Finishing Work

I remember my first attempt at drywall finishing: Browns Grove, Kentucky, Summer of 1976. While my firstborn son, Michael, crawled around in the dust and debris, I put on a few heavy layers of sheetrock mud, covering the end joints in the middle of the new ceiling. I soon discovered that it is much easier to put mud on than it is to get it back off of the Sheetrock. After a few hours of overhead sanding, I abandoned the notion of smooth, undetectable joints and began making false wooden beams to cover the seams. It worked, although the rustic look wasn’t what I’d originally imagined for the living room of a Victorian home.

My second attempt was somewhat better as were my ninth and tenth efforts. About twenty years after that initial effort, I finally got to where I could do a decent job of finishing drywall. It’s still not easy for me, nor is it something that I do quickly. But with patience, multiple thin coats, a light touch on the finish coat and a reasonable amount of sanding, I’m able to hide most of the screw heads and taped joints.

The primary reason why I have cultivated this talent to this limited degree is that I’m a tightwad when it comes to hiring other people to do what I can do myself.

Even if it takes me longer and I don’t achieve quite the same quality of finish work, doing it myself has allowed us to do an awful lot of remodeling work that we could not have afforded otherwise. I’m still getting better at it; each job seems to go a bit easier and I get to the finish stage in a lot less time than it used to take.

When we view the cultivation of the fruits of the Spirit with the same sort of determined effort, we see similar increases in our ability. Of course, we have to recognize that in this particular effort, the greater work is being done in us rather than by us. As we deliberately practice patience, peace, hope, love, gentleness, self-control, mercy, forgiveness and kindness, we find that each act takes less effort than before and becomes more instinctive and automatic, rather than forced and deliberate.

Eventually, if we intentionally do these things, we become able to respond with grace, even when we are dealing with people who’ve been rude to us, mistreated us or wronged us in some grievous way.

And, when the nature of Jesus has become our own nature, others will have greater difficulty finding the seams between what we are and what we believe.

H. Arnett
7/16/10

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Truth and Beauty

Apparently, Randa and I are now feeding approximately half of the hummingbird population in northwest Missouri.

Whereas in previous years, we had to refill the little feeders about once a week or so, it is becoming a daily duty now. As we finished our breakfast on the porch this morning, I reluctantly volunteered to refill the southeast feeder. “That one needs cleaning out,” Randa said, in that wonderful blend of observation, suggestion and request that women have cultivated for a few thousand years. “OK,” I replied in the male response born of similar duration, “I’ll clean it out and then fill it up.” Even though I obviously would never end a sentence with a preposition in formal exchange, I do indulge from time to time in the intimacy of my own home, which is also where I clean the hummingbird feeder.

Randa continued her morning preparations for the workday while I cleaned and then filled the sugar water dispenser.

I returned to the corner in which bee balm and butterfly bush have grown with great enthusiasm. Just as I started to step up into the stone-walled planter, I noticed a fluttering among the low branches of the bee balm. I stood fascinated as a hummingbird worked the red tube petals. It was beautiful, with black and yellow stripes around its abdomen and a bit of pink showing in the beating of its wings. It moved from flower to flower, working around each cluster, tiny beak popping in and out of the stems, its antennae brushing against the blossoms.

“That’s odd,” I thought, “I didn’t know that hummingbirds have antennae.”

Being the exceptionally quick thinker that I am, it only took a few more moments for me to realize that I was seeing the hummingbird moth that Randa told me she had seen a week or two earlier. Or at least a similar specimen to the one that she’d described. Exercising another carefully cultivated male trait, I’d argued with her that those only existed in exotic places like South America and Hawaii or something. She merely smiled and nodded, “Uhmm.”

Sometimes it takes some spectacular encounter with beauty for us to admit truth, I reckon. I’d have to say that seeing a hummingbird moth is certainly much more enticing than getting hit over the head with a two-by-four. Either way, though, if we go about our duties and keep our eyes open, there is no limit to the number of ways by which we may be amazed.

H. Arnett
7/14/10

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Promise in the Clouds

A burst of rain caught us again as we were driving back from Kansas yesterday. Just east of Troy, it came, quick and sudden like a cat pouncing. Dark clouds jumbled and jostled each other in between loud rumblings of thunder as the rain pummeled the windshield. Just before we reached the western edge of Wathena, we saw the rainbow. A break somewhere in the sky behind us lined through the rain, coating the colored arc onto the rain and mist.

There was something different about this, though.

Instead of being cast against a distant sky, we could see the colors lighting up a particular tree, a house or other building. At times, we were within two hundred feet of the briefly prismed object. Randa and I exchanged comments of amazement, neither of us having seen this phenomenon so close to us before.

The principles functioning in the creation and viewing of a rainbow make it impossible to actually see that you are standing at the end of one. The sun must generally be behind you and the rain and clouds beyond you or there is no rainbow for you to see. Should you happen to find yourself standing in its focal point, you wouldn’t be able to see the arc itself. Others might see you striped by its bright colors but you couldn’t see the rainbow if it hit you upside the head. The focal plane changes with your position, always keeping the reminder of God’s word to Noah somewhere beyond you.

There are wonders beyond our explanation that though inexplicable can yet be definitely experienced or otherwise witnessed. Sometimes we hold more to knowing than to understanding. In life’s brightest and darkest moments, it is faith’s full expression that brings us wonder beyond the senses. And in the arc of God’s good light in the world, when we yield ourselves completely to its work of hope and promise, we worry less about the seeing and more about being in it.

H. Arnett
7/12/10

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Beyond the Struggle

Not even the tops of the trees are moving this morning; it is an uncommon stillness on this eastern edge of the Great Plains. Go west from here and you soon see trees leaning to the northeast, shaped by the constant push of the wind. But for this moment, there is no wind, no bending of branches, no stirring of cool morning air.

Hummingbirds dispute acquisition rights to one of our feeders while a bumblebee buries itself into one of the lavender blooms on the Rose of Sharon growing by the porch door. Others busy themselves on the bee balm and butterfly bushes. A new burst of rose blooms, beaded with dew, frames the lower edge of the view from my lounge chair.

There is such peace in this moment, such welcome calm when it seems that all I can see is as it should be. Everything in its place, doing what it is intended to do, giving and receiving. It is such within me when I yield to the work of God and release all claim to things being as I think they should be. I find this calm when I trust that he will one day accomplish all that he intends to accomplish.

I sometimes struggle to release myself from my own plans and believe that he has included me in his. Beyond that struggle lies the place where peace passes understanding and where I can live the abundant life.

H. Arnett
7/7/10

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Looking Toward Day

I haven’t looked at or listened to today’s weather forecast as of yet. I don’t know whether or not the pattern of the weekend will continue. We had several days of wonderful weather last week: diminished humidity, clear skies and comfortable temperatures. But then, a channeling of Gulf-driven clouds rolled in, sending us rain after rain. Far less, though, than if we had lived in the path of the hurricane that we have blamed for ruining picnics and cookouts several hundred miles inland. Inconvenience is so much less trying than tragedy and aggravation easier to negotiate than catastrophe.

So, as to what this day’s prediction is, I don’t know. I do know that the eastern sky is broken, a fracturing of clouds and streaks of blue. Parts of the sky are dark and threatening and other parts seem to hold some promise of clearing, a lifting of gleaming light caught in silvery strands. Whether we will have sun or storm, I have yet to learn.

What I do know is that he who calmed the storm, who formed the clouds, who cast aside the shroud of Death itself, has promised that he will never abandon, never forsake. I will take that promise over every other prediction, every day of the week.

H. Arnett
7/6/10

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Bargain Hunters

In a few hours, my long-awaited yard sale will begin. This project actually began last year after my father’s death. After the funeral, I got a fair idea of the abundant over-accumulation of stuff in his workshop, basement and other storage areas. I decided I didn’t want to leave this world with that much junk lying around for other people to have to deal with. Hence, today’s yard sale.

With a little help from my neighbor, I have hauled, washed, cleaned, scraped, repaired and placed so much “this will come in handy some day” stuff that I’m almost ready to divest myself of every cubic foot of storage space that I have available.

That’s a big part of the trouble, you know. Between this basement, this garage, the garage at the rental unit and the eight or nine hundred square feet of floor space in the basement of the rental unit, we’ve had enough storage space available for several years now to avoid a lot significant decisions about getting rid of stuff. Hopefully, today will be a good start on changing that.

I’m just hoping that there are enough other people coming by who will want the stuff I’m wanting to get rid of that I will be able to get rid of a lot of it. Those who love to play the lower bid game better be careful; they may end up taking something home with them. Naturally, there’s a good chance that other people are going to agree with me and believe that most of this is just stuff that should be tossed.

I guess God could have decided that about us; most of us have given him plenty of reason to think that. Instead, he took the very best that he had so that he could pay for the very worst that we had done. And he, my friend, is actually looking forward to taking us home with him.

H. Arnett
7/2/10

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Close Proximity

Well, my buddy Frank is up to his conniving ways again. He’d surprised himself and everyone else who knew about it a couple of months ago when he’d helped clean up around the Washington Park Library. It appears that his civic volunteerism has moved closer to home.

I was driving through his neighborhood a couple of days ago and saw Frank’s pickup parked several feet out into the street. He was shoveling stuff into the back of it, old leaves and debris he’d scraped up from along the curb. Thing was, it wasn’t his curb; Frank’s pickup was parked in front of someone else’s house.

“What are you doing?” I teased, “Stealing compost?”

“Nah,” he shrugged, “Trying to help beautify America.”

He paused and then added, “I think these people have defaulted on this place. They moved out last week. I figured if I could go over three miles from here and help clean up someone else’s neighborhood I could at least do the same for my neighbors.”

I think ole Frank might be onto something here, folks. Something that could apply to benevolence, volunteerism, witnessing and mission work. It just might be that the second best place in the world to start doing good is right down the street. The best place is right next door.

H. Arnett
6/30/10

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Travel Troubles

Randa’s son, Jaylon, made the three-hundred-and-sixty mile trip from Brookings, South Dakota, to Saint Joseph just fine Friday afternoon. Through all the miles of interstate, construction and heat, his eleven-year-old minivan hummed right along. But, as soon as he got to Saint Joe, it stopped humming. Well, OK, the motor kept humming but the transmission was another matter.

Needless to say, finding himself with transportation that wouldn’t transport wasn’t the way Jay wanted to begin his weekend. He’d planned to spend the evening with friends, not in desperate search for a tow truck and a mechanic who might somehow consider spending his weekend rebuilding a transmission. Randa and I had planned to spend our evening piddling around the house. So, we loaned Jay our car and started piddling around with the Yellow Pages.

On my third call to listings for “Automatic Transmission Repair,” a human actually answered the phone. “Yeah, I’ll be here till somewhere between midnight and four in the morning; go ahead and bring it over.”

I don’t know what the odds are of finding a mechanic who knows what he’s doing inside a transmission housing and who is also willing to work a whole hot weekend inside a non-air conditioned garage getting a ’99 Ford Windstar back on the road. I do know that Jay, his mother and I were glad we found one.

Relief isn’t a function of knowing the odds so much as it is a matter of clearly seeing the advantage gained from having the situation turn from desperation to satisfaction. For those who have traded damnation for salvation, “relief” is hardly an adequate word.

H. Arnett
6/28/10

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Multi-Tasking

With the low last night in the mid-sixties, this morning was just right for a bit of garden work in the early hours between dawn’s easy light and the cresting of the sun. And so, I trimmed roses, snipping off the spent blooms and talking to Randa as she sat on the porch. We discussed nothing of great importance: yesterday’s work, today’s plans, that it might be time to put more fertilizer on the roses.

I talked without looking at her, preferring to take note rather of where the fingers of my left hand gripped stems while my right hand squeezed the handles of the pruning shears. I don’t think she felt disrespected. After the roses were done, she asked me to snip off a few other drying blooms: the purple ones and the pink coral-bells. With that crossed off the impromptu to-do list, we then focused on the Rose of Sharon tree, cutting back the branches that hid the hummingbird feeder and crossed over the sidewalk and entryway. I laid the branches into the back of the truck and set the small trash can of rose trimmings in the garage, headed back into the house.

It is not often that I finish a few chores before breakfast; it’s more my custom to let those things wait until the end of the day. Rising a half-hour early creates some opportunities of things that can be done in the light, fresh air of dawning rather than the sultry end of a long day. And even if the conversation takes place through a screen, speaking and listening with someone you love while you go about some small task is a good part of managing something that you want to last.

Talking to God seems to fit right into that goal, too.

H. Arnett
6/25/10

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Still Taking Chances

I’ve taken a few risks in life, occasionally scrambling my way over river boulders strewn along the Cumberland. I climbed up underneath the falls there once with a friend of mine, stood up and felt the rocks shaking beneath my feet. In the midst of the spray and pounding, we felt the shuddering of the stone shelf overhead and saw water dripping through seams that will one day give way as the falls continues backing its way upstream. I’ve been snorkeling and scuba diving in the waters of Hawaii, even after having seen the dark shape of a shark cruising the area. I’ve brace-climbed up through a rock crevice and have also pulled myself slowly up over the face of a bluff that was definitely too smooth and steep for someone with no more skill than I had.

Randa and I enjoyed parasailing over the water at South Padre Island, catching a view from a few hundred feet above the coast and coming back down slowly onto the back of a boat. I ride a motorcycle from time to time, never going very fast but also knowing that thirty-five can kill you. So can falling in a bathtub.

I haven’t tried bungee jumping or sky diving yet and may very well leave this world without having tried either. Don Riley and I did climb the water tower at Sedalia, Kentucky, one evening and managed to escape unharmed and un-ticketed. I do not count myself a thrill seeker but I do enjoy a smidgen of a challenge now and then.

As I recount the brief and unimpressive list of my exploits, I know that, by far, the greatest risks I have ever taken have been in loving others. Whether friends or family, neighbors or children, there is always risk in caring and growing close. We ought not, though, let the possibilities of rejection, hurt and disappointment keep us from loving, from caring or from growing close.

We ought, I think, embrace the risk of loving rather than choosing the safe loneliness of insulation. It is obvious that he who made us took that risk.

H. Arnett
6/23/10

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