A Mighty Fine Hello

Posted on March 18, 2022 by Doc Arnett

I just opened an email from a dear friend that I’ve known now for over thirty-five years. Her encouraging words sure brought a great big ole smile to my face, a smile that stretched all the way to my heart. Hearing from her again reminded me of something another friend said to me back in the early Eighties.

“Have you ever noticed how with really good friends you can go without seeing each other for a really long time but whenever you do meet up again, you just take up wherever you were? It feels like you just saw each other last week.”

Boy Howdy! It really is like that, isn’t it?

A few weeks ago, a good friend and I met up with a mutual friend that I hadn’t seen in several years. The three of us have been good friends since 2004. Felt just like it was only yesterday. We sat and talked, joked, and laughed together as if we’d been spending time together every weekend.

I love how that is! How deep down good it feels and how wonderful and reassuring! How delightful it is when true friends spend time together!

Even when years pass by without so much as a “Hi, how are you?” once you’re back together, it’s like it hasn’t been any time at all. No matter how many months and miles have passed between you, you still feel close. Every time that happens, I think again about those friends I miss and yearn for. I remember the last time we met together, and I am reminded how thrilling and fulfilling it is to be reunited.

Whenever I hear from an old friend or get the chance to meet together with them again, I think, “Man! Heaven is going to be so tee-totally absolutely awesome!”

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God in the Tulips

Posted on March 17, 2022 by Doc Arnett

From the time of my youth, I’ve had the impression that all of nature/creation bears witness of a creator. Well before I’d read Romans 1:20 (“For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made…”), it seemed to me that every sunrise, every flower, every beat of a hummingbird’s wing—and a million other things—suggested proof of a greater being.

It is not necessary to become a rock-climbing landscape gazer in order to be saved. Nor is it necessary that one crawl about the back yard with a magnifying lens in order to grow in faith, hope and love. One can study scripture and cultivate a saved relationship with their Redeemer without a single stroll in the woods or a solitary issue of National Geographic.

But the one who has never gaped in wonder at ice ferns on a winter window, who has never paused in driving to watch in silent awe as a fading sun flares an evening sky, who has never grinned in realization of the promise inferred in the opening of spring’s first tulip, the one who has never taken the time to take in the marvels of the handiwork of God cannot comprehend the nature of their Creator. 

While the beauty of this world may be fleeting, it is not incidental. From the raw, savage energy of an erupting volcano to the momentary crystal of frost, it is clear that the One who made us is one who delights in color and pattern. From the orbiting within the atom to the infinite orbits of the cosmos, our universe resounds with the message that it has been shaped by a God of Power and Beauty.

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Moments of Glory

Posted on March 16, 2022 by Doc Arnett

Sometimes, when dawn comes just before the leading edge of a storm front has stretched entirely toward the east, there’s the least bit of a rim of clear sky, a border of light between the night that still covers the earth and the flush of morning’s coming. I remember one of those times from many years ago when we were living in Cynthiana, Kentucky.

Driving to work in the slow brightening, I saw the occasional paleness leaching through a thinner section of dark, dappled clouds. Halfway between Leesburg and Oxford, as the curve of the road coincided with a dip in the near ridge line, giving me a view clear to the horizon, I saw, suddenly, a blast of red filling the break between earth and storm dome. Not in hues and tones like the light of a fire but a solid shade, the red of steel ripe for the anvil. Brilliant but not blinding, it forged a beacon in the sky. Then, in only a moment, it passed into softer shades, strangely dimming in the rising of sun, then covered by ridge and clouds.

There are those moments in life, like the first lifting of a toddler’s hands, to stand unsupported, for only an instant, while parents applaud. Like the first word of a grandchild on the phone five hundred miles away. Like an unexpected call from a friend from years ago or the embrace of a grown child back home from overseas.

In mind’s eye and memory, the fragile joys of this life are held, not so much for remembering the past as for reminding us of a greater glory.

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Signs and Wonders

Posted on March 15, 2022 by Doc Arnett

I love the way wet snow shows which way the wind was blowing during the time of the storm–the way white holds to the windward side of fenceposts and tree trunks.  How even dried thistle blooms are bearded with tufts of clinging snow. 

I love how the missing spots of a dilapidated barn roof show sudden and dark in patterns of old decay in the midst of the gleaming light and how the morning sun glistens and sparkles on the thousand icicles hanging from the ending edge of tin. 

I love how big brown bales the diameter of a man’s length break the blanket of white and how much they look like huge bites of frosted shredded wheat. 

I love how a plank fence plots patterns of light and shadow on the unrippled snow and how scallops of drifted banks facing the east glow blinding pink in reflected sun. 

I love how cows will leave the chilling cover and lay down on the trail of hay winding across the frozen pasture and how their breath steams, curls and disappears. 

I love how the fields and ponds, pasture and small ditch lie as one surface beneath and how a single trail of footsteps from the back door to the barn shows that someone cares for their livestock on a single digit morning.

But more than all that, I love knowing a God for whom all of that could be a coincidental beauty left in the wake of a winter storm and how, on the other hand, He could have placed each snowflake in just the place He wanted.

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California Dreaming

Posted on March 14, 2022 by Doc Arnett

Randa, Susan and I were singing in the dining room last night.  Occasionally, in fact, we were all three singing the same song.  But, when we flipped to the oldies, Susan thought of something else she needed to do and so Randa and I ended up by ourselves, searching through a new old songs book.  As you probably guessed, given the title of today’s devotion, we came across a classic Mamas and Papas tune. 

For those with a good memory and those who happen to research thirty-five year old music, you may recall that in the song, the persona takes a walk on a winter day and ends up taking refuge from the low temperature by going into a church and pretending to pray:  “You know that preacher loves the cold; he knows I’m gonna stay.”

Lots of times, it is the cold of this world that drives people into church: the cold of sickness, the chill of misfortune, the pangs of loneliness, the bitter cut of tragedy and despair.  Sometimes they come seeking sympathy, sometimes seeking financial help, sometimes seeking deliverance, sometimes not really knowing what they seek but knowing they want to find a place of warmth, a refuge from the haunting emptiness of un-defined life.  It is a good thing that they come in and churches should be a place where they can find fulfillment for all of those needs.

But it would be a good thing, too, if you and I were more often blankets that go out into the world.

H. Arnett

1/09/02

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Bucket List

Posted on March 11, 2022 by Doc Arnett

Over my decades of remodeling and home construction projects, I’ve needed lots of buckets of water. Sometimes for mixing drywall mud or masonry mortar, sometimes for preparatory cleaning, sometimes for washing up afterwards. Most of the time, I’ve used five-gallon plastic buckets. Most of those originally contained drywall compound. It’s been mighty rare that I bought a new bucket; just seemed like a waste of money.

Regardless of source or expenditure, filling those buckets has sometimes been a source of embarrassment. Fairly often, especially when filling the buckets using the kitchen sink instead of an outside hose or hydrant, I’ll persuade myself that I have time—while the water is running—to take care of some other simple chore. Frequently, though not invariably, while doing that simple chore I’ll think of another simple chore… and another… By the time I remember the original task of filling the bucket, the bucket has been well filled. And more.

Most times, it’s fairly harmless. The overflow drains right on down the sink and there’s no consequence other than wasted water, personal embarrassment, and reminder of how well-earned my reputation for distractibility and/or absent-mindedness is. A couple of years ago, though, I left water running in the sink and didn’t discover it until hours later. Had to replace a few pieces of laminate flooring in that particular episode. Grrr…

With that lesson somehow fading in memory, I was helping Jeremiah (my youngest son) and Misty with some remodeling at their place back in January. Sure enough, I left a bucket filling in the sink and returned later to find Misty turning off the water as the bucket overflowed. No harm done other than to my ego.

It became a joke while I was there. “Are you running water in the sink, Papa Doc?” “No? Are you sure?”

While trying to soothe my ego and salvage my reputation after I returned home, I began reporting to Misty whenever I’d managed to fill a bucket without mishap. I even sent her a video a few days ago to document that I’d successfully completed my sixth consecutive bucket filling. I was going to send her another text day before yesterday congratulating myself on my eighth victory when a more serious thought occurred to me.

Anticipating her asking me to what I thought I owed my recent success, I half-jokingly thought, “It was when I quit lying to myself about what would happen if I walked away from the sink while the water was running.”

We human types long ago perfected the art of self-deception. Again and again and again we somehow manage to convince ourselves that “this time will be different” even though we keep doing the same blasted thing. Magically, the same behavior will yield different results this time. Why? Well, because we want it to!

Sometimes it’s just embarrassing. Too often, those lies we choose to believe about our own actions leave us with a much bigger mess than a few gallons of water on the floor.

H. Arnett

3/11/2022

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The Road You Are On

Posted on March 8, 2022 by Doc Arnett 
I've sometimes seen a really rough road
lead to a mighty fine place,
and at least a time or two seen a mighty fine road
lead to a really rough place.

But most of the time,
I'd have to say I find 
no matter what kind of a road I've threaded,
it nearly always took me exactly where I was headed.

It's been a right uncommon thing
that the road I was traveling on
brought me somewhere else,
somewhere I never intended going.

Now it might be a time or two
that I quit paying attention
and had taken a wrong turn or two
and didn't really notice for a while

And ended up taking quite a few extra miles
through some awful sketchy looking parts
of some rough and rocky terrain
over in the middle part of southern Missouri.

So, I reckon it's not just how smooth the road is,
or how pretty the scenery might be,
if you don't end up where you wanted,
it doesn't matter much what you've seen.

It would be quite the shock
and right disappointing as well,
if the road I thought was headed to heaven
ended up taking me ten miles south of hell!


H. Arnett
3/8/2022
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First Efforts

Posted on March 3, 2022 by Doc Arnett

My first interaction with installing drywall was when I was just seven years old. Dad let me “help” put up Sheetrock™ in our garage which became temporary living quarters when we were building a new house on our farm in Todd County, Kentucky in 1961.

My help consisted of adding nails to panels that were already installed in the second floor. Looking back, I am suspicious that those panels were already fully installed. At the time, though, I was convinced that my efforts were absolutely essential to keeping those four-by-eight sheets from dropping off the ceiling.

I don’t have a really clear memory about those others whose efforts contributed to the drywall installation. It seems that there were one or two other adult men involved in helping Dad. Maybe carpenters, maybe kinfolk, maybe neighbors. I’m reasonably sure that since my oldest brother, Richard, was seventeen at the time, he would have been in on it. At eleven, Paul would likely have been involved, if he could be pried loose from the tractor seat. Maybe not in solo carrying of the heavy panels though he could have done that pretty readily by the time he was thirteen or fourteen.

But back to my efforts… Other than the potential surface damage a seven-year-old might inflict with a hammer, it was actually a pretty good learning opportunity. The nails were comparatively short and sturdy, much less prone to bending than box nails or standard eight-penny nails. I don’t remember making a mess of anything so I’m relatively certain that I must have done okay. Dad’s patience with mess-ups, especially ones that caused more work, was pretty limited. Absent any memory of stern corrections or being abruptly dismissed from the project, I’m confident that my efforts were at least not disastrous.

Even the limited previous experience I’d had pounding nails into scrap lumber in the garage and in the back yard made a lot of difference in that very first drywall project. Interestingly enough, I’ve found that practice helps me improve in the spiritual realm as well.

We may find that our first efforts at turning the other cheek, forgiving, and doing good to those who have wronged us feel right clumsy. Maybe a bit forced and more than slightly insincere. But, with faithful practice and an earnest prayer life, we’ll find that the more we do it, the easier it gets. Eventually it will feel as natural as swinging a hammer does to an experienced carpenter.

Which is also pretty cool since it was The Carpenter who first taught us how to turn the other cheek and love those who hate you.

H. Arnett

3/3/2022

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A Particular Moment

Posted on March 2, 2022 by Doc Arnett

When I first walked into our little horse barn yesterday morning, I noticed something weird. There was a neon circle about the size of a quarter glowing eerily on the end of the blue plastic feed scoop. Fortunately, it didn’t require a congressional investigation to figure out. I didn’t even have to Google it or take a picture and ask a friend. Through the dust and the cobwebs, I could see a tiny stream of light shining through a tiny hole in the corner of the barn. I’d just happened to walk in at just the right moment. Two minutes earlier or three minutes later and I would have missed it completely.

Regrettably, I didn’t try to take a picture at that particular moment but I did call Randa over to have a look at it. By the time I’d run water for the horses, the angle of the sunshaft had changed and the spot barely showed up when I put the scoop back on top of the storage bin where it had been sitting before.

It’s cliché to talk about missed moments and opted out opportunities. That seems especially true of potential photos with shifting light or spectacular events or amazing circumstances.

Thankfully, it’s different when it comes to being nice to others, to speaking a word of encouragement, to offering a helping hand, choosing to forgive, or being kind to someone who has wronged us. I’ve found that such opportunities as these occur rather often if we are looking for them. Even if we happen to miss the perfect moment, there’s a pretty strong likelihood that a few good moments will come along in short order.

I’ve also observed that deciding beforehand to take advantage helps us capture the moment. Keep your camera handy and your heart ready!

H. Arnett

3/2/2022

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Unseen Witnesses

Posted on February 28, 2022 by Doc Arnett

In a previous contemplation, I described how the floor grates in the upstairs of our old house allowed a bit of heat to seep up into the bedrooms. Those old grates offered another function. Although it was not likely an intentional part of their design, they also provided remote access into the conversations of the first floor.

In the years on both sides of me being seven and him being eleven, Paul and I sometimes found ourselves upstairs when Mom and Dad—and occasionally friends or relatives as well—remained downstairs. I don’t recall that we ever deliberately sneaked upstairs for the purpose of eavesdropping. On the other hand, I could not with completely clear conscience affirm that it never happened. I do know that we did occasionally and without deliberate disclosure take advantage of the situation.

Barely suppressing our giggles, we’d grin at one another as we scrunched down onto the floor beside the grate, turned our crewcut heads sideways and each slid over until we had an ear right above the grate. Sometimes, we’d bump heads and snort as we choked back laughter. And… we’d listen. As long as we were quiet, it seemed that everyone below us would forget about those open grates.

All these years later, I can’t recall a single specific conversation we overhead. I do remember hearing adult voices, sometimes low and quiet, sometimes animated, often punctuated by laughter. I don’t recall any arguments of note, no yelling or raised voices. Always civil, sometimes boisterous as the jokes and quips passed back and forth.

I suspect that neither Mom or Dad, nor any of their visiting guests, had any idea how powerfully they were teaching two snoopy kids the process of polite conversation. I don’t think any of them were deliberately restraining themselves because of their awareness that “little pitchers have big ears” (thank you, John Prine). I reckon it was just how they thought grown folks ought to behave.

Some of the most powerful statements we make are when we forget that anyone else is listening.

H. Arnett

2/28/2022

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