Prisoners of Love

Posted on May 5, 2010 by Doc Arnett

I’m not sure that the psychologists, sociologists or other ologists of the world would agree on what are the greatest emotional needs of humans. A sense of loving and being loved would surely come out close to the top, though. The quest for gratification of that longing permeates us, fills us, drives us. We do great and wonderful things both for and because of that need. When it is thwarted, we do vicious and terrible things.

One of the great tragedies is that we may become so selective in our interpretations of love. It is not impossible but quite rare, I think, to find an individual who is completely unloved by someone else. Yet, it is not even slightly unusual to find someone who feels unloved. Even when surrounded by family, friends, caring colleagues and thoughtful neighbors, a particular person may still fail to perceive the overwhelming love around her or him and instead focus on the one individual who has chosen not to show love.

Humans have an amazing capacity to comprehend great complexities and an equally astounding capacity to ignore, misconstrue and twist their interpretations of events, words and actions. Love delivered in some way other than according to the fantasy of the individual is not accepted, enjoyed or even acknowledged. Thus, we become adept at maintaining our own highly personalized self-torture chambers, constantly convincing ourselves that no one cares, no one knows, no one loves.

And so, in such cases, even the love of God spills around us, unnoticed, unbelieved, unaccepted. We hike the hills, tramp the valleys and slog through the bogs, never tasting the berries, convinced that life is all trudge and drudgery. Or we can accept that sunshine and shadow, fruit and thorns can occupy similar space and that there is risk in loving. A risk that our God was willing to take for us. Our choice to not reciprocate does not diminish his love, only our opportunity for a most liberating captivity.

H. Arnett
5/5/10

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A Sagging Sky

Posted on May 4, 2010 by Doc Arnett

The sky looked like an El Greco painting done in shades of gray and turned on its side. Huge drops of cloud emerged from the dark bank and sagged toward the earth with light shafts of mist drifting between them. Like hot air balloons suspended upside down, they hung, shifted slowly. They seemed so distinctive and separate they looked as if they had been drawn individually. The only hint of color came from near the earth where the slightest tints of a setting sun pasteled the lowest clouds. A whole section of sags and swirls seemed pulled toward a common point, a slow motion pouring into a funnel. It was as if the sky were made of wax, sagging toward the fire.

I pulled out my cell phone, hoping to get some awesome pictures. The battery was too weak to take even one.

In a few minutes, the clouds began to fade. I drove as quickly as I dared in town, hoping to get home in time to show Randa. Having parked the truck, I headed up to the house. As I looked up toward the sky, I found I had to face another disappointment. Time, angle and trees had conspired; there wasn’t a single vantage point that allowed a full view of that part of the sky and those dramatic, vivid shapes had already blurred.

We often feel the frustration of trying to describe some spectacle or some extraordinary experience. No matter how descriptive our words or enthusiastic our retelling, we are not able to capture and convey what we wish our audience could fully comprehend. And so we are left knowing that we have not given it justice; we have not been able to make the others see what we saw nor experience the event as we experienced it.

But that should not lessen the moment or its meaning for us. Even what cannot be duplicated for others can still be shared and all of us made richer by the effort. It is in the struggles and limitations of human that we become more humane. And more spiritual, too, if we are willing.

H. Arnett
5/4/10

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Good Practice

Posted on April 30, 2010 by Doc Arnett

It is good in moments like these
to seize meanings,
to hold to the light such insight
as lets us see ourselves
un-obscured by self-deceit
or the sweet flattery of others.

It is good on a day like this
to let a greater Spirit
draw near to ours,
to spend a soft hour
in the quietness of reverence
and the surrender of peace.

It is good in times like these
to remember that we are called
to obedience and meekness,
and that he who calls us
once walked this earth,
despised, forgiving and loving.

It is good in this age
to let the rage of the world
and its highly polished emptiness
swirl around us in hollow fury,
changing only what is already
destined for destruction.

It is good
in every moment,
on every day,
at all times
and in every age
to honor our calling.

H. Arnett
4/30/10

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High Winds

Posted on April 29, 2010 by Doc Arnett

It is a huge oak tree, quite likely over a hundred years old. Its lower branches extend forty to fifty feet away from the trunk. Even before the ice storm of ’07, it was a source of constant litter. I spent an afternoon last fall using my neighbor’s extension pruner to pull dead limbs from the tree. Some I had to break loose; many others were lodged in the junctions of other limbs. By pulling, poking, tugging and shoving, I was able to clear a full truckload of debris from the tree. The largest piece that I managed to get to the ground was eight inches thick at its base and over twenty feet long. A piece of oak that size could ruin an afternoon of mowing the yard simply by falling at an inopportune moment.

Since the efforts of that autumn afternoon, I haven’t had nearly as much oak trash to pick up. But when the winds gust up to forty miles an hour, there is still a task or two waiting for me when I get home. Yesterday’s task included eight feet of a branch that had been dead for some time along with the fragments thereof that separated on impact with the ground. Then, there were several tips of branches that were not dead; they had green leaves attached.

In a world where storms are sometimes stronger than oak trees, it takes more than bending a bit now and then to stand our ground. It takes a strength rooted into something solid, something that nourishes and anchors. We may lose a bit of ourselves along the way. But it is better to bear the scars of life and keep going and growing than to find ourselves shriveled and withered, tossed and tumbled like a rootless weed drifting about at the whims of the world.

H. Arnett
4/29/10

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The Leading

Posted on April 28, 2010 by Doc Arnett

One of the big drawbacks in my new obsession with mushroom hunting is the constant of new territory in the woods. So far I’ve been able to find my way back to the truck without major incident but there’s always a bit of anxiety whenever I push into a new section and lose sight of almost familiar landmarks. Last Wednesday night, the anxiety broached the boundaries of worry.

Randa and I had tried our hand at a night search. We arrived at our “spot” in the dusk when there was still plenty of light for walking the trail. After an hour of searching by flashlight, we’d found a couple of morels and decided to call it a night. I lead us easily back down the route that follows the descending ridge. Back down near the creek bottom, though, I missed a turn.

It wasn’t a big deal, really, I knew we were near the creek and the creek was near the parking lot. In just a few minutes, we were standing by the creek. Instead of having just two or three few steps down, though, we were on bank that stood fifteen feet above the water. A few more minutes of lateral approach and we found a place where we could get down and cross the creek.

In the darkness, in a section of the creek we’d never hiked and with a fading rechargeable battery, came the big question, “Left or right?” I was certain we needed to go to the right but Randa had a feeling we should go to the left. No reason, really, just a feeling. Going the wrong way, even for just five minutes, could leave us farther from the truck and without a light. My brain or her gut?

Over the years, I’ve seen that instinct for direction that Randa inherited from her dad prove itself over and over. It’s not superior observation or secret knowledge, just an instinct for knowing which way to go, even in a place where she’s never been before. So, we went left.

In less than a hundred feet, we rounded a bend in the creek and found the path that led directly to where the truck was parked. If we’d gone with my thinking, we would have ended up with a lot of extra walking and no small amount of frustration.

There are times in life when those of us so accustomed to the rule of reason may find it awkward and challenging to follow the leadings of a Spirit that cannot be seen or explained. But when we find that our following delivers us again and again, when we see over and over that listening to his leading brings about good that we could not have imagined, we learn to rely upon a compass unaffected by the spinnings of the world.

H. Arnett
4/28/10

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Warm Front

Posted on April 23, 2010 by Doc Arnett

Though we may not like the thunder
and lightning may scar the tree,
it is oft times the storm
brings the rain that feeds us.

The world around us sometimes roars
and we feel the searing flash,
but faith is formed and forged
and all of earth shall pass.

Branches break, torn from trees,
and the path is littered and strewn,
but in the aftermath of loss
hope that is true is known.

Though fear may flinch and flee
from the wind’s furious fling,
not all is ever lost
for love endures all things.

Though we may not like the thunder
and lightning may scar the tree,
it is oft times the storm
brings the rain that feeds us.

H. Arnett
4/23/10

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Reading the Signs

Posted on April 22, 2010 by Doc Arnett

Sometimes it is the mere doing of a thing that matters more than its expected result. Perhaps for duty, perhaps for pleasure, perhaps for process. And so, some men go fishing with no regard for catching, some women go shopping with no intent of buying. And sometimes, perhaps only once in a great while, a middle-aged couple might go looking for morel mushrooms in the dusk of the bluffs.

We parked in the gravel near the creek bed and hiked up to the ridge.

By the time we reached our little happy hunting grounds, it was too dark to see well enough for spotting the morels. That was why we brought flashlights with us. Within a couple of minutes, I was sure that either we were sharing this spot with other hunters or else whitetail deer also have a taste for fresh mushrooms. “Other hunters” either way, I guess.

There were numerous spots of bare earth showing amid the spread of leaves on the ground. In the hour of searching, I only found two keepers. In this case, “keepers” is synonymous with “visible.” I also found three “false morels” which don’t really look all that much like the edible variety, if you are used to looking at the edible variety: the stem is whiter, much longer in proportion to the cap, and the texture of the stem is totally different (full of tiny bumps and with a powdery feel).

It is only the cap itself that bears much resemblance at all to the true morel; it is of similar color and has a similar spongy texture. Apparently, that is enough to trick some people into eating these imitators. The results are not pleasant, I am told. The results are never pleasant when we allow ourselves to be deceived and enticed into consuming something other than that which our Maker intended for us. Which ought to make us very careful about where we go to church, what books we read and what talk shows we listen to.

Not everything that calls itself “Christian” bears the signs of genuine love, redeeming faith and sustaining hope.

H. Arnett
4/22/10

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Walking the Old Logging Trail

Posted on April 21, 2010 by Doc Arnett

Colors of fragrance
drift up from the earth,
pastels and bolds of wild fruit and flowers,
the rare swallowtail of April
surging through the scent,
pulsing among the trunks and branches.

Along the grass of the old logging trail,
last year’s stems stiff their brown
amidst the green and growing.
The breeze pauses in the leaves.

The sun’s sudden warmth on my face
burns through the thin of faded shirt,
reminding me that I was young
years ago
and often worked or walked
without a shirt.

I smile to myself,
think only briefly
of hiking bare bellied for a while.
The breeze returns,
gently tugging such thoughts
out of my mind.

I am not young now
and such pale softness
should remain concealed from the world.

But I did make the climb
from the creek bed
to the top of the ridge
in less than six minutes today.

In every stage of life
there is reason for giving thanks
to him who has made us
mortal.

H. Arnett
4/21/10

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The Morel of the Story-Part II

Posted on April 20, 2010 by Doc Arnett

There must have been something in the air this weekend, something other than the highest pollen count in years. Something fresh and sweet and enticing. Perhaps, even, something a bit intoxicating. Something that led me to suggest we go down to Bluff Woods and look for mushrooms. It was not a suggestion that I have made very often. And, I added a totally unfair clincher to the proposition: “We can go by Hardee’s and get breakfast.” If there’s a better biscuit in the fast food industry, I haven’t found it yet. Randa was so stunned that she must have thought for at least several nanoseconds before agreeing to the idea.

And so, as I finished up the last of my double sausage, egg and cheese biscuit, we drove to Bluff Woods on a beautiful April morning. Sweet Williams were in the prime of their blooming as we made our way up through the woods. An occasional white bloom accented beds of May Apples. Virginia creeper sprouts seemed to cover the forest floor while Jack-in-the-Pulpits added their interest.

We searched for an hour, working our way up the hill. Based on everything that Randa had told me about the tells of rotting logs and May Apples, it did not seem possible that we found nothing. “Maybe we need to find a place that gets more sun; maybe it hasn’t been warm enough yet,” Randa wondered aloud. I suggested we try a south slope instead of a north one. We crossed an old logging trail running along the ridge and continued the search.

After another thirty minutes, Randa yelled, “I found some!! I found some!” Sure enough, she had. Small and virtually identical in color to some of the leaves on the ground, a few golden morels had sprouted. I looked around and found a couple more. So, there actually were mushrooms in the woods! Randa was ecstatic and I was convinced she had not been taking me on daytime versions of the snipe hunt for the past twenty years. But I had still not found any mushrooms on my own.

Twenty minutes later, that changed. As I stood, looking around through filtered sunlight at the impossible blend of leaves and stems, vines and branches, I saw a spongy cone sticking up amidst the leaves. I had found, on my own, my first native gray morel mushroom. It only took twenty years from the time I was first told they actually do grow around here. Twenty years. It was profoundly satisfying and in the ensuing thirty minutes, I found another sixteen or so. Of course, Randa found more than twenty, but that was OK; I had finally made the transition from skeptic to believer.

Nothing had changed in the reality of the mushroom. The change was that I went from “hearing about” to actually experiencing. Though it was profound, indeed, it was nothing to compare with a somehow similar transformation I underwent decades ago in regard to salvation and the Holy Spirit. Something more real than mushrooms.

H. Arnett
4/20/10

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The Morel of the Story-Part I

Posted on April 19, 2010 by Doc Arnett

I’d never heard of morel mushrooms until I came to Missouri. Boy howdy, have I heard of them since then! Come April, a good rain and a few days of temperatures in the seventies and the roadside will be sprinkled with abandoned vehicles. People flock to the woods as if they suddenly believe leprechauns really do exist.

Randa first tried to persuade me of the fact (the mushrooms, not the leprechauns) over twenty years ago. Being a natural born hiker and outdoorsman, I readily joined her on the first jaunt. After forty-five minutes or so of fruitlessly searching for something she described as looking “kind of like a sponge,” I was ready to give up and go home. Actually, I was ready to give up after ten minutes. She, being more convinced of the phenomenon than I was, took longer to reach that point.

I will also confess that I was not all that eager to try a sample of the ‘shrooms that her brother, Kevin, gave us after hearing about our pitiful situation. For four or five hours, she rinsed and soaked, soaked and rinsed the morels, trying to rid them of the last little critter. Then, she breaded and fried them (the mushrooms, not the critters). It was obvious that she was in a state of ecstasy as she exclaimed, “Oh, these are wonderful! I love these things!” Then she stretched a sample toward me and smiled in utter delight, “Try this.”

She had no idea what level of determination and devotion was required for me to participate in that culinary experience; I tried it. It wasn’t bad, I had to admit. The second one seemed a little better. By the fifth one, I think I’d actually begun to like them.

With my acquired taste came a new willingness to search for morels in the wild. By our tenth year together, I’d pretty much given up. After twenty years, I was quite content to take our chances with the occasional benevolence of others and have one or two servings of mushrooms in the few years of abundance. Without a determined faith and a confident hope, it’s kind of hard to put in the kind of work that leads to good results.

H. Arnett
4/19/10

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