The Listing of the Spirit

Posted on July 12, 2023 by Doc Arnett 
Beyond the power of comprehension,
beyond the realm of understanding,
beyond the grasp of knowledge,
beyond the scope of explanation:

So is the love of God,
the richness of his mercies,
the depth of his kindness,
the strength of his grace.

His forgiveness extends beyond my greatest sin,
his blessings surpass all my shortcomings,
his comfort exceeds all my sorrows,
his patience transcends all my failures.

He has chosen to bestow 
upon such weak and unworthy vessels,
the anointing of choosing and using,
the indwelling of his very Spirit,

To bear fruit from his toiling of this polluted soil:
love, joy, peace, patience, 
kindness, goodness, faithfulness,
gentleness, and self-control.

From the ruins of thorns and thistles,
from the aftermath of Eden’s lost innocence,
to every heart and soul aching for the essence of Christ,
he has given evidence of our holy inheritance,

Working within us both to desire and to do,
an overpowering through submission of carnal flesh,
a yielding to the divine spirit
that proves the promise of heaven.

Burnishing our hearts and minds with Unseen Fire,
lifting us from the mire of the world,
washing from us the stench of filth,
setting us free from sin and death,

He has placed within us his own breath,
granting us new birth not sourced in this earth,
cleansing us and bidding us to shine like stars
in the pure glow of holiness and humility:

To live a life worthy of our calling.


H. Arnett
7/12/2023
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The Witness of Common Wonders

Posted on July 7, 2023 by Doc Arnett 
O, Lord, I wonder at the witness of your work in all that I see,

And comprehend that you and your word live within me
and reveal your nature in all that I perceive.

In the stillness of the predawn darkness of an early morning
with a half-moon shining through thin, wispy clouds slowly drifting east,
I sense your presence in this gentle peace.

In the strobing flash of a coming storm
with dark shapes starkly formed in sudden silhouettes of lightning’s flare
and low rumblings passing through heavy air,
I am reminded of your great power.

In the soft scent of clover massed in the meadow
and the delicate shape of honeysuckle blooms
barely moved by the feeding of hummingbirds,
I remember moments of quiet and gentle leading
when your Spirit’s touch was light.

In the bright, wilting heat of a savage summer day
when it seems that sweat must stream from every pore
and every muscle sore from brow to toe,
I know that you are the Source of my daily bread.

I hear the calling of coyotes in the distant darkness
and recall that you have comforted me
in every grief and healed my loneliness.

When cool evening air lightly brushes against my face,
I close my eyes in the quiet of this place and sense my coming rest,

and know that you are with me, and I am blessed.


H. Arnett
7/7/23
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Supercell

Posted on July 3, 2023 by Doc Arnett 
Thirty miles away, or maybe forty,
huge, gleaming, white as fear and near as night,
a thunderhead rises into the sky 
in early evening on the First of July,
six miles high, maybe higher.

Even though I’ve been fascinated by these
for nearly seven decades now,
I’ve never seen one like this:
distinctive circled fringe ringing about the billowing stack, 
shadowy skulls grinning back from hell’s highest circle,
soaring toward heaven itself in taunting flight.
There is something sinister about this, 
mesmerizing and menacing even on its bright reflecting side.

I know without seeing 
that from the east
this beast is black as doubt,
its fierce heart pulsing hail and wind,
sending drenching rain down upon browning fields
of grass almost past hope,
churning and cutting new ditches on soft slopes
of soybeans freshly planted in fertile soil, 
or else leaving rippling seams of husks and stems
in sinuous remnant in the stubble of recently cut wheat.

What is not neatly washed away or savagely broken
or bent past hope’s point of flexion
and no longer choosing its own direction,
will take in whatever water reaches its roots,
find some brief rest in the passing coolness,
and either give thanks for the forming blessing
or else curse the thunder and mourn the plunder 
of what is lost.

It is a fearsome thing for the meek
to pray for rain in summer,
not knowing what costs may come
with the blessings we seek,
what storm might deliver our daily bread.

But yet we will still give thanks
that we are clothed and fed.


H. Arnett
7/3/2023
Posted in Christian Devotions, Christian Living, Farming, Metaphysical Reflection, Nature, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Supercell

Prayers and Fritters

Posted on June 29, 2023 by Doc Arnett

Headed back toward home after buying a horse near Vichy, Missouri, we stopped at a Casey’s in Ashland. I set the gas nozzle into the tank opening on the Silverado and clicked it onto the slower setting. On my way over to the store entrance, I noticed a guy filling up cans in the back of his pickup. We nodded at each other.

Inside a few minutes later, I saw him again, and we swapped “hello’s.” He walked on over to the soft drink dispenser and I turned to check out the pastry cabinet. Among a beckoning assortment of donuts, eclairs, and various other opportunities for solace and comfort, I saw a rack of apple fritters. I immediately thought of my oldest sister, Freeda.

Several years ago, after surgery to remove a malignant tumor, she endured a series of radiation treatments. After each treatment, she rewarded herself with an apple fritter. Based on that, I came up with an idea of solidarity and support when I was working as vice-president of academics at Cowley College in southern Kansas.

At a faculty in-service, on the first anniversary of Freeda’s celebration of survival, I provided apple fritters for everyone. Okay, I cut them up and provided one-fourth of an apple fritter for each teacher. I then called Freeda (who lives in North Carolina). Using my camera phone, I panned the room. On cue, we all held up our fritters and, more or less in unison, said, “Congratulations, Freeda!”

Since those early days of her treatment and survival, I’ve thought of her every time I’ve seen an apple fritter. So, standing there in front of the pastry rack at a Casey’s in central Missouri, I decided to take a picture of the apple fritters and send it to Freeda to let her know I was thinking of her. After I took the picture, I noticed the guy I’d spoke to earlier standing behind me and waiting for a shot at the pastry choices.

“Sorry,” I apologized and then explained as I took a napkin and lifted out a fritter, “My oldest sister had cancer and when she was having radiation, she would have an apple fritter after each treatment. I wanted to send her a picture and let her know I was thinking of her.” I expected nothing more than a nod or maybe an impatient sigh and shrug.

Instead, the other guy, a few inches taller and nearly twenty years younger than me, asked, “What kind of cancer?”

Caught totally off guard, even though I was nearly sure of what he’d said, I responded, “Beg pardon?”

“What kind of cancer did your sister have?”

“Sarcoma, I think. I’m not sure.”

“My wife has lymphoma. We’ve been fighting it for eleven months. We thought it was gone but then it showed up in another spot last week.” With his right hand, he lightly tapped just below his collarbone on his left side. “How’s she doing?” I asked, “Does she have a positive attitude?”

“Yes, she does,” he answered and then paused. “It hit her pretty hard for a day or two when we first found out it was back but she’s back on track now.” He spoke without the least hint of self-pity in his voice or in his eyes.

I stepped over and he moved up and opened the door to the pastry cabinet. “Does she have a strong faith?” I asked and he nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes, she sure does!”

“Makes a big difference, doesn’t it?” I responded and he again replied with obvious conviction, “Yes, it does.”

He took his drink and pastry and headed over to checkout. I turned back down the aisle to find Randa. A moment later, as he started to push the door open, he twisted back toward me, smiled, and said, “You folks have a good day.”

“You take care,” I replied and watched him walk toward his truck. I had a sudden impulse to go out and ask his wife’s name. Maybe I should have.

But I’m pretty sure God will know who we’re praying about.

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Tough Job

Posted on June 27, 2023 by Doc Arnett

Perhaps due to an unexpected surge of nostalgia triggered by mowing our daughter’s pasture two weeks ago, I bought an old hay rake. A couple of hours with a power sprayer the day I brought it home peeled off most of the algae and lichen that had been growing on it for a couple of decades. Now it has a more uniform coat of rust, kind of a cross between “old junkyard and your granddaddy’s farm” sort of patina. Classic elegance, you know.

While cultivating a closer relationship with the New Holland Model 56’s working parts, I gave one of the two drive wheels a good shake. It shook. That’s not good. Neither classic nor elegant. Too much slap or wobble or play or ever how you want to say it is often an indication of worn bearings. At least, that’s what my big brother tells me. And he’s pretty dang smart, so I listen.

Having watched a friend re-pack the wheel bearings on our horse trailer about a dozen years ago, I thought I could handle doing the same on one old hay rake wheel. No big deal. Thirty-minute job. Riiiigghhttt…

I’m no mechanic but I can tell you pretty confidently that metal parts that have lived together for many decades in the great outdoors develop very strong bonds with one another. Bonds that are not easily broken. In fact, the bonds are sometimes stronger than the parts themselves. The retaining pins, bearing retaining nut, U-joint, and axle all held to their places as if defending their native lands.

But, after a few hours of repeated applications of penetrating fluid, well-regulated assaults with two sizes of  hammers, judicious use of the proper punches, and a newly acquired ball joint separating tool, I managed to disconnect the requisite parts and pull the small axle out.

Sure enough, the cup bearings showed signs of excessive wear and wobble. But they are held inside the axle housing with parts gripped by even more corrosion bonds. Lacking the proper tools, the desired level of skill, and greater patience, I just sanded the respective parts to remove the rust and corrosion, rubbed on a fresh coat of bearing grease, and put everything back together. Happily, I discovered that I’d managed to nearly eliminate the wobble. Only took me five or six hours.

It was a lot of work that included significant frustration, but I managed to accomplish a significant level of improvement without breaking any of the basic parts.

It was not lost on me that there are elements of this world that can develop a corrosive hold on us: bad habits, vices, addiction to pleasures, preoccupation with short-sighted pursuits, self-destructive behaviors, toxic relationships, sins of various sorts. I think it’s pretty rare that we set out to get ourselves so wrapped up in things that are actually harmful. It just happens. Kind of like the way those once shiny and new parts eventually became bonded by rust and corrosion. Getting ourselves loose from those requires a combination of human determination and divine power.

It’s generally more effective to just avoid those things and never let the bonds build up like that. But, when circumstances demand, it turns out that the Great Physician is also a pretty good mechanic. A few shots of that Holy Spirit Penetrating Power can cut us loose from the deepest corrosions…. if we’re willing to let go.

H. Arnett

6/27/2023

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The Bosom of Abraham

Posted on June 23, 2023 by Doc Arnett 
In one of many of my favorite Emmylou Harris songs are these lines penned after the loss of one of her closest friends, Gram Parsons:

	“I will rock my soul in the Bosom of Abraham;
	I will hold my life in his saving grace.”

To me, this chorus from “Boulder to Birmingham” refers to the anchoring love, peace, and presence of Jesus Christ. 

Sometimes, I feel this calming and comforting in the words and touch of those who love me. In those who shared condolences in the passing of my parents: friends from high school decades earlier, cousins only seen at family reunions, neighbors from years ago, fellow believers from different congregations, the closest of close friends. Their expressed love and shared empathy conveyed concern and caring, which certainly seem like the balm of Heaven. Soothing, comforting, healing.

There’s another line in Emmylou’s song, unexpected yet poignant and painful:

	“The hardest part is knowing I’ll survive.”

It’s not just the immediate agony of loss that slams us especially hard in unexpected passings; it’s knowing that this is only the beginning of our grief. In the normal course of things, if there is such a thing, we may well live many years, perhaps even decades in the shadow of our loss. But even in this, there is a promise of peace and presence that goes beyond the expressions of concern by others.

It is conveyed in the “groanings too deep for words” (Romans 8:26) in the intercessions of the Spirit. There are times when agonies burrow so deeply into our hearts and spirits that we cannot express them. But the Spirit of God can. And does. And… he has help.

In the same chapter, the ancient maker of tents informs us that Jesus himself stands at the Father’s right hand. And guess what he’s doing? Interceding for us. That’s right; we have two tireless, divine Intercessors who are conveying and persuading on our behalf at the very Throne of Heaven.

Even when our friends and family and neighbors and sojourners have re-entered the business of their lives. Even when it seems that even those who love us most have moved on, we are neither abandoned nor forgotten. Even in a dark and empty room, I still sense that loving peace, that saving grace that tells me, “Yes, you will survive. And you will thrive because I am always with you. Even in this. Even when you don’t sense my presence, I am still with you.”

I will rock my soul in the Bosom of Abraham. I will hold my life in his saving grace. I will yet see his face. And the faces of every person I have loved and lost. So yes, I will hold to that.


H. Arnett
6/23/2023
Posted in Christian Devotions, Death & Dying, Family, Relationships, Spiritual Contemplation, suffering | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on The Bosom of Abraham

Nightfire and Sunrise

Posted on June 22, 2023 by Doc Arnett 
At its northernmost angle of the year,
a red ball sunrise bleeds through
the near tangle of elm and maple.

The heat of the first day of summer
lingered a bit longer in the ebbing light
of last night’s transition from dusk to dark:

we sat outside and welcomed the slight ease
of an eastern breeze that fluttered through
the leaves and limbs of the patio trees.

Tired from her day’s travels and testings,
Randa rested in a lounge chair
set beneath low branches.

Lying back below the same branches,
I rested, too, tired from the heat and the sweat
of an afternoon of getting firewood stacked by the garage.

A single tongue of flame
sifting through the coals of a small fire
might seem unlikely amusement on a summer night

but we like the way the colors play
among the seams of burning wood
and stay far enough away to avoid the added heat.

And even though we may have talked
a little less than usual
and definitely headed to bed a bit earlier,

we like the ritual of taking our time
in the unwinding of sheltered darkness,
the slow readying of entering our rest,

followed by the lying down on clean sheets,
believing that the night’s sleep
will find us ready for our rising

and the soft beauty
of a red ball sunrise
through the filtering shade

on this good day that the Lord has made.


H. Arnett
6/22/2023
Posted in Christian Devotions, Metaphysical Reflection, Nature, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Relationships, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , | Comments Off on Nightfire and Sunrise

Of Pain and Comfort

Posted on June 21, 2023 by Doc Arnett

I do not know what warnings led to the diagnosis. For brain cancer, I’d expect maybe it was increasingly severe headaches. Whatever it was, it was a shock, a crushing blow of news coming soon after the celebration of their thirty-second wedding anniversary. And now, barely a month past the seemingly unbearable discovery, Stephanie Legleiter has passed on.

Although I’d never met her. I’d did know her husband, Kurt, and their son, Zach, through their video broadcasting work with/for Cowley College. Our interactions were quite brief but always pleasant. Stephanie worked as church secretary for Bible Christian Church in Ark City, where our friends Mark and Dianne Flickinger are fellow members.

Wife, mother, sister, daughter, friend, neighbor, sojourner, colleague… how do you try to capture a lifetime of relationships in short description? Even the most common terms vary greatly in nuance of experience, nature of interaction, depth of feeling, shared feelings, translations of perceptions. Every loss and every person’s experience of it is different for each one of us.

And yet, we all feel some sense of pain and loss. Imagining that this was Randa, I choke on the imagination, my mind refusing to truly engage the challenge. Such change, such wrenching away of a hundred daily sharings, the complete shearing of primary anchors. It must feel quite like having a leg removed without benefit of anesthesia. Lurching forward with each step and the agonizing reminder of loss with every touch or glance about you.

Such loss, such pain, such testing of faith and foundation.

No matter how hard I try—and I admit I don’t want to try very hard—to visualize the gut-wrenching experience, I know that my greatest attempts to understand fall abysmally short of truly knowing what this is like for Kurt and his family. Even though I know that it must ache like acid in the veins, I have not lived through what they are living through. 

I pray that their faith is strong, that they firmly believe that “God is at work in all things for the good of those who love him, who are called according to his purpose.” 

I pray that they will draw close to one another, share richly, love deeply, and gladly welcome the expressions of love, empathy, and sympathy that will be extended. 

I hope that their grieving will be healthy and healing, that their knowledge and expectation of resurrection and eternal reunion will be more visceral than cerebral. 

I pray that even in their deepest mournings of loss and separation, they will be able to truly celebrate every joy, pleasure, and blessing that was ever measured by Stephanie’s passing presence into their lives.

In the hugs of friends and family, and in every faltering expression of caring, I hope that they feel the arms of Jesus and hear his voice, and know that even in this he is near to them. 

And to all of us.

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Planting in the Hard Places

Posted on June 19, 2023 by Doc Arnett

For the past several years, I’ve been planting a small garden here at our place in northeast Kansas: several tomatoes and peppers, a row or two of sweet corn, some strawberries, and a new effort this year with honeydew melons. There’s some competition for the fruits of my labors with the rabbits and the squirrels but generally it’s been worth the trouble. A fair amount of that trouble stems from the fact that our garden used to be a parking lot.

It’s downright challenging boring holes through the asphalt and concrete to plant stuff but it does help with weed control.

Just kidding, folks; there’s no concrete or asphalt. But there is a lot of gravel. After all, it was a gravel parking lot. Literally.

Back in the Eighties and Nineties, this place served as a Bed-and-Breakfast. With a gravel parking lot for the guests. And, all factors considered, that parking lot was the best location for our garden. Lots of sunshine, out of the primary traffic zones, and not interfering with horse pasture capacity.

Best location, yessir. Except for the gravel.

The gravel was covered—for the most part—with a couple of decades of scrub grass and a thin layer of translocated dirt from heavy rains slightly uphill. But with the acquisition of a single bottom plow, I’ve been able to invert the layers of sifted dirt and gravel each season. Added several hundred pounds of composted horse manure and a few pounds of herbicide at timely intervals.

While not rich in organic matter, it is well drained and the tomatoes and peppers like that. Other than the unseemly appearance of all that gravel throughout our little garden, it seems to work pretty well. Except for when I’m trying to install the wire tomato cages that support the plants and help keep them from spreading out horizontally.

Sometimes, I’ll hit a rock within the first inch or two of trying to push the wire rods into the dirt. Other times, I’ll get down five or six inches deep before one of the rods refuses to go any further. Pull the whole thing up, rotate it a couple of inches and try again. Sometimes repeat that process several times. And in at least two cases last year, give up and leave the tomato plant to its own devices.

Yes, it’s a lot more work than it would be gardening in a spot with ten inches of rich topsoil and no rocks. Definitely more frustrating.

Not all of our planting in life is in the easy places. Not all of it yields the way we’d like for it to. Sometimes, it’s more prudent to give up and seek a better setting for our best efforts. But what I’ve learned here is that persistent effort and stubborn faith, combined with the blessing of the One who sends both rain and sun, can bring forth a yield even from the hard places. I’d have to say some of the best tomatoes I’ve ever tasted were grown in an old parking lot…

H. Arnett

6/19/2023

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Mowing Pasture

Posted on June 14, 2023 by Doc Arnett 
On a June day of bright sun and high, white clouds
yet so mild it could pass for early October,
I am mowing the wildness of our daughter’s horse pasture—
about a month past when I had intended,
back before whatever it was came up
that kept me from my promise.

Dark brown seedheads of burdock 
rise five feet high in thick clumps
scattered around the field
and in one particularly dense flush
just east of a rush of willows,
limber and lean in the muck formed from the spill 
of a gray water line draining the washing machine.

Clusters of Queen Anne’s Lace raise 
fine white blooms in random spots.
Along the south fence, a dense growth of sumac
spreads twenty feet into the field,
an unwanted yield whose ringed stalks raise long flumes
of pointed compound leaves that brush against me
just before the heavy whirl of compound blades
crushes and shatters trunks nearly two inches thick.

As soon as I finish that section,
I take off my long-sleeved shirt
and make quick work of rinsing my arms and face
in the cooling brace of the mare’s water trough,
then go back to mowing.

With my small tractor and a four-foot bushhog,
it takes nearly six hours to cut these six acres
of rolling northwest Missouri farmland 
that surrounds their home.

A surprisingly thick stand of brome
raises blades and stems well above the hood of the tractor 
across most of the field:
what would have been a fine yield of quality hay
if I had sprayed 2,4D when needed in mid-spring.
The constant sprouting of Bradford Pear and Russian Olive
mix with a rare stalk or two of honey locust.

It will take some work to rid the hay 
of the weeds and trees and one patch of Johnson Grass,
certainly not a single day’s task.

But what looks hopeless in casual passing
can yet be rich and fruitful given enough sweat,
the right tools, 
and the blessing of him who sends his rain
upon the just and the unjust.


H. Arnett
6/14/2023
Posted in Christian Devotions, Farming, Metaphysical Reflection, Nature, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Mowing Pasture