Hope with Hot-Rize Plus

Posted on March 11, 2010 by Doc Arnett

The registrar’s office over at the college has undertaken quite the project recently. With the assistance of an external organization, they are digitizing student records from the past few millennia. Currently, these are stored in their original folders, created shortly after the advent of manila paper and kept in a few hundred filing cabinets in the basement of our Administration Building. It is the task of the registrar’s office to cull through the files, remove any non-critical records and prepare new copies of anything on facsimile paper, anything with anything on it that could foul up an automated paper feeder and anything on something other than an 8-1/2 by 11 inch piece of paper. In other words, if the Lord tarries, they will finish this project by the time our elected officials begin to put the good of common people above their own re-election.

Randa has been working late a few evenings each week in order to help out. Alphabetically speaking, they have just begun the “D’s.” Even when you factor in my tilt toward hyperbole, it’s going to take a while. I’m doing my part to help out, sort of, in a very non-direct manner.

I’ve been cooking cornbread.

Funny thing about hot bread in the oven when you open the back door on a cool, rainy evening after a long day at the office (or anywhere else): that aroma alone can make you think that there is good left in the world and that you might even get a piece of it. Fresh bread makes any leftover seem like a much better meal. Fresh bread, especially with a pat of melted butter, makes everything else on the table seem like the perfect complement. Its aroma and texture assure you that the flavor will be delicious, a wonderful experience. It brings you to the table, full of expectation and confidence.

In that regard, at least, fresh bread is not a bad representation of the effect that hope has on the heart.

H. Arnett
3/11/10

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Self-Preservation

Posted on March 10, 2010 by Doc Arnett

In the quiet mist of early morning, a lone coyote emerges from the tall grass and low brush near the fencerow, makes its way across the rows of corn stubble. The snow has melted, most of it leaching into the field. Where the drifts are deep, it seeps into the surface, meets saturation and then weeps along the ditch toward the river. The skies hang heavy and low, bringing sense of the coming day.

Turning west, the coyote trots parallel to the road, following the long row, across the bottom and up the slope toward the west ridge. The blended grays, blacks and whites of its fur move in slow motion blur against the orange tan of the stalks of corn, frayed ends burnt by winter.

Caught by some sound or scent beyond my sensing, she stops, ears and eyes frozen by sudden caution.

It is often in the sensing of the unseen that we preserve our souls.

H. Arnett
3/10/10

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Old Plaster, Fresh Praise

Posted on March 9, 2010 by Doc Arnett

This church building is old and past the point where repairs are justified in the value added or preserved. There are signs in the ceiling plaster of leaks that will one day become disaster if left untended. In the walls beside the balcony, brick stands exposed by the absence of plaster and paint, mortar joints open.

Yet there is still beauty in the structure. The curve of the balcony, rimmed by oak trim, still holds its grace above the lower section. There is warmth in the worn and pocked pine floor, sloping down beneath oak pews toward the pulpit and podium. Sunday morning glows softly through the stained glass windows. All that is here and made by human hands speaks of age and wear and passing years.

But in the scripture songs of modern time and tempo, in the exaltation of adoration, all of that which is limited and bound is released and replaced by these witnesses of worship. Hearts are joined in stronger bonds as prayers ascend, prayers offered by strangers for one another, prayers offered by family members and spouses, prayers offered by a homeless man, sitting in the corner, made equal by faith and mercy. We stand and lift our hands toward heaven, singing of grace and glory beyond our comprehension.

In this place where even bricks grow old, we have come together for a while in this giving of praise, which will endure even beyond this world. In this, we realize communion.

H. Arnett
3/9/10

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Miracle from the Mud

Posted on March 8, 2010 by Doc Arnett

While winter may not yet be over, it has at least granted a bit of respite. We had three days of sunshine with temperatures climbing all the way to fifty before the rain came. It’s easier now to think that spring is not too long away. Easier to think of gardening.

I have always been fascinated by the miracle of seeds. As a young kid, I helped plant our garden in southwestern Kentucky. Later, I helped with planting the farm crops. Still later, I planted my own gardens. Always, I waited a bit impatiently for the first showing of the plants.

Even though the first two or four leaves looked nothing like the later leaves, I knew that the beans would soon show their heart-shaped leaves and the corn would turn tiny first signs into long blades. It seemed impossible that these fragile sprouts could ever turn into anything of note. Eventually, though, the plants would tower over me and the green beans would twine their way up the stalks.

In the blooming, both vine and stalk began to form seeds of the very nature from which they had sprouted. Even in my youthful impatience, I knew that time would yield what we had planted. Always, we harvested beans from beans, corn from corn, melon from melon. Never did we plant cockleburs and reap roasting ears. Nor did we ever pull muskmelons off of milkweed.

The refreshing and delicious fruits of the Spirit are harvested when we sow after the Spirit. The seeds of peace and patience, goodness and kindness will yield the fruits of their kind.

Eventually.

H. Arnett
3/8/10

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Moonshiners, Rumrunners and Bootleggers

Posted on March 5, 2010 by Doc Arnett

While I was flipping through channels a few weeks ago I came across a PBS documentary, “Moonshiners, Rumrunners and Bootleggers.” Without regard to my public or private image, I laid the remote down and started watching. Blame it on the time I spent during my formative years driving through those misty hills around Kentucky Lake.

At any rate, a quote from a history professor during the program provoked my interest. In explaining the historic willingness of folks in the more remote parts of Pennsylvania, Virginia, and other sections of Appalachia to ignore some of the more inconvenient aspects of federalism, he explained, “We are a nation founded on rebellion… Independence and rejection of authority are part of our national character.” Mindful of both past and present, I couldn’t argue much with his assessment.

Ridicule of our highest officials, including our President, is standard fare on late night TV and various comedy shows. Disrespect and irreverence are increasingly infused characteristics of our society. Nor are they reserved for our highest officials. Even if we may slack off in some aspects of democracy, when it comes to scorn and insolence; we blast everybody.

In a culture that prizes freedom to the point of fostering disobedience and gives deference to no one, it is a challenge to remember that the only true freedom is that which Christ gives. And it is even more challenging in such a culture to model the submission that Jesus himself practiced. It is he who has shown us that he brought us freedom so that we might reveal that true greatness is demonstrated when we willingly serve one another in love.

H. Arnett
3/5/10

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The Right Tool, Plugged In

Posted on March 4, 2010 by Doc Arnett

For many years, I did my remodeling and woodworking projects with a small jigsaw that I’d bought back when I was still in school. Maybe it was stubbornness, maybe it was cheapness, maybe it was ignorance. Maybe I just never thought about it much. But after watching another guy from church use a much larger and more powerful reciprocating saw, none of the above was enough to keep me from upgrading my personal arsenal of woodcutting tools. When Sears put their industrial-model reciprocating saw on sale, I bought one.

My very next project required cutting a circular hole through a double layer of wood siding and hardwood boxing in order to run a vent. It would have taken me at least fifteen minutes with my little jigsaw. The new tool ripped through that two inches of wood in less than a minute! I could hardly believe it. I imagined all of the extra time and effort I’d spent over the years working with that under-sized, underpowered tool. I don’t think I’ve used that little jigsaw since then.

In an associated reflection, I know that I also struggled with life, trying to accomplish with human effort what cannot be accomplished with human effort; I tried to live the abundant life and to be godly without the power that God supplies through his Holy Spirit. It is not that the Christian walk does not involve individual exertion.

Indeed, as Peter writes, we must “make every effort” in our spiritual growth but instead of the feeble tools of self-improvement, we should lay hold of that power that enables us to “participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world.” Just as being godly requires God and being Christian requires Christ, so, too, being spiritual requires the Spirit.

H. Arnett
3-4-10

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The Battle Belongs to the Lord

Posted on March 3, 2010 by Doc Arnett

In the midst of my petty struggles and challenges, I remember an episode from nearly twenty years ago.

It was a time of incredible turmoil: one of our children had just had a minor brush with the law, another was just being released from residential treatment, our church was in the middle of yet another self-induced crisis and our personal budget had taken more hits than a crash test dummy.

My almost lifelong struggle with depression held me teetering at the edge of the chasm. Then, my wife was hospitalized. I was afraid to even think the question, “What next?” I couldn’t help but think of that old joke: “Cheer up,” they told me, “Things could be worse.” So, I cheered up. Sure enough, things got worse.

Just then, when it seemed that I had every excuse in the world to take a running jump and do a quadruple gainer into the Pit of Despair, God gave me a miracle. A miracle of faith.

Somehow, in the midst of all of this, I felt an inexplicable calmness and confidence. “Everything will be OK” spoke to me and lifted me above the chaos. I experienced the peace that passes understanding, knowing that a power beyond mind over matter had taken hold of me, of all of these things. I could not explain it but I certainly experienced it. Without having any idea how all of these things could possibly work out, I still knew, absolutely, that they would.

And they did.

H. Arnett
3/3/10

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Payback

Posted on March 2, 2010 by Doc Arnett

About a year-and-a-half ago, I decided to amuse myself at the expense of one of my friends. Having noticed that our glasses were almost identical, except for frame color, I swapped while he was gone from our table for a moment during a coffee break.

My friend came back to the table a couple minutes later. We continued sipping coffee and talking for another ten minutes. He didn’t notice that I was wearing his glasses or that I kept watching him closely and trying to keep the grin off my face. Of course, I was hoping that he’d pick up the other pair of glasses, slip them on and be suddenly confounded by the fact that everything he was looking at was distorted and wavy. Finally, I gave up and told him what I’d done. He was genuinely surprised, never having noticed the similarity in our eyewear.

Like I said, this was a while back.

Two weeks ago, we met with three other couples for an afternoon concert and then had them over for supper. My friend and his wife were one of the couples. We had a wonderful evening. After a supper of Randa’s stew and homemade cheesebread, we sat at the table and talked for over an hour. Stimulating conversation on a variety of topics. Much better than a couple of hours of TV.

Later that night, I couldn’t find my glasses. I looked in all of the usual places I find them when I can’t remember where I’ve left them but couldn’t find them anywhere. The next day, I called the woman in charge of the concert to see if I might have left my glasses at the table where we sat during the reception following the concert. “No,” she said, firmly, “I cleaned up the table where you were; there were no glasses there.”

I looked again at home. No luck. I looked in the car, looked at work. Then, I looked at home again. Randa looked. No glasses, anywhere. We looked again on Sunday evening, two weeks after the dinner party. No glasses. But while we were looking, I remembered my mischief from the fall of 2008. I knew I was grabbing at straws but I gave my friend a call anyway to see if he might have accidentally picked up a pair of glasses that looked remarkably familiar.

“I don’t think I picked up an extra pair of glasses but I’ll take a look,” he offered. “Well,” I responded, “If you find a pair of gold framed glasses that look a lot like yours, let me know.”

I got my glasses back yesterday morning. Sometimes, even in reaping the rewards of our mischief, we may be blessed.

H. Arnett
3/2/10

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A Generous Outpouring

Posted on March 1, 2010 by Doc Arnett

I don’t reckon that we would be at all considered lonely or alone if I said that we’ve had an unusual number of snowstorms. I suspect there are a few million folks living on the east coast who might react with a decided lack of sympathy. They’ve used so much on themselves this bizarre winter that they don’t have any left for anyone else. Without getting into a pity party, then, let me just say that by mid-February, we have had more than three times the usual amount. And, we still another two months of potential snowfall left.

While I have tired of shoveling, I’d have to say it’s been a beautiful season, nonetheless. Up north of Saint Joe Saturday, I saw many drifts in the four-to-six-foot range and a few that would have topped ten feet. Whether deep or shallow, the drifts and seams of snow across the fields bear the markings of the wind. The overhanging edges of drifts droop and curl at the top of the banks, sifting below the breaks of fence and grass. In my passings, I wonder at the endless patterns, the dips, the smooth openings around the base of posts and trees. Such scenes would be impossible in a bare dusting of snow but are inevitable in such generous bestowings as these.

Such is the working in our hearts, minds, souls and spirits with the generous outpouring of God’s Holy Spirit. Sent to be near to us, to be our guide, our comforter, and our teacher when the Son returned to his Father’s side, Jesus did not mete out the Holy Spirit to us in a tiny, not-quite-enough rationing. Instead, we have been endued with the very nature and presence of God so that our former nature might be joyfully overwhelmed. With such supply, we cannot but bear in our lives the constant marking of the movings of the Spirit. In our yielding, we are filled with his presence.

H. Arnett

3/1/10

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The Work of Others

Posted on February 26, 2010 by Doc Arnett

Thanks to the bi-weekly ritual of the blood draw for INR (blood clotting factor), I had a little time before leaving the house yesterday. I decided I’d scrape away that thin layer of snow covering the cement steps between the house and the garage. The job only took a few minutes but in the sub-zero wind chill my face was already stinging by the time I finished. So were my fingers, in spite of the gloves.

“This isn’t so bad,” I thought, reaching for the door handle to enter the garage. “Yeah, not so bad as long as you don’t have to be out in it all day!”

I was glad, suddenly, that I wasn’t one of those whose lot in life doesn’t provide for their day’s work to be done in the shelter of warm walls and steady heat. I don’t have to spend my day delivering mail to people too frail, too weak or too lazy to clear the snow from their steps and walks. I don’t have to earn my daily bread by crawling under houses to thaw out and fix frozen water pipes. I don’t have to climb up into frozen air to repair broken utility lines or climb down into the city’s sewers to assure the unthinking continuity of modern life. I don’t work 24-hour shifts so the streets will be more conveniently driven the day after the storm.

While I may be aggravated by the continual cold and the nuisance of blowing snow, I am still able to admire the shapes and shadows on the drifted fields as we drive to work. While enjoying the beauty of the winter, I will try to remember those whose bodies ache from the wrenching cold, whose work is often ignored, often taken for granted. And I will remember, too, the pain that paid the price of my sin and I will be grateful. His work, too, is often ignored, often taken for granted.

H. Arnett
2/26/10

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