A Few Good Things

Posted on November 23, 2009 by Doc Arnett

To hold to love is a good thing.
To choose peace over strife keeps many from sin.
To finish a good beginning brings blessing
and to turn, confessing,
from what should not have been done
can at least prepare for something better.

To see the gray of a day without dawn
and yet move on
as if the sun were shining brightly
and birds singing on the lower branches
moves our minds away from circumstance
and more toward intentional good.

Sometimes in the harsh voice of reason
salvation is found
and many a foot is set on a darker path
by the too quick nod of selfish agreement.

We ought to take care to consider a thing
in the greater light of teaching
and insight into the nature of the Christ,
spend more time contemplating
his goodness, mercy, grace and justice,
less in the way of explaining
why it was OK for us to ignore them.

Ought not a Christian nation
be the most humble on the face of the earth?
And its citizens less eager
to gain this world’s goods
and more willing to share them?

H. Arnett
11/23/09

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It Is Well

Posted on November 20, 2009 by Doc Arnett

In the midst of life’s deepest griefs, in the moment of our greatest fears, in the time of trials and testings, in the unbounded joy of greatest blessing and in the rut-running routine of life in between all those, choices come to us. The voices of faith and fear, delight and doubt, all draw near and seek us out, whispering, clamoring, seeking to draw us near to God or to draw us deeper into the fog of wondering and questioning. Dusk sometimes giving way to darkness.

Some avoid that bog of doubt, kept out either by faith, indifference or oblivion. Others slog through their cynicism, further convinced by each disappointment, each hurt, each turning, that all is indeed, bleak and lost, the cost always exceeding the payoff. Each step further into the blackness convincing them that light is an illusion.

Others simply resolved in their own hearts and minds that there were things beyond their control and other things controlled by their own choices and still others, perhaps left to chance. Regardless of cause, these ones always sought the good, accepted the bad, grieved loss and were comforted, healed and continued on.

As for me, there have been times when I wondered whether the evil in me would ever be tamed, when I stepped into the slough, not by deceit but by my own choosing. I blamed others as long as I could but found they had little to do with it. Ultimately, I did evil because I delighted in it. I sinned because sin appealed to me.

Broken, in agony, I finally cried out, “It is me, Lord. It is me.”

And though I still see the long after lingerings of effect, I know that I have been cleaned and in the words of that fine old hymn, penned by a widower grieving at the very spot where his family perished, “… my sin, not in part, but the whole has been nailed to the cross and I bear it no more.”

Yes, indeed, praise the Lord!

H. Arnett
11/20/09

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Sharing

Posted on November 19, 2009 by Doc Arnett

Fernando Ortega is one of those anointed singers, those whose lyrics and voice seem to find the center of the spirit, bringing hope and healing. There are other singers, more noted and more known, singers of dynamic, pulsating music. Music that touches a different part of me. I admire their voice, their talent, their technical skill. None of that diminishes Fernando’s gift. His voice, his talent, his skill are impressive. But the reason that I listen to his music over and over and over is that his music speaks to my inner person.

His music reaches through the debris of the day, the emotional lingerings, the twistings of this life’s wasteland and touches my heart, my mind, my self. Whether in a folk arrangement of an old hymn with fiddle fills and cello leads or a new song created in his living room on his piano, I listen and am comforted.

There are many incredibly gifted people in the world. Some whose gifts have given them more wealth than nations, some whose gifts have brought them fame and acclaim. But whether shared on giant flat screens in arenas and stadiums or on the back porch on a summer day, those whose hearts and hands are anointed of God bring into our world a blessing of sharing.

Such gifts are not measured in units sold, tickets purchased or Nielsen ratings; they are measured in the soul.

H. Arnett
11/19/09

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Forever

Posted on November 18, 2009 by Doc Arnett

Somewhere between
the raking of leaves and the burning,
I caught the sound of geese,
looked up and saw them flying,
high overhead in a sky the blue of a clear October day.

They shifted in form and direction,
white bellies catching the reflection of the sun,
black-banded wings speckling the pattern.
As they turned one way and another,
different angles of light
caught certain beats of white in sparkling glow:
the lines seemed to shimmer.

The glimmering faded then brightened alternately,
like the sides of silver fish herded by dolphins.
I watched them but for a moment,
saw the last gleaming,
then, could see them no more.

There are many wonders in this world,
things made by the hands of human
and other things more wondrous,
made by other hands.

Sometimes they stand for centuries,
other times are lost in the space of a cough,
a slight turning,
caught often only in a single glance
and then lost
like the last note of a dance.

Flowers fade, leaves fall, trees die.

But even when faith has passed into sight
and hope into holding,
there will be love.

H. Arnett
11/18/09

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Down by the Riverside

Posted on November 17, 2009 by Doc Arnett

A colleague sent me a YouTube link yesterday of a video clip depicting an ambush in Africa. A herd of Cape buffalo is seen approaching a river. Obviously unbeknownst to the herd, a group of several lionesses are hunkered down in a wallow. Of course, the lions know all along what they’re planning but the herd has no idea at all. The predators tan blends in perfectly with the sand and dirt. By the time the lead bull sees the lions, it is too late. A young calf is quickly singled out and bowled over into the river. In knee-deep water, one lion grabs it by the throat, another by the head. Two others join in without much effect. Mostly they’re just there, waiting for the calf to suffocate.

After a few minutes, there is a commotion in the water and the lions suddenly start dragging the calf up the steep bank. A crocodile has grabbed the calf’s hinder parts. The lions win this fifteen-second tug-of-war and smother the calf to the ground and gather around it for dinner.

The herd has other plans.

The entire throng moves up close. One and another take turns rushing up toward the lions in what is surely a bluff. One of the buffs isn’t bluffing, though. It targets the lion on the near end and rushes, then spins and lands a double rear kick into the lion’s ribs, knocking it away from the calf. Then, it chases the lion away.

Just after that, another of the Cape crew tears into the group, dips its horns down underneath a lion and flips it up into the air like a rag doll. It lands near the herd and is quickly chased off in the opposite direction.

At that point, the calf struggles to its feet again, another buffalo and then another move in. One digs with its horns and the other delivers a whirling spin kick and the calf is freed. It runs back into the middle of the herd and the lions retreat. All in all, a pretty amazing episode, lasting about eight minutes.

Nothing has changed, really. The next day and the next, lions and crocodiles will continue to feed upon whatever they can ambush, whatever they can overwhelm, whatever is weaker, less aware, unprotected. That is the nature of beasts and predators. There will be, from time to time, some refreshing story of the courage of the herd, the against all odds rescue that makes us shake our heads and wonder if we would rush in against the lions.

Whether or not the calf ultimately died from its wounds or not, I don’t know. But I do know this: if it did, it was because of the lions and the crocodile, not because its herd lacked the nerve or courage. To do justice often requires risk. And for the weak and frail, it is only by the love of others that they are able to prevail.

H. Arnett
11/17/09

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Harvest

Posted on November 13, 2009 by Doc Arnett

I’ve read and been told (and sometimes, twice is enough to get the job done) that the olfactory nerves are hardwired directly into the brain and that this explains why a certain scent can trigger vivid memories. Even memories that have waited for decades, dormant in the mind, waiting for the finding of neurons and the firing of synapses can spring to life. That’s what I’ve read and been told and it certainly seems to hold true. My most recent case in point took place this Wednesday night.

After the monthly Board of Trustees meeting was finished at the college, Craig and I headed back toward Saint Joe. Two or three miles west of Wathena, we saw a harvesting crew at work in the dark. There was an eeriness about the scene, the long amber string of semi-trailer running lights glowing through the dust on the ridge and the bright stab of the combine’s headlights shining through the corn. Someone prone to such imaginings might easily have believed an alien invasion had begun. Just past them, in the low flat of the creek bottom, I caught the smell of stalk and grain, hanging in the humid air, soft and slight.

As I drew in a deeper breath and closed my eyes, I was transported in memory.

Suddenly twelve years old again, I could feel the jolt and jostle of the wagon floor beneath my feet. I heard the sounds of the tractor and the single row corn picker, steel chains turning on cogs, heavy rollers crimping off the ears and stalks crushing beneath the tires. I could taste the dust in my mouth, feel it in my throat and nose, feel the husk and hard edged kernels underneath as I caught an ear of corn that came flying from the chute back into the wagon. I watched Dad driving the tractor, right arm braced against the edge of fender, steering with his left arm, intent on the rows and every now and then looking back to see how full the wagon was. I took in another deep breath, held to the sides of the wagon for a moment and then let go.

I wonder what memories the Lord savors when he catches the sweet incense of our prayers?

H. Arnett
11/13/09

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One out of Three

Posted on November 12, 2009 by Doc Arnett

I like my sleep slow and deep,
drifting through the night
like white clouds in a high sky,
taking all of time there is,
unwaking, unthinking, uninterrupted.

That’s how I like my sleep.

I like my days going by in even pace,
each thing in its own place and left alone,
every deed and duty taking its own space
with no need for more time or effort,
unpressing, unstressing, undisturbed.

That’s how I like my days.

I like my home warm and loving,
each word gentle like touching
the soft fur on the throat of a kitten,
each moment a sure rest from the world’s pressure,
undemanding, understanding, unblaming.

That’s how I like my home.

But some nights jerk and jag their way
through nagging thoughts,
seconds dragging by like the gray of December
when the late rains have frozen on the prairie.

And some days have a way
of running counter and crossways
and in a dozen different directions,
each moment spawning some dispersing twist or turn.

But my home,
even after those nights,
even on those days,
when the last fade of whatever busy-ness is gone,
is still warm and gentle, soft and sure
as the voice of God speaking to the storm.

I am blessed beyond belief.

H. Arnett
11/12/09

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Cleanup Time, Again

Posted on November 11, 2009 by Doc Arnett

“We’ll leave it in better shape than it is now,” the new renter told me six months, one week and five days ago. I thought, “That’s going to be pretty hard to do considering the fresh paint, mopped floors and scrubbed counters.” Based on what his previous landlady had said, though, I thought it might be possible. According to her, “When the water heater quit working, he went out and bought a new one and put it in and he wouldn’t let me pay him.” Now, that’s the kind of folks we like to have living in our apartments.

And so, we optimistically rented to the sixty-five-year-old truck driver and his forty-year-old son. They always paid their rent on time, until the last month, which they didn’t pay at all. Their water heater never went out but they did, just past the end of their lease. And they left just a little more than memories but it wasn’t too bad. Pop and Junior did no damage to the walls or other components.

There were a few items left in the bathroom cabinet and in the refrigerator (nothing spoiled) and on the kitchen counter. The floors had not been swept and the living room carpet showed no signs of vacuuming–in the previous six months. Most aggravating was their initiative in sealing around the window air conditioning unit, using a marine grade butyl-silicone compound with an elasticity rating approaching that of a Wiley Coyote Launch Device. Eventually, with a utility knife and chisel, we’ll be able to remove the AC. Hopefully, we’ll still have a functioning window once we’ve accomplished that feat.

So, that and a few hours of wiping, sweeping, mopping and cleaning will have the place ready for new occupants. Of course, we’d like for them to be folks that show even greater care for the place. Might be that’s how God feels about the next generation that inhabits this planet. I wonder if he ever sighs and says, “I wonder what they’ll tear up next?”

H. Arnett
11/11/09

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Burning Pages

Posted on November 10, 2009 by Doc Arnett

Maybe it’s a sickness or maybe just a primeval rooting. Whatever it is, it makes me want to burn leaves every fall.

What I’d like to do is rake them into long rows, winding around the edge of the yard at the base of the slope, then start the fire at one end of the row. Once the fire was going, I’d flip the rake over and take up a scoop of leaves and get them burning, then walk the edge of the piled row, spreading the fire along until the whole thing was burning. I’d stand back, watch the creeping red glow, the gray smoke drifting up, sifting through the low branches. When the fire burned low, I’d walk along, stirring the remnants with the rake, watch the sudden flare as the air hit the smoldering pockets. After all that was over, I’d make one more round, raking the last lumps, watch the fading fire and the last curl of smoke. That’s how I’d like to do it, the way it was done decades ago.

But, the city doesn’t allow that. Too many people with too little experience in safely handling open fires. Too many frame houses, old sheds and wooden shingles around for that sort of thing. And so, I have to get my seasonal fix by burning the leaves in a barrel between 10:00 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. sometime from November 2 and November 22 when the wind is less than eight miles an hour. Half a wheelbarrow load at a time and no lingering fringe of red around the base of the blackened leaf row.

It’s not the same, at all, burning leaves in a barrel. It’s not the same.  But I do it anyway.

There are so many things lost of the ways we left long ago, I try to hold on, cherishing memory and caressing every part of the past that doesn’t make me wince in pain.

H. Arnett
11-10-09

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Porch Light

Posted on November 9, 2009 by Doc Arnett

Just over a year ago, Randa found the perfect porch light for the front of the house, on sale at a considerably reduced price at Lowes. Knowing that eventually I would find the perfect time for installing the light, I left it sitting on top of the refrigerator in the basement. Saturday afternoon, I found that perfect time.

Step Number One: Remove the old light.

I began this project using the four-foot stepladder. By leaning it against the wall and clutching the edge of a border stone tightly, I could barely reach the release caps for the outer cover. Knowing that eventually gravity always wins in these almost safe situations, I swapped the step ladder for the small extension ladder. After a few up and down trips to get the other tool I suddenly needed, I managed to remove the old light.

Step Number Two: Install new light.

This ran into challenges right away. The wall base for the new light was about three times the size of the old one and too large to fit onto the old mount. A hammer drill accelerated the process of accommodation. With anchors installed, I soon found that the screws I had were too short. I made this discovery about six rungs up the ladder while trying to hold the fixture cradled with one arm and wedged against the top of the arch over the door and while trying to fasten the screws with one hand. Eventually, though, after a few more up and down trips, the light was installed.

Step Number Three: Turn light on and celebrate.

As it turned out, the first part of the step went much more quickly than the second part. Let’s see, first of all was the little shower of sparks generated while using a jump link to test the old switch. Then, there was replacing the switch. Then, there was the discovery that the earlier activity tripped the circuit breaker. Resetting the breaker showed no direct benefit; the light still would not work. In fact, the inside entry light that previously worked was not working now!

Eventually, after extensive diagnostic testing and replacing another switch, replacing a short section of wire and reconnecting four wires in the junction box, disconnecting and reconnecting the new light fixture four times, I would find that there was a second tripped breaker in the main panel. Resetting that restored functionality to the inside light but the new one still didn’t work.

Finally, I removed it for the fourth or fifth time and checked for continuity. Two of the three small bulb bases tested OK for the neutral circuit. None of them tested OK for the hot circuit. Removing the cover plate quickly explained that mystery; one of the white wires was loose and the black wire wasn’t connected to any of the bulb base leads!

The new light fixture was re-installed for perhaps the last time and all three of the little lights do work now. Yee-hah!! Along with the celebration, I was reminded that until you focus on the actual problem, it doesn’t matter how much effort goes into counseling, therapy, institutional initiatives or altar calls.

H. Arnett
11/9/09

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