A Quiet Praise

Posted on December 13, 2010 by Doc Arnett

White stems of frost mark the whiskers of the horse around his nose where moist breath has frozen to the nearest available condensing point. He nickers as I walk along the snow-crusted grass path to the shed. The water in his trough is frozen solid, temporary casualty of the harsh wind that blew in on Saturday. I get the heavy, thick bucket from the tack room, lift it to the hydrant and pull up on the lever. Water gurgles, then rushes out, hitting the bottom and splashing.

At the sound, Tango moves around from near the gate and sticks his nose over the top of the fence. He begins drinking as soon as I set the bucket over on top of the ice in the trough. He draws it down quickly, stopping with only an inch or so left. As he lifts his head from the bucket, little streams of water run out from his mouth, dripping off the edge of his lips. I start to run another bucket but he moves away, back over to the gate. When his mind is set on grazing, there is little to distract him.

I fasten the halter and rub along his shoulders and back for a moment. I take the short rope then, “You ready for some grass, Buddy?”

Walking at a brisk pace, I lead him over, picking up the holder for the top wire as we walk through the opening. I bend him around in a quick half-turn. I fasten the top wire back in place, unsnap the holder attaching the rope to the halter and give him a final pat. Heading toward the tall grass, he stops at the tree, gives himself a quick scratching on the side of the trunk then trots on toward the west fence. I fasten the lower wires and stand by the fence, taking in the silhouette of trees beyond the creek, black against the soft light between the horizon and a drift of low clouds. The tints of orange and red streak the coming of brighter day. I turn, walk quickly to the house, grateful for the quiet of this morning and shelter against a minus-nine windchill.

When we are granted peace and beauty in the beginning of our day, surely we may always find reason to praise him who brings both wind and sun.

H. Arnett

12/13/10

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Geographical Gratitude

Posted on December 2, 2010 by Doc Arnett

Well, Toto, I’m pretty darn sure we’re right here in Kansas!! Yep, with that taut edge of the wind sending the first taste of winter, and with an inch of ice on the water trough in the horse pen, this must be Kansas.

Not every aspect of this place is as thoroughly enjoyable as a fog-fringed sunset and beautiful autumn days don’t last forever. And yes, among these rolling hills and limestone bluffs, winter will come scruffing along, bringing its bruising mornings and thin-edged dawns. There will be those long nights of howling wind, sending the chill factor into double digits below zero. There will be snow to shovel, ice to scrape and utility bills that shoot right through the frozen roof. There will be the bone ache and the drop in core temperature.

But we will endure.

There will also be spectacular sunsets and drifts ten feet deep and the fields will be transformed into shimmering, shifting fingers of light and shadow. Patterns will play among the trees and the creek will turn into a path. We will move like magic on the face of the pond and lake and laugh at the dog while we make geometric figures. We will come inside to steaming chocolate and hot coffee. We will embrace the warmth and shelter and give thanks that we do not live in the storm.

Or North Dakota.

H. Arnett

12/1/10

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Warm Comfort

Posted on December 2, 2010 by Doc Arnett

There is a strong drawing in the comfort of a warm bed on a cold morning. It is an announcement of protection and blessing to feel that soft strength around you, keeping the chill away. There is reassurance, safety and privilege. To know that the frost that covers the roof and ground, surrounding and covering everything that is unprotected, does not touch you, is satisfying and gratifying. I do not lightly take my leave of that peaceful pleasure that lies within flannel sheets, insulating blanket and comforter. Some mornings, it is nothing less than call of duty that moves me to slide out and quickly grab my robe.

The shower is not a bad transition, though. That pulsing stream of hot water, massaging my neck and shoulders, is a good way of moving from the snug nest into the rest of my day. I turn the water off, draw back the curtain and move into the lesser delights of preparing for work.

We have similar draws to the comfortable areas of our lives, work within the established patterns and places, knowing what we are to do, what is expected and how to do it. I like living in that part of my life, staying with what I know and am confident of. I suspect it is a strong human trait, unchanged over the millennia.

But the call of love, the call of Christ, the call of service, often moves us beyond the comfortable. The showing of compassion is easily done with a check and a stamp, easier still with the click of a mouse after the credit card information is filled in. But the stranger in the ditch, the dirty child, the reckless teen, the strung-out junkie, the half-wit elderly woman living alone with her plastic bucket toilet, these are not so easy.

But they are, also, the family of Christ, these, the least of the brethren. Our compassion for them will not be forgotten by the One who died for them as well as for us. That, too, is comforting, is it not?

H. Arnett

12/2/10

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Vicarious Blessing

Posted on November 29, 2010 by Doc Arnett

My, what a God-beautiful day it was yesterday! Crystal clear air, warm sun after a frosty morning and skies that invite one to head out hiking to no particular place. For autumn-philes like me, it was just glorious, even if all I could do was look out the window every now and then and think, “What a God-beautiful day!”

 I woke up Tuesday morning with enough dizziness to make me wobble and weave my wave down the hallway. Optimistic that it was only an ear infection, I rode with Randa to work. That was not so much noble devotion to duty as it was pragmatism; there is a medical clinic in Highland, no more than a block from my office and I knew I was in no shape to drive myself anywhere. I alerted my colleagues in Irvin Hall that absent any smell of alcohol on my breath, they might attribute my condition to less voluntary affliction. They were sympathetic, understanding and helpful, even offering to go over and get my mail on the off chance that I actually had some.

 So, I slogged through my day in typical manly fashioning, whining and moaning to anyone who would listen. By mid-afternoon, I’d gotten one injection each of antibiotics and steroids (to fight the inflammation in the inner ear) and prescriptions for more of each plus something to help me through the dizziness. There was also something for the nausea, but I won’t mention that.

 By Wednesday night, I began to feel better. It’s Thursday morning now and I’m still not ready to roller skate my way through a buffalo herd, but at least I can walk in the general direction of where I’m aiming. And so, I begin another day, grateful for the speedy intervention of medical science and technology and optimistic that we may have yet another splendid autumn day. It is a good thing to confess and appreciate the splendor of things even when we are not able to fully enjoy them. Good, too, to give thanks, even when we could find ready excuse to be less than grateful.

 H. Arnett

10/21/10

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Thanksgiving Evening

Posted on November 29, 2010 by Doc Arnett

There wasn’t really a dawn this morning, just an almost imperceptible change from dark and overcast to relatively light and overcast. Taking advantage of mild temperature and no breeze, I worked in long sleeves, putting up fencing. The horse had grazed down the small pasture and I needed to extend the area before he began to cause damage. As I finished stringing the last wire, he came over to investigate the new opportunity. I thought he might take a romp around the larger area. Instead, he took a few steps into the tall grass, lowered his head and started chomping.

I finished up the project before lunch and none too soon. By early afternoon, the overcast had darkened, lowering into light mist and then adding fog. By late afternoon, the drizzle seemed to have settled in for a November siege. Just before dusk, I saw the slightest hint of light in the western sky. A few dull streaks began to show through the fog.

In only a few minutes, fingers of pink and blue showed through the gray and mist. As I walked down the sloping driveway toward the road, I could see the fog, a distinct layer of gray below the closing day. The sky lightened further as the slightest bit of breeze began pushing the fog away, down the flat of the creek bottoms. The hill and its trees stood in silhouette against the shifting light of the sunset sky. Faint, fuzzy drifts of high clouds caught the sun above the edge of mist and gray. As this played out, I thought of the Northern Lights, a sight I have only seen in pictures.

In my fifty-plus years of sunsets and shadows, I’ve never seen a more impressive play of light and tone, spectacular in its subtleness. The dreary look of mist and fog gave way to a symphony of color and shade. It is just such a miracle played out again and again in the minds and hearts of souls changed by the transforming light of faith and repentance.

A hinting of things to come when all things are made new, when the closing of the present day will send the glory of a day that will never end.

H. Arnett

11/28/10

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Night Clouds

Posted on November 15, 2010 by Doc Arnett

The chill rolled in slowly, cold gray clouds filling up the sky. By noon, the day began to feel like fall’s easy warmth might be yielding to northern air. Evening confirmed that suspicion. I worked in the closing bit of light, trying to finish fitting the windows into their openings in the mudroom wall. I set up work lights at the corner, turning one toward the north and the other toward the east. Shifting from one window to the other, I caught the first traces of rain in the bright halogen glow.

I kept working, knowing that sometimes November will send the briefest bit of warning before the rain settles in for the night. Randa came back up from moving the horse from the pasture to the shed, “Starting to rain, ” she noted, “I felt some drops.”

She helped me level the smaller window, then went inside while I finished fastening the screws and sealed the flashing. The returning rain settled my wondering about installing the metal strip along the lower edge of the new roofing; I started loading tools into the wheelbarrow and carted them back out to the garage.

Heading back for a second trip, I saw the eastern sky. The lights of Saint Joseph, a dozen miles away, brushed a pastel glow into the clouds. Soft tones of pink and orange lined the streaks and lit that low heaven like the last lights of a winter sunset. The long, limber tips of the trees lining the ditch fringed and framed the view, its gentle color more dramatic by their standing silhouette.

Even in the coming of cold and rain, there may be some quiet gain of beauty, if we will but stand still for a moment. The same God who gave us duty also gives us this.

H. Arnett

11/15/10

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Autumn Snapshot

Posted on November 10, 2010 by Doc Arnett

I take a standing break from nailing down the plywood sheathing onto the joists, look out over the pasture, across the road and the field. Beyond the creek, the road turns west and heads up the hill, its gravel bright between the lining darks of autumn timber. The trees are bare on the bluff, jangling branches stark on the ridge against the light blue of a clear sky. Only the oaks still hold to their leaves, copper masses marking each of them on the side of the steep slope. The others have surrendered to the frosts and winds, sending a scattering in the wind.

I sip a bottle of achingly cold water, feel the sun on my face and arms. In this southwest corner inverted in the lee of the wind, the exposed boards below the siding are warm to the touch. I know that this is November but it feels, today, more like early October.

After years of disappointing rains and weeks of gloomy weather that bring winter in a month early, we have had a spell of glorious days: highs in the low seventies, bright skies with only a few, thin scattered mares’ tails drifting high. Perfect weather for hiking in the woods, for long bike rides and drifting walks through the fields. I’d rather be doing any of those things instead of an urgent roof replacement but there is rain in the forecast so I will take pleasure in the work of my hands and give thanks for weather such as this.

I look back to the south, listen to the crunching of tires and watch the rising fog of limestone dust rolling down the hill, slowly filtering into the trees and settling into the field. I cap the bottle and set it under the window, turn back to my work, giving silent praise for God’s good beauty that brings us rest and refreshing, even in the midst of our labors.

H. Arnett

11/10/10

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Making It Better

Posted on November 9, 2010 by Doc Arnett

One of the great perils of remodeling is tearing out something that you think is in bad shape; you may very well find something in even worse shape behind, over or under whatever it was that you first tore out. Say, just for the purpose of illustration, you decide to tear out the old ceiling of an old porch converted some years ago to a mudroom. Perhaps you decided that the old ceiling should be torn out because the once-decorative bead-boards show signs of water damage: swelling, warping and dark stains. Possibly, there are even signs on the concrete floor of water damage. Certainly adequate reason for the tear out project. Just for extra measure, there may have even been a puddle of water on the floor there when you first inspected the home.

Suppose, in addition, that after you’d torn out half of the ceiling, you took a flashlight and shone it up into the dark recesses between the old ceiling and the flat roof. You might find a bucketful of old dirt-dauber nests, a mummified mouse carcass or two and eighty years of attic dust. It’s possible, so I hear, that you might even discover that some of the leaking from the old roof had caused some rotting. In fact, you might find the most extensive, most advanced wood deterioration that you had ever seen in forty years of remodeling old houses. It could be that it was so severe that the ends of some of the rafters had completely rotted away from the wall, leaving that section of the roof completely unsupported.

And so, it could be that you discover that instead of needing to spend a couple of hours “patching the leaks in the roof,” you will have to completely tear off the roof. Not just the old rolled roofing: five layers of asphalt-based roofing material, old deck planks, rafters, joists, bracing, everything. You would find yourself on a Saturday night looking up at the stars from inside your house, completely and truly grateful for several days of the most beautiful, clear weather you’d ever seen in November.

Yes, such are the perils of remodeling an old house. You might just find such a thing and decide that you will fix it. You could be one of those truly dangerous people who choose not to cover it up, not Band-Aid it, camouflage it or hide it. You know, tear out every last piece of rotten and replace it with good. You might go about it with the same love and determination that Jesus shows toward those who come to him, seeking the restoration of their souls.

H. Arnett

11/9/10

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Fresh-Milled Memories

Posted on November 5, 2010 by Doc Arnett

It is a chilly evening in the first week of November. A north wind on a bright clear day scatters leaves and sends a hint of cold coming our way. Two colleagues have come over for a cider experiment; I’ve never processed pears before.

In the feel of that wind, I suggest that we do our milling inside the garage. It is not hard to convince them. While I change clothes upstairs, they unload their pears and jugs, then come inside and wait for me. They are standing in the kitchen when I go back down.

While both have a fair amount of experience at making homemade wine, neither of them has seen an old-time hand-cranked cider mill before. They are instantly impressed. “Well, would you look at that!” one exclaims. “How old is it?”

“Dad bought it used before I was born,” I tell them. It is the only estimate of its age I have. My guess is that it is around seventy-five years old, give or take a decade or two.

It is a study of rugged yet elegant simplicity: heavy frame, a wooden millhead with six steel cutters embedded, cranked by a long arm spinning the small center-mounted gear turns the millhead. A heavy flywheel on the opposite side of the wooden hopper maintains momentum. As the fruit drops into the hopper, the blades grind it into pulp, which drops into a round, slatted wooden crate that rests on a slatted base.

After a quick rinse of the primary working surfaces, I prompt my friends, “Well, let’s get started.” I grab the handle and begin spinning the cutterhead. The first of my guests starts dropping pears into the hopper, a few at a time. Bits of fruit fly out of the hopper, occasionally hitting me in the face.

Almost as soon as the grinding begins, juice starts to drain from the collector pan into the waiting dishpan. Both of these pear-bearers marvel at how quickly the mill works. “Wow! That’s definitely a lot faster than doing this all by hand.”

When the bucket crate is full of pulp, I slide it forward, under the press. A thick threaded steel shaft has a crank at the upper end and a round wooden press plate at the lower end. As I spin the crank, the press plate fits into the crate. Juice erupts from between the slats, runs into the collector and spills through the screen into the pan. While one holds a plastic jug steady, I lift the dishpan, tilt it toward one corner and pour the juice into the screened funnel, watching the flow of the clear amber liquid.

The pulp has been compressed into a heavy clump. I pull out the crate and carry it out of the garage. I flip it upside down and bump it hard against the ground at the base of the white birch and the mass slides out. Then I tap the base slide against the trunk to clear a few pieces of pulp from between the slats. We start the next batch.

In less than an hour, we have processed five gallons of juice. I hose down the cider mill, set the crates and pan against the wall to drain. I accept the offered sample of the fruits of our labor and am surprised at how well I like it. It is the first time that I have ever drunk fresh pear juice. The flavor is lighter than I expected and sweeter, a fine finish for a good evening.

My guests have loaded their wares and thank me, again. They drive off into the darkening dusk of a clear Kansas night. I carry my share of the spoils into the house, set the jug on the counter. I remember early autumns of my adolescence, helping make cider on the farm and in Kelvie Nicholson’s orchard, swapping turns at the heavy crank.

Tonight, for the first time, I miss my Dad.

H. Arnett

11/4/10

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Walking Blind

Posted on November 4, 2010 by Doc Arnett

It was not until it was dark and I was exhausted that we found out that the electrical circuit that I had been working on all day was formerly connected to the lights in the upstairs bedrooms and hallway. So, Randa took a lamp upstairs and plugged it in so she could work on the computer. As her project continued way past my bedtime, I kissed her goodnight and headed down the hallway, passing the stairs just outside the room where she was working. Knowing how easy it would be to take a wrong step in the dark, I warned her, “Be careful when you come to bed.”

Apparently forgetting how weary I was, she thought I was teasing her about a potential romantic ambush. I was too tired to even notice she had missed my completely serious admonition.

A couple of hours later, I heard a bit of commotion in the hallway. I shot up out from under the covers and ran into the hallway, bumping into the wall on the opposite side and hurrying toward the stairs. In the faint blue glow of the computer screen reflecting out of the office room, I saw her lying on the landing, six steps down, and was beside her in an instant.

She was conscious and in obvious, and understandable pain. 

In the blindness between turning out the lights and her eyes adjusting to the dark, she’d felt the corner post by the steps and thought it was the second post that marked the end of the steps. She’d turned, thinking she was at the hallway, and walked right off into nothing. Her head bashed into the wall near the bottom of her fall, slamming her neck backwards. It’s a wonder she was conscious. I sat on the steps beside her, lightly stroking her side and shoulder until she decided she could get up; there wasn’t much else I could do at the time. 

She has a concussion, a couple of jammed fingers, an extremely sore neck and back and several bruises. No breaks, at least none that showed up on X-ray. She managed to go back to work for a half-day yesterday. Getting over the aches will take much longer; some of them may be with her for the rest of her life. Injuries to the neck and back have a way of adopting us on a long-term basis. We are amazed and grateful that she is as mobile as she is already. 

Whether because of our misunderstanding, our ignoring, our confusion or our stubbornness, we sometimes fail to heed the warnings that God gives us. Sometimes, we stub a toe or bump into a door. Sometimes, we land in a heap, crumpled, bruised, bleeding. 

The God Who Loves Us comes to us, kneels beside us and touches us in gentle compassion and lifts us up to walk again. Perhaps slowly at first, but we do walk again. Until he has gathered into his arms and we rest until all the labors of this life are over.

H. Arnett

11/3/10

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