Smiling with God

Posted on August 25, 2009 by Doc Arnett

There is little more deeply pleasing, more refreshing, more satisfying than witnessing those you love taking delight in one another’s presence. I had such an opportunity the evening after my father’s funeral when I spent most of my time lying on a love seat in Dan and Christie’s living room. My daughter, Susan, had driven over from the Lexington area. Ben is attending college at Murray. Sam, his wife, Sara Jane, and their two sons were there. Mike’s wife, Sarah, had driven over from North Carolina with their five kids. Except for the babies, the children spent most of their time with Reese in the playroom. I mostly rested with my left leg elevated on the arm of the couch, listened and watched.

All of my bloodline grandchildren were under one roof, including Susan’s yet unborn child. And I was there, too. I looked around at the controlled mayhem of imagination and activity, I studied the faces of my children and their spouses, watched them listen to one another, respond, laugh together. I heard voices from the kitchen where Dan and Christie were busy getting more food ready. I listened to the sounds of children creating their own universe of fun and activity.

I believe God was smiling with me.

H. Arnett
8/25/09

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Surface Prep

Posted on August 24, 2009 by Doc Arnett

If house painting were a legislative session, scraping would be the filibuster. You don’t ever get through; you just choose a place to quit. This observation was prompted by my most recent attempts to upgrade the exterior of our rental house. The east gable that covers the porch needed some attention, I thought. Specifically, there was a section of five or six square feet where paint was scaling off of the wooden siding. I figured an hour would take care of prepping and another hour would take care of the painting. With figuring like that, I should be in charge of federal procurement.

After four hours of delight Saturday morning, I was still not finished. Apparently, there is not a square inch of that gable that isn’t yielding one or more layers of paint. I removed, literally, several pounds of old white, collected on the plastic sheets below me. Each pass of the scraper dislodged more paint. Depending on wind direction at the moment, flakes and chips and strips and powder drifted down to the porch, the sidewalk, the lawn or the Dairy Queen a block away. It began to look like someone had poured a whole jug of Gunk B Gone through an old scoured up snow cloud.

After going over the same spot from each direction, it would look like all that could be removed had been removed. Then, I’d slide the putty knife across and here we’d go again; an entire strip would turn loose. The latex coat that had been put on before we bought the place in ’02 seemed particularly inclined to surrender its present territory.

I suspect that it had been applied without sufficient surface preparation. Many painters do no more surface prep than wipe with a dry cloth and some do even less. Dust, dirt and chalk do not a good foundation make for a new coat of paint. Pressure washing, preferably with something like a detergent included in the mix, followed by a good rinse is more effective. But, it doesn’t matter how much you wash, loose paint will not make a good base for fresh paint.

So, that’s why I spent my Saturday morning at 1202 South 23rd on a ladder. And why I’ll spend a few more hours there sometime in the relatively near future. I can’t help but wonder if the Lord ever looks at my heart, shakes his head as he pulls the putty knife out of his back pocket and sighs as he goes back to work. Unlike me, though, I don’t think he’ll ever just choose a place to quit. On any of us.

H. Arnett
9/24/09

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Imperfect But Improving

Posted on August 19, 2009 by Doc Arnett

In a normal year, I would not have mowed my yard in two weeks and no one would notice. In a normal year, the road banks would be tan and turning brown. In a normal year, corn leaves would twist in early afternoon and wait for the cool shade of night. In a normal year, cows would search for green patches in fields of thatch as “pasture” turned into dubious description. In a normal year, this would feel like August, look like August. The air would smell of dryness, the slight parch hit the back of the throat when you step outside and take in that first deep draw of air, burning and heavy. But this is not a normal year.

The yard needs mowing every four or five days, even though I hold out for seven or eight. The road banks are dense green and growing. The corn stalks are still dark and vibrant even though the silks are turning black and ears are filled. Cattle graze in fields thick with new growth. In this year, August feels more like May with frequent storms and heavy showers. It’s been hard this past week or two to find the hours of drying time needed for a heavy layer of oil enamel to dry on the porch boards.

We’re hoping that the ten hours we’ve had since finishing in the dark last night will be enough. Sometimes the need is so great and urgent that we can no longer wait until the perfect time. We replaced the broken and rotting, put in new boards, primed and painted. Even yet, the porch will not be perfect. But it has been improved dramatically. Sometimes, that is enough.

Sometimes, it is just a stage between no longer being unsafe and being truly finished. Kind of like a life no longer lived in the darkness but not yet fully reflecting the Light.

H. Arnett
8/19/09

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In the Midst

Posted on August 18, 2009 by Doc Arnett

In the midst of storms and blessings,
we make these confessions:
we are unworthy,
undeserving,
frail,
weak,
tempted,
often yielding
to the darker impulses
of the flesh that we inhabit.

In the midst of peace and turmoil,
we know that we have often
failed to choose
the path of obedience,
the road of faithfulness,
the course of trust in God
rather than the listings of our own flesh.

In the midst of grace and mercy,
we come, running to God,
arms open,
eyes wide yet tearful,
hearts unafraid and laughing,
knowing that the way of faith
is not justice and wrath,
that the path of holiness
is not walked by our own strength.

We come, running,
leaping into the arms
that have always welcomed us,
caressed by the hands that made us,
held close to the heart of him
who loved us
while we were yet sinners.

H. Arnett
8/18/09

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Cleaning Project

Posted on August 18, 2009 by Doc Arnett

Over thirty years ago, I inherited a refrigerator. Well, more accurately, one was left in an old house I bought. Whoever left it there also left everything that was inside it. It had been a few months since they had vacated the premises. Since some of you good folks might be wanting to eat breakfast or lunch after a while, I’ll spare you the most disagreeable details. Your imagination is probably already at work, anyway. Let’s just say it was the most offensive, nauseating, disgusting thing I’d ever encountered and I’d grown up on a farm with chickens, hogs and cattle. I’d also helped open up a septic tank and cleaned out a grease trap. That refrigerator filled with rotten food topped all of those things on my list of quease-inducing activities. With the help of a friend, I moved the refrigerator out into the yard. Without the help of that friend, I got everything out, turned a garden hose on it and began the cleaning part.

I couldn’t help remembering that this weekend while Randa and I devoted ourselves to the task of cleaning up in our most recently vacated apartment. She spent all of Friday evening and most of Saturday morning scrubbing the stove. Apparently, some part of everything that ole Nickeroo had ever cooked on top of or inside of that stove had boiled over, spilled, splashed or otherwise made its way onto some surface, whether visible or hidden. I didn’t think it was possible, but Randa has that stove looking like a brand new one now.

Given that I was the one with the history of refrigerator evacuation, fumigation and renovation, I tackled that job. It’s amazing what Krud Kutter, Comet and elbow grease can accomplish. Although at one point, it appeared that I had literally crawled inside the thing, the refrigerator also looks brand new. After Randa scrubbed the kitchen baseboard, I took on the task of the floor. After sweeping up the litter, the spilled cat food, the pieces of wrappers and scraping up a few spots of matter best left a mystery, I began mopping.

With the vinyl tiles wet with cleaning solution, I took a scrub brush to ever one of the V-joints. After a couple of hours of that, the tile in the kitchen and dining area now look new, too.

There’s a simple explanation for all of those hours of scrubbing, scraping, cleaning and scouring; it’s the only way there is to get rid of the grease and grime and make those things look new again. The only way. And that is the same explanation for why God decided to send his Son to earth and make him the atoning sacrifice for our sins.

There was no other way.

H. Arnett
8/17/09

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Working Man

Posted on August 14, 2009 by Doc Arnett

Yesterday, I hired a young man to help Randa and me scrape, scrub and scour away the mess one of our renters left behind when he disappeared a couple of months after his rent payments already had. Curtis and I began cleaning the porch and prepping it for painting while Randa applied a warm iron and paper towels to a few of the places where wax had been melted into the carpet. I had to resort to paint thinner to clean up an oil spill on the porch while Curtis continued scraping loose paint.

Man, what a fine worker he is! He went after whatever I told him to do as if he couldn’t think of anything finer to do. When I had him scrape off loose paint, you’d have thought he had waited his whole life for the chance to scrape paint. When the job turned to sweeping, same thing. Washing the porch off and then having to go over every square inch with a cleaning rag to remove the residue apparently provided the perfect opportunity for a Thursday evening on a hot and humid day. Sweat beaded on his face and forehead and on his muscular arms, even on the hand still swollen from a wasp sting acquired the day before. After a couple of hours of such exuberant opportunity, I suggested it might be time for a visit to Taco Bells. “I think I could be persuaded to do that,” he grinned.

On the way there, he asked my advice on a personal situation, “You’ve had a lot of experience, Doc,” he began, “and I know you’ve taken some psychology classes.” Then, he shared his questions and I answered them as well as I could. Of course, I have no idea how the situation will play out but I do know this, any woman who ends up marrying Curtis and sharing a life of respect, consideration and love will never go hungry because her man is too lazy to work. And if he puts the same sort of energy and effort into his marriage that he puts into cleaning up a dirty apartment, she’ll never feel neglected or unloved, either.

H. Arnett
8/14/09

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Through the Fog

Posted on August 12, 2009 by Doc Arnett

As we rode over toward Highland Monday morning, it seemed that clear skies were forming: the last clouds from Sunday night’s storm could barely be seen in the eastern sky. In Wathena, a large branch broken from an oak tree lay across someone’s driveway, evidence of the weight of the wind that came through with black clouds and heavy rains. Small bunches of tiny branches and leaves lay matted on the ground and pavement. We drove on, out of town, past Blair and Troy, under clear skies.

From the eastern crest of the Wolf River Bottom, we could see a bit of a mist hanging above the river and a dense fringe of gray slumped above the western ridge. As we came up the hill, the chill of that air began to coat the windshield with silver droplets. At the top, it seemed that we had driven into a Stephen King novel.

Two minutes earlier, we’d been driving through the clear of a Kansas morning. Now, we drove in dense fog. Heavy gray closed off the light of day. Toward either side, we could see nothing beyond the road bank. Perspective of distance vanished; familiar landmarks disappeared.

It’s not that unusual that we encounter similar situations in life. In one moment, we are rolling along in the comfort of the usual familiarity of things, confident of where we are going and of when we will get there. In another, even that which was close by seems distant, hidden, distorted. In such times, we must learn to rely upon him who has made our path, to trust in his hand to keep us in the way of safety and still moving toward our destination. We must abandon the illusion of the clear day that suggests that we control our way and allow him to guide us through the fog of our grief, our pain, our anger, our wounding. We must travel in a faith that is greater than our seeing, trusting in the vision that still sees beyond the storm.

But it probably is a good idea to slow down.

H. Arnett
8/12/09

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Orphan Reunion

Posted on August 11, 2009 by Doc Arnett

Dad was born an orphan nearly ninety-six years ago; his father died a couple of months before he was born.

I think of that again on the morning of Dad’s funeral, while I play in the street with my grandson, Reece, Dan’s four-year-old. Dan and Christie have gone into town, looking for a black suit for Dan to wear this afternoon as pallbearer. Reece is riding his bicycle, “Look, Papa Doc. See, this is where I turn around.” He seems to know the bounds of supervised street riding. After a bit, I run back into the house to get my camera and take a few pictures, saving most of memory for the funeral.

I take several shots at the cemetery, pictures of my sons helping their cousins carry the casket, and of them singing graveside after the final prayer, along with their sister and cousins: a final honoring by grandchildren and great-grandchildren. After that, others take family photographs with Mom sitting out in front of this throng. Along with their spouses, all six children join the group where most of twenty-one grandchildren and twenty-seven great-grandchildren and their families are gathered. A southern sun burns down on us, just beyond the reach of shade from the trees that fringe the western edge of the cemetery.

The next morning, I search for my camera to take a parting picture of Reece and his mother, and discover I have left the camera at the cemetery, sitting on top of a stone. Randa and I drive over and see it sitting right where I left it. The morning sun has dried away any traces of dew and it seems to work. I take a picture of my oldest brother’s headstone and a picture of flowers laid against a fresh pile of dirt.

I stand and smile for a moment, thinking that finally Dad and Rueben can be together for more than just the few hours they shared on an April day, more than seventy years ago. Finally, both of them can be with their fathers in that place where there are no orphans.

H. Arnett
8/09/09

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A Good Planting

Posted on August 10, 2009 by Doc Arnett

A few of us linger here for a while,
near the grave,
waiting in the shade of hickory and oak,
welcoming shelter from southern skies
behind the Antioch Church of Christ.
Corn and kudzu grow dark and green
in the sheen of August sun.

The men with the backhoe
tend to the vault,
lower Dad into the clay,
loosen the straps
and pull them out.

They roll up strips of green carpet
laid to cover signs of digging,
each move stripping away
another layer of the illusion
that we were gathered here
for something other than returning
what was borrowed
from the substance of this world.

My sister and I begin,
shoveling heavy soil from the pile.
The first dirt hits the shiny metal,
scattering, sliding, spilling into the space
around the jacket of the casket,
each clump beginning its work.

My nephew,
my sons and other cousins
take their turns with shovel and spade,
each swing a prayer and a blessing,
each bending of the back
playing part in this ancient ritual
of yielding back what was taken from
and has always belonged to earth,

this planting that will one day
spring forth in jubilation,
not giving birth to that which was planted
but to that which was intended.
This is not the ending
but rather a waiting
for that final beginning.

H. Arnett
8/09/09

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Oak, Wheat & The Word

Posted on August 7, 2009 by Doc Arnett

He worked his hands in dirt, almost, it seemed, from the time of his birth. The years of his youth were spent in tobacco and corn. He was born to work the way some men are born to wealth. Generations of west Kentucky Arnett’s tilled the land, turning their hands to the plow: steel blades and wooden handles cutting long, slow furrows through the soil. Later, in Logan and then in Todd County, he planted crops and milked cows: Grade A dairy farms on the annual Farm Bureau model farms tours. He raised wheat along with the tobacco, corn, soybeans, and alfalfa, blending the grain into feed and using the straw for bedding.

Along with other skills related to construction such as wiring, roofing and some plumbing, he cultivated the talents of a carpenter. He helped build barns and church buildings, made blanket chests for granddaughters and built corner cupboards, refinished furniture. His works are scattered across the country now in Ohio, Tennessee, North Carolina and Kentucky. When he was nearly ninety, he made me a replica of a toy wagon he’d made for himself when he was a child.

It was also when he was a child that he began learning the Bible. His mother taught Sunday School at the Coldwater Church of Christ and did plenty of teaching at home, too. He learned the stories and the doctrine, preaching his first sermon on his nineteenth birthday at Kirksey. He preached his last public sermon in Hazel and stumbled leaving the pulpit, breaking the lowest bone in the spine and setting in motion the months long decline that took his life last week. He was buried within a short ride of where he’d been born.

Randa and I made his casket of oak plywood, believing that even the making of it represented some of the key elements of his life. For the farming, there were wheat carvings on the casket, on the brass plaque and on the handles. Randa and I bought a half-dozen old handsaws, removed and refinished the handles and attached them to the sides of the casket for the pallbearers. I also made a small wooden Bible, edges painted gold and the cover a worn black. I attached it to the lid, carefully measured to be located directly over his heart. It was where he had always kept The Word.

H. Arnett
8/7/09

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