We walked into that room and that kid was jumping up and down on his bed. Jumping up and down."

And since then, Rick has never wondered whether or not prayers make any difference.

2/18/11

H. Arnett

The warm air rolled in over the cold ground and snow, settling into a dense fog that waited for us in early morning. We hoped it would lift by mid-morning, that chilling gray disappearing into the brilliance of a sunny day. That was what we hoped.

What happened was that it hung around all through the morning, through the lunch hour and through early afternoon, then on to mid-afternoon. About that time, I needed to communicate via e-mail with one of our regional coordinators over at Marysville, Kansas.

I know that memory serves me correctly on one point about Marysville: it is home to the regionally famed black squirrels. Not dark brown, mind you, black. If memory serves me correctly on another point, Marysville is about seventy miles west of Highland, right on US 36 Highway.

Thus it was as I glanced out the window again long enough to confirm that we were still locked in under the dense fog, I was a bit surprised by Sara’s concluding enthusiasm: "Hope you are enjoying the beautiful sunshine."

I am well familiar with some of the fickle follies of nature. I’ve seen downpours soaking one side of the interstate while the opposite side is dry. I’ve heard of Saint Joseph getting an inch of snow while south Kansas City gets a foot or more. But yesterday, well, it was more like "A Rainy Night in Georgia;" I thought it must be foggy all over the world. Or at least as far west as Marysville.

They, in fact, had been enjoying a glorious day, a notion of which we gained but briefly when the fog finally lifted around 4:30 in the afternoon.

I often forget, in my moments of enthusiasm and in my days in the dumps, that not everyone around me is experiencing the same weather that I am. It is good, then, to be glad when others are glad and to embrace others’ sorrows as well. We ought to give thanks that the sun is shining elsewhere and remember that their prayers help lift us through the fog.

H. Arnett

2-17-11

People write to me from time to time to let me know they liked a particular piece. Sometimes, someone will say that it was exactly what he or she needed for that day, a lift in a dark time. There have also been a few times over the years that I’ll hear from someone that I don’t even know, someone to whom a piece was passed on by one of my subscribers. They may send word through that person or get my email address from him or her and contact me directly.

Most recently, a friend posted a poem of mine on his website. One of his readers is married to a person who is terminally ill. She has been taking care of him for some time and he recently decided he was through with the long, slow walk and refused to eat or take his medicine. Though she felt like he should have the right to make that decision, she knew that starving to death wasn’t going to be a good way to go, for either of them. She also knew that his mind was not working clearly anymore. But, after a few days and many prayers by others, he changed his mind.

She had written my friend to let him know about that and to tell him that the poem he had posted had helped her. She had found some centering in it, some strengthening at a time when she really needed it.

I don’t think Jerry was thinking about her specifically when he asked me if he could post the poem. I know I wasn’t thinking about anyone in particular when I wrote it nor when I told him, "Sure, go ahead and post it."

But I do believe someone else was thinking about her. I do believe someone else brought together Jerry and my poem, the prayers of others and her own seeking and any number of other things to give her what she needed to make it through that time.

Please know that every time you send word to me that you liked something, that something I wrote spoke to you or to someone you know, you participate in this ministry. Every time you do that, you encourage me, and I need encouragement far more and more often than you might think. It helps me continue the self-discipline, it gives me hope and purpose. It makes me glad that I do this and I rejoice whenever anything I have said or done encourages another person or spurs them to follow more closely in step with the love and grace in him that I seek to serve.

Thank you for helping me.

H. Arnett

2/16/11

The story you are about to read is completely true. Not even the names have been changed to protect the innocent… or the guilty.

She wanted some time to spend with her adult son and their favorite spot was a nearby pub. As they sat at their meal, a young woman, in a disheveled white dress and obviously drunk, came over to them. "Can I schitt down wif you?" she asked, plaintively.

Adrienne explained, gently, "I want to spend some time with my son."

"Yesh," the other replied thickly, with tears finding the tracks of her cheeks, "but they won’t let me schitt with them over there."

This time, Adrienne’s response was a bit more firm and the young woman turned and walked toward the door. Oddly, there was no stagger in her steps, no wavering or listing or leaning. Just before she reached the exit, she turned slightly and looked directly at Adrienne. As the young woman nodded and lifted her hand in a slight wave, Adrienne was hit with a sudden memory of scripture: "Be careful to entertain strangers for some have thereby entertained angels unawares."

She leapt to her feet and ran to the door, reaching it before it had even closed behind the young woman, and burst outside. The woman could not possibly have taken more than three or four steps from the door. Yet, she had vanished.

Adrienne looked up and down the street, then rushed to the corner. Looking up and down that street, she saw no one. No one.

Remembering the white dress and the straight, unwavering walk toward the door and the sweet sadness in that last smile, Adrienne could not shake at all the utter conviction that she had just been visited by an angel.

And turned her away.

H. Arnett

2/15/11

My breath pushes out in front of me

like the musings of a juvenile dragon

not yet grown to fire.

I pretend that you can know

how cold it is

by how far out the mist extends.

I suspect, though,

there’s more to it than temperature:

relative humidity and such.

The skin of my face tingles

by the time I reach the shed

and see the side of the horse’s face

speckled with flecks

of his breath

at minus thirty wind chill.

By the time I’ve finished

the feeding

the watering

and the shoveling,

my fingers

have moved past the tingling

into that mingling of aching and numbness.

I haven’t walked in such winter

since I was a child

without wondering what it would be like

to freeze to death.

I know

that drifting away from God

is much like this:

a stepping out

into a vast emptiness

and that last sting of conscience

when we either turn back

to the hearth of faith and love

or walk numb and lifeless

in our own tracks.

H. Arnett

2/11/11

We sit in the front room, sharing coffee and ourselves. I ask each elder about his own journey, his own background. The oldest of the group grew up here in one congregation and having been active in another for nearly all of his seventy years or so. Another grew up, worked with and taught in one church until they decided the Lord was leading them to build a new congregation here.

The youngest, our traditionalist hidden in the body of a rock-n-roll star turned English teacher, grew up a Quaker in western Kansas and once worshipped with an "extremely conservative" Baptist church.

As for me, well, I’ve worshipped with Church of Christ’s, Baptists, Methodists, Catholics, Pentecostals, Charismatics, Disciples and several different non-denominational groups over the past six decades. My core beliefs still hold intact and I’ve gained valuable perspectives from each interaction and relationship.

These men are wanting to build something good, something different, something that will honor the Christ, spread his kingdom and minister to his people. They want a worship that is focused on worship, not a conglomeration of religio-social activities. They want people to feel welcomed and challenged. They want to touch people’s lives and touch this community. They want fellowship that strengthens relationships.

I point out that we share the same goals but I don’t have the same background, don’t completely agree with every point of doctrine and don’t have seminary credentials.

The one who would seem likely to be the most bothered by that and the least likely to venture beyond his own denominational background is the first to speak. "The way I see it, you’re the preacher God has sent to us."

It was that simple. No structured interview, no oath to take or pledge to sign. For some, seeing circumstances show the thumbprint of God is sufficient assurance to continue in the direction shown.

I’d say it’s always good reason not to take a different one.

H. Arnett

2/8/11

Yesterday was the third Sunday I’ve preached at the relatively new church that’s just a quarter-mile from our house here. How this came about involves a series of small "coincidences" that began with us buying this place. As of July last year, the grass had not been mowed in the yard or the pasture for the entire season. I spoke to two or three different people who were in the business of cutting hay and none of them could be reasonably enticed.

When I saw an older fellow cutting the open area by the New Life Church, I stopped and talked to him about mowing our place. After some discussion that including me agreeing to pay him "a little for his gas" and agreeing to visit at their church after we moved, he agreed to trim up our small fields. Turns out the fellow is one of the elders at the church. The second detail involves insurance, a detail in regard to which my banker was quite persistent.

State Farm, my insurance company for nearly forty years, wrote the policy and then cancelled it later because the small back porch has wooden shingles underneath the new composition shingles. None of the first three new agents I called bothered to return my calls or follow up on my request. My banker gave me the name of a guy who did return my call. We now are part of the American Family Insurance family. So to speak. Turns out our new agent is another elder at the church.

A few months of living here and remembering from time to time that I’d said I’d visit New Life church, I decided it was high time I kept my word. So, after a long day of work, I took a quick shower and drove over for their Wednesday night service. Fred and Mark both seemed glad to see me there.

After class dismissed, Fred told me, "Well, our pastor retired Sunday. We don’t have a preacher."

And thus, I have become the interim speaker at New Life Church in Blair, Kansas. Whether that interim is three months, three years or three decades remains to be seen. What continues to be clear is that God is always at work in the lives of those who trust in him.

H. Arnett

2/7/11

Back in ’94 or ’95, when I was going to school at Ohio State and living in Buckeye Village, we had a winter storm come in. The snow came thick and heavy, huge wet flakes driven horizontally by strong winds. I took my oldest two sons out into the storm and we built a little hut in the drifted bank by the field near the house. I found out on the evening news that we were a couple of degrees "too warm" to have a blizzard.

Tuesday’s storm here wasn’t too warm. Tiny bits of powder blew by in the thirty-mile-an-hour winds with the temperature in the teens. Falling over the thin skim of ice that we got on Monday, the new snow made for incredibly slick and treacherous movement. Randa checked online Tuesday night and found out that we were just under the requisite wind speed of thirty-five-miles-an-hour. The forty-mile-an-hour gusts that night came after the snow had stopped falling. Once again, I’d missed the blizzard.

There were a few million people scattered from Oklahoma to Chicago who weren’t quite under the limit. I’m not sure such keen distinctions really matter to people with power lines torn down by ice, cars stranded by the twenty inches of snow and homes suddenly uninhabitable because of the cold.

A very mild December had us thinking we were going to get a reprieve from the record colds and tons of snow that last winter showed us. This morning’s minus ten and drifts two and three feet deep in the yard have us thinking otherwise. I’m not in a really receptive mood for any arguments about global warming.

That’s one of the dangers of human nature: it’s pretty easy to be minimally concerned about the rain forests when you’re worried that you won’t be able to make it back up your own icy driveway.

Sometimes we have to force ourselves to look beyond our own immediacy. Otherwise, we sacrifice our future because now seems so much more important.

H. Arnett

2/3/11