Choices

Posted on December 22, 2009 by Doc Arnett

In the dark of this morning’s dawning, I hold to these few minutes of quietness. Drizzle collects on the oak branches, seeps downward. Old leaves turn soft and the still green grass of December carries memory and promise. In these forming thoughts of this new day, I choose the way of faith, believing in the good that can come from each day. Sooner or later, some undesired event will make its way into the course of my life but I have seen God bring good from each of those. I have found, too, that it comes more quickly when I let go of the hurt and the senseless rehearsals of harm.

Dread and regret multiply the unpleasant of our lives; we end up enduring much more than happens.

Far better than begrudging the dampness to welcome the slow peaceful of the rain and pay particular attention to the way it patterns the bark of an oak formed before my parents were born.

H. Arnett
12/22/09

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The Indwelling

Posted on December 18, 2009 by Doc Arnett

In the slight warmth of two clear days,
whatever of snow that lay thin against the stone steps
has melted away,
leaving a clear dark path in the moonlight
from the garage to the house.

I walk slowly,
careful of the thaw between,
the mush of green just above the still-frozen soil.

On the bank of the woods,
in the shadowed lee of last week’s wind
and in the drifting bends of earth
whose change will take more than a few degrees above freezing,
the wake of the storm still holds white,
bright in the night’s slight glow.

There is more of snow to come in this season of cold and shadows,
three days before the calendar’s winter begins.

I’ve come to think of the marking of seasons
as a sort of average,
an imposed structure generally right about things,
with the occasional blizzard a month early
or late,
and sometimes a week in January
when even in Nebraska, a thin jacket is plenty.

I like those days well enough, I reckon.
But I keep the coats handy until May.

I step across the last frozen stones,
open the back door,
welcoming the warmth that lives within,
that carries me through life’s
occasional sendings of cold
that cuts bare the bone of the soul.

H. Arnett
12/18/09

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Images of Evil

Posted on December 17, 2009 by Doc Arnett

I have seen evil that comes sweeping in like an enraged lion, claws slashing, fangs gnashing: snarling, leaping, twisting, devouring in an insatiable blood lust. I have seen evil that comes slinking along the wall, silent in the shadows, waiting, pouncing from the darkness. I have seen evil that comes whistling along the sidewalk, nonchalantly walking as if without a care in the world: easy, comfortable, reassuring, arm resting on your shoulders, without a single disturbing word as you sink slowly into the sucking sand. I have seen evil that pretends it is there to help, wide-eyed and innocent, smiling and confident, a strong hand lifting you up and holding you while the other steals away everything you hold most dear. I have even seen evil that holds sway over others, convincing them that their own truest fate hangs in its hands, giving pittance and demanding sustenance. I have seen a variety of evils, yes.

But all of them share this; they are evil. And when evil is exposed, every form of it turns violent, lashing out at those who dare call it evil. Bare-fanged and hostile, it seeks to devour and destroy. While it may happen in the immediateness of its onset or after decades of beguiling practice, eventually, every host of evil becomes its victim.

Guard my heart, O God!

H. Arnett
12/17/09

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A Better Place

Posted on December 16, 2009 by Doc Arnett

There’s just something about a wind chill in the double digits below zero that makes you feel alive! Skin defined by that cold knife, clearly marking the boundaries of the body, breath burning in your chest. Then, of course, there’s the part that comes after that first few minutes when the ache yields to numbness and all of thinking turns to warmth and shelter. Something in the wind of a bitter day makes me grateful for having an indoor job and glad that I don’t have to get up at four-thirty and head to the milk barn.

I have enough of precious memories from that era of my life, of morning milkings and evening feedings and my feet and face stinging in the cold. Memories of jersey gloves, cheap boots and two pairs of socks not being enough to keep away the cold for the two hours it took for the chores. The stinging turning to pain.

There were better memories, too. Playing in the creek, fishing and building forts in the hayloft. Good memories, a strong work ethic and a love of the outdoors. But not enough to have ever made me nostalgic for the dairy farm.

I know how spoiled my life is now. I know and am grateful for every warm moment.

H. Arnett
12/15/09

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Priorities

Posted on December 14, 2009 by Doc Arnett

Christy brought Hunter and Gage over Saturday morning for one of Papa Doc’s famous breakfasts. We used to manage to lure them over at least once a month before the boys got old enough for baseball to take over their lives. Between games and practices and tournaments and travel, it had been nearly a year since we last managed to get whipped cream and waffles fit into the schedule.

The adults managed to fill up on single servings but both boys needed an extra share of waffle to finish out their appetites. After that, we moved to the living room. I built a fire while Gage did a word search puzzle and Hunter worked on a crossword challenge. Randa and Christy helped out with those projects and talked to each other.

With the fire going, I went down to the basement and retrieved Buzzword. With the guys versus the gals, we played that for a while. Christy had to go run some errands and we were tickled to watch the boys for her. Randa remembered that the “Quiddler” game she’d bought last Christmas was still unopened and that it was high time to remedy that oversight. In a nutshell, Quiddler is like playing Scrabble but using cards instead of blocks. It was darn impressive to see how well Gage to the game; even if he wasn’t a grandkid, he has very good spelling skills for a nine-year-old.

Christy got back from her errands and joined us for another game of Quiddler before they all had to leave. It was a good day. Nothing fancy, nothing elaborate, nothing expensive or complicated. Just a laid back time of letting nothing else be more important than spending the day enjoying some time spent together. The sort of day that lays well in memory. Whatever work got put aside will probably find its own time some other time. At least every now and then, just being together ought to move up to the top of the Next Actions List.

H. Arnett
12/14/09

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Have You Heard the Ice Bells?

Posted on December 11, 2009 by Doc Arnett

Driving northeast on the WK Parkway, I noticed white clumps matted against the base of weeds on the banks. They appeared in clusters at the edge of woods, mats of paper caught against the base. I saw them again and again, finally wondering what miscreant could have sown so much toilet paper along the roadside. I gradually came to think these must instead be clumps of ice formed by rain catching on the plants and draining down to the base before freezing. Beyond Leitchfield, the pattern stopped and I thought little more about it until we turned east on the Bluegrass Parkway at E-town. The pattern began again.

This time, I decided to stop. Walking back along the roadside, I found another cluster, jumped the ditch and began my inspection. I would not have been more surprised if I’d found albino Franklins plastered to the weeds.

Indeed the clumps were ice, but “clumps” is not at all the right word for what I found. Instead of the heavy, thick ice I expected, the formations were more like crystal bells, hollow and incredibly thin and fragile. The shells were translucent, veined of thin layers and concentric rings. These ice bells varied from only an inch or so in diameter and height to as much as six and eight inches tall and up to three inches wide at their base.

On other weeds, ribbons of ice grew out in vertical shafts like feathers on an arrow. On some, two feathers on opposite sides. On others, three or even four had formed. Some grew almost straight out while others curved and curled. Incredible in beauty and variation, all shared the translucent color and the veins or rings depending on shape. All formed only toward the base of straight, slender weeds. There were none on trees or posts or on any plants with branches.

I have no idea of certainty regarding their formation. Perhaps a perfect combination of temperature with freezing rain and mist and just the right exposure to wind or maybe protection from it. I don’t know.

What I do know is that we ought to be able to fully enjoy the marvel of beauty even when confronted by partial and imperfect explanation. There are things whose origins are self-evident and others whose beginnings are still shrouded in mystery. The beauty of a baby is in its own being, not in the explanation of its conception.

Is it less so with God?

H. Arnett
12/10/09

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Elijah Daniel Switzer

Posted on December 9, 2009 by Doc Arnett

Elijah Daniel Switzer

He is tiny and sweet and has a head full of dark brown hair, though his mother swears that it is not as thick as it was when he was born four weeks ago. I sit on the couch with him lying on my knees. I study his eyes, eyebrows, nose, mouth, chin, ears, trying to memorize every feature and remember Susan at this age.

I do not yield to the tempting flood of memory, that overwhelming washing of a thousand moments, images of past eras. I yield to only an image or two and feel in me the cleansing of miracles, the grasp of frail fingers, bones barely formed. I rub the back of my fingers across Daniel’s hair and feel the soft spot between the plates of his skull. I press one eye lightly against his cheek, close my eye a few times to feel my lashes against his face. Lightly, I touch my nose against his forehead and draw deeply the smell of infant skin, the scent of life and love.

Such things as this can blur one’s perceptions, dull the harsh edge of the world beyond, fade memories of un-righted wrongs. Particularly those that are our own.

I hold Daniel a while longer, caressing him and these few moments, looking at him and cradling him in ways that my father never held my children. I mourn that loss without cost to this moment.

Susan gets up from her chair and crosses the living room, leans over to take him from me. I smile at her and kiss her arm as she reaches down for Daniel.

H. Arnett
12/09/10

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Contrition & Exultation

Posted on December 2, 2009 by Doc Arnett

“Through it all, through it all, I have learned to trust in Jesus; I have learned to trust in God.”

So goes that fine Andrae Crouch chorus, reminding me that in every situation, I have yet to see God fail. I have failed, schemes have failed, half-hearted dreams have failed but I have never, ever, been disappointed whenever I have truly trusted Jesus.

Time and time again, I have seen unplanned, unforeseen, unexpected deliverance, providence and provision. Even in those times when my own hope has flagged, when depression descends into despondency and the blues turn charcoal gray, things work out. A check arrives in the mail, a friendly voice greets me on the phone and some other hand reaches down beside mine, takes a firmer grasp and lifts my heart and my load.

How often, O Lord, have I doubted, wondered whether my deliverance would come a day late and a dollar short and found that like David, though I am no longer young, I have never been forsaken, never begged for bread?

How fine to see the mercy that lifts me, spares me, eases me through the deepest darkness and finds me standing in the vapor of a lifting fog, safe, anchored to Him who does not change! How wonderful the grace that carries me further than seems possible, that supplies all that I lack, all that I long for, all that I need! Escaping the deceit of my greed and my longing for the things of this earth, I find that I am richly supplied, having more than I dreamed, more than I deserve. How much more than food and clothing! How ridiculous in this abundance to crave more!

Help me, O God, to escape the illusions of this world’s cravings and be satisfied by your righteousness, your love, your caring. Help me to steward that which I have so that in my abundance others may have more and in my lacking, I shall be overfilled.

That your name might be blessed.

H. Arnett
12-02-09

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Bowl Games

Posted on December 1, 2009 by Doc Arnett

It is morning on Thanksgiving Day and things are already underway in the kitchen. Breakfast over, yeast dough rising in its bowl on the countertop. After breakfast, I made a “one more package of celery” run to the grocery store and picked up a carton of Mountain Dew since I was already there. Randa’s son, Jaylon, likes Mountain Dew and so does his favorite step-dad. Haydn and Asher are coloring when I get back from the store.

Grandma Randa clears the table in the breakfast nook and I sharpen knives, readying for the ritual of fruit salad. As far back as I can remember, fruit salad was part of Thanksgiving. Quite possibly, my earliest memory of helping out in the kitchen is tied to fruit salad. While they were growing up, I taught the tradition to my own children, having them help me with the peeling and slicing: oranges, apples, peaches, pears and grapes. Now, I am teaching the grandchildren.

Haydn and Asher remember helping last year and are eager for this year’s tasks. We put a few layers of newspaper on the table and start out with careful demonstration and supervision of grape bisection. After a few slices, Jay and I decide Asher isn’t quite ready for the Sharp Tools Division and switch him over to orange peeling. Somehow, it seems safer to put a spoon into the hands of a seven-year-old. Another two years sometimes makes a world of difference. Haydn finishes the grape detail while I slice and dice apples, peaches and pears.

I joke with the kids, flipping cherry halves into the bowl with a spoon. That is almost as funny as when the one bit landed a little to the left. Hence, the newspaper. I pretend that Grandma Randa mustn’t know that I’m giving each of them a whole Maraschino and they are predictably delighted to be in on the secret.

We finish up with each of them putting in a couple of small handfuls of pecan pieces and coconut and I stir it all together. We’ll add the bananas right before serving. Haydn and Asher run off to play and I clear the table, throw away the newspaper and wash the knives and spoon.

Maybe later, much later, they’ll remember this more than “Quit banging on the piano!” and “You guys quit jumping around up there.” I’m pretty sure they will. Somehow, it has always seemed that fathers need more forgiveness than grandfathers. A little fruit salad can go a long way.

H. Arnett
12-01-09

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Thanksgiving Blessing

Posted on November 25, 2009 by Doc Arnett

The blessing of smiles and hugs at the front door,
the sound of laughter in the living room,
the feel of warm voices in the kitchen
and a peaceful clamoring at the table,

The reassuring fill of good food and fine desserts,
the satisfied brush of napkins,
a lingering at the table
and unhurried dishes stacked by the sink,

An evening of contented conversation,
an intermingling of hearts and lives,
stories shared and shared again,
good moments re-visited, caressed by caring,

Safe travel,
Peaceful arrival,
and the bounty of God’s own hand:

May all this
and more
be yours.

H. Arnett
11/25/09

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