Faith More Powerful than Hostility

Posted on May 9, 2019 by Doc Arnett

Though an army besiege me,
my heart will not fear;
though war break out against me,
even then will I be confident.
Psalm 27:3 (NIV)

So far as I know, I’ve only had three or four enemies in my lifetime and maybe only a couple of them actually wished me bodily harm. The others did me harm professionally. Even though their opposition deprived me of some serious money and a bit of sleep, no blood was shed.

Now, this is not to say I never had other people mad at me during these sixty-plus years. Having someone angry with you at a particular moment, even if they’d like to take a swing at the more fragile parts of your face, doesn’t necessarily make them your enemy. In the way I’m thinking of the term at this moment, an enemy is more committed than that. They’re not looking to relieve some temporary frustration; they’re in it for the long haul. I’m thinking of the kind of folks that get up thirty minutes early every morning just so they can hate you more. And can do that for years.

Part of the reason I suffer from the delusion that I have made very few enemies might be poor perception coupled with inferior memory. Maybe I’ve made more than I realized or have just forgotten about it because they never undertook significant retaliation. On the other hand, I have generally avoided most of the patterns of behavior that are so effective in fostering hostility. With a very few exceptions, people generally respond well to being treated with thoughtful decency and consideration. I have to live with knowing I’ve failed from time to time on that effort but it is still the goal. And that helps me walk in faith more than fear.

I’m not sure I have David’s confidence in the face of violence. Actually, I’m rather convinced that I don’t have it. War breaks out against me, I’m gonna be about as terrified as a Chihuahua in a thunderstorm. On the other hand, I am pretty sure it’s all going to turn out okay.

My enemy may deprive me of a key opportunity or so persistently undermine and harass me that I will walk away from a high-paying job. But my integrity will still be intact and no amount of back-stabbing, deceit and hypocrisy will take that away. At least, as long as I make sure those actions are coming from my opponent and not from me!

In some battles, the greatest danger is that we become like our enemies.

H. Arnett
5/9/19

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A Dark and Stormy Night

Posted on May 8, 2019 by Doc Arnett

“The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?”
Psalm 27:1 (NIV)

It might just be faulty memory on my part but it seems that this is the stormiest May we’ve experienced in these four springs we’ve spent in south central Kansas. Every day this week—though this is only Wednesday—has brought a rolling procession of severe storms. Heavy rain, heavy thunder, and heavy hail. All highly localized in regard to intensity and effect.

We barely caught the fringe of Sunday night’s worst storm with a brief pounding of quarter-sized hail. A mile or so away, stones half the size of a man’s palm descended with wrath and cold fury. I learned on Tuesday that at least two funnel clouds had formed, one of them only four or five miles away. Last evening, yet another storm—focused north of Winfield—stripped gardens and pounded the shreds of plants into the mud.

This morning, I feel as though I haven’t even been to bed. A series of cells seemed to spread out across the whole night, bursts of thunder periodically shaking the house and rousing me from semi- to full consciousness, tossing my thoughts around like small leaves in a hard wind.

Other towns along the great rivers of the Midwest endure their third or fourth week of continuous flooding. In our section of Tornado Alley, we continue with flash flooding, rising rivers and the fact-of-living possibilities of even more dire circumstances.

We each face such what-may-come with attitudes that vary from trembling fear to fatalism to undaunted faith. Those who have been graced with and have embraced genuine belief understand that whether life brings testing or resting, their souls are kept safe in hands stronger than the storms. Even in the darkest nights, there is a Light that guides them on. Even when it may be to places they’d rather not go, they know that they will never leave their truest home.

H. Arnett
5/8/19

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A Prayer for Nurses

Posted on May 6, 2019 by Doc Arnett

God of Heaven, we acknowledge you as Creator, Provider, Sustainer, Healer, Savior and Shepherd.

Lord Jesus, we know that you walked upon this earth, that you both witnessed and experienced our joys, pains, celebrations and sufferings. You gave sight to the blind, made the lame to walk, healed the lepers, gave hearing to deaf, and even raised the dead back to life.

We give you thanks for these who have chosen to dedicate themselves to this profession of healing and service. You know the work that these nurses do, the challenges that they face, and the lives that they touch.

We ask, Lord, that you would bless these hands that minister to the sick, to the suffering, to the ill, to the diseased. We pray that you will strengthen these hands and guide them. We pray that you will make them both strong and gentle.

We also pray, Lord, that you will bless these hearts. Give them courage and stamina, let them not become discouraged. In times of testing, may these hearts be pure and sincere. Bless them with compassion, with grace and with love.

We also ask, in your name, Lord Jesus, that you would bless these minds. Give them wisdom and understanding. Give them insight and awareness. Especially in the times of greatest stress and most critical testing, help them to remain calm and confident.

Help us, Lord, that we may all use our hands, our hearts and our minds to serve those in need, to lift up and encourage one another. Help us to be slow to anger and quick to forgive. Help us to quick to give aid and slow to take note of any wrong or slight. Help us to love one another and to treat others as we would be treated.

Help us to remember that whenever we show love to the least of those of your family—to the poor, to the weak, to the sick, to the suffering—that whenever we give even a cup of cold water, we show love to you.

We ask for your blessing upon these who daily show your love to others through the work that they do. We ask for your blessing upon all of us.

Amen.

H. Arnett
5/6/19

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Bull-Ridin’ and Success

Posted on May 3, 2019 by Doc Arnett

Bull Riding & Success

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This Bitter Shore

Posted on May 2, 2019 by Doc Arnett

On a calm gray morning
we stand for a while on this low hill,
an ocean of winter wheat spilling its green waves
across the rolling fields to the south and east.

Beyond the shadows of old cedars and an ancient elm,
we walk across spongy ground to the few chairs
set in line before a tiny white casket
resting on plywood above the waiting earth.

Quentin’s unbreathing birth the week before
has torn a hole into our lives,
less than two weeks short of a full nine months
of hopes and plans and the joyful works of preparation.

I stand as preacher–fearing the short reach of my words–
and speak of pain and loss, the sometimes awful costs
of life and love in this world of sun and storms,
unformed reasons and seasons of joy and grief.

While hundreds of others offer up prayers elsewhere,
we add one more to theirs,
a small sharing of anguish here on this bitter shore
where the tides bring in and carry out,

here where sand and stone mark both hope and doubt.

Exactly a week beyond Passover’s dark loss,
we meet here amidst acres of granite-marked memories,
at the carved-pain intersection of life and loss,
where we weep and grieve with sometimes heaving shoulders.

We move through such times as this,
torn by the broken-bone ache of shattered hopes,
the unflinching love of blood and kin,
an exasperating longing for explanation,

mourning our way to hope
while we wait
for the promise of resurrection
in a cloudless sky.

H. Arnett
5/2/19

Posted in Christian Devotions, Christian Living, Death & Dying, Family, Metaphysical Reflection, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , , | Comments Off on This Bitter Shore

The Laughter of Old Men & Little Children

Posted on April 24, 2019 by Doc Arnett

You can tell a bit about a man by what it is that makes him silly. For some, the later it gets, the more likely it is to happen. Surround him with good friends, let the jokes begin, and see where the evening takes him. Some folks will be suspicious there’s alcohol involved but I have seen situations where it’s nothing other than good company and quick wit that can send people into fits of laughter. Humor can be a right powerful narcotic, inducing a euphoria that is right effective. Someone surrounded with people they love, clever comments playing off one another but without malice aforethought, and you soon see someone who has forgotten their troubles for a while. Rather, then, they are caught up in the joy of life.

Another thing that can take me there to the land of Forget Dignity, Enjoy Life is the company of small children. Particularly if there is a genetic link.

There ought to be some sort of immunity for an old man attempting to entertain his grandkids. Never mind that the truth might get a little lost in the commotion or that he may be saying things that he knows make no sense. If he’s capable of getting down on the floor with them and then getting back up with a minimum of assistance, then let him have at it for a while. If the mutual laughter and commotion rattles the dishes and shakes the plates for a while, so be it. If he tells them they have pumpernickel pudding stuck behind their ears, don’t get in too much of a hurry to offer a contrary opinion.

Just leave ’em be. Trust me, this level of energy isn’t going to hold up for very long and they’ll all sleep better tonight. This sort of inter-generational shenanigan is right as rain in August, nourishing to the soul and good for whatever ails you. I’m guessing that even God grins when old men work so hard at making little children laugh.

I’m putting my kids and grandkids on alert; I think I may need more practice.

H. Arnett
4/24/19

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Meeting Amos

Posted on April 23, 2019 by Doc Arnett

A few weeks ago, Jeremiah invited us to come over to Murray, “You know, if it works out where you can be here right after the baby is born, we’d be glad to have you here.” He and Misty were expecting their third child, their first boy.

We have missed most of the moments that we have longed for as grandparents. I guess I’ve found distance and work to be pretty good reasons but somehow those excuses rattled a bit loose on this one. We’ve never been closer than five hundred miles and with many of the births it’s been over a thousand. Part of the price of adult children on active military duty, part of the price of other children also spread across the planet. Part of the price of the way work and worry can trick us into confusing our priorities.

This time, though, we decided to take to the road just three days after little Amos Michael was born. A bit before two in the afternoon on Passover Thursday, we headed east. Hail and strong winds had come in with the storms on Wednesday night but had cleared out on the following day.

The emerging spring had brought a lush green to the winter wheat and a tinge of new grass across the vast pastures of the Flint Hills. Across southern Missouri, the brilliant whites of dogwoods spread beneath the canopies of hardwoods. Across both states, the late stage lavender of redbuds accented fencerows and ditchlines, along with the fine white clusters of wild plum blossoms.

We caught up to the passing front in Willow Springs and drove the last three hundred miles in rain. Jeremiah was still waiting up for us. After the kind of hugs that make nine hours of driving worthwhile, he led us into the basement guest room.

He’s done quite the job of converting bare floor and foundation walls into really cool “hanging out” space. Combining raw wood and stripped panels of stain with a wainscoting of galvanized roofing, he’s managed to create hospitable space. He even managed to make a little nook for a bed. The little tin buckets with welcoming gifts set on the dresser made for a nice touch, too.

We sat up and talked until after midnight, Jeremiah sharing how Misty had already been out potting plants on the deck just a couple of days after the baby was born. As we continued visiting, the Mountain Dew wore off and the five-hundred-and-forty miles wore on; we headed back down the stairs toward sleep. The next morning, we got to meet little Amos.

How is it that even when you’ve seen so many newborns over the span of sixty-plus years, you can still be truly surprised at their tiny size? Even the ones that get up to nine or ten pounds seem impossibly small. How can something that little still be so perfectly formed?

I stood for a while, watching Randa stroke the fine dark hair of his tiny head as she cradled him in one arm. She caressed his feet, lightly traced his forehead. I leaned against the kitchen door for a while, just watching. Even before she passed him off to me, I’d already held him in my heart, already spoken his name. Everything beyond that was just extra bliss.

I held Amos Michael close, kissed him lightly, then tilted him up slightly so I could lean my face against the side of his head, feel the incredible softness of his skin, the smell of baby. I looked into those tiny eyes as he looked about a bit, watched the intermittent flailing of the one arm that had managed to free itself from the enshrouding blanket.

There is an inherited delight that is beyond delight in the precious sight and touch of newborn life. There is glory and pleasure in the witness and the promise, in the connecting of flesh and spirit, of hope and heart. A joy in loving that makes it worth every mile that we have traveled, the miles that lead us home.

H. Arnett
4/23/19

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Frontasauras and the Clogged Gutter

Posted on April 18, 2019 by Doc Arnett

A friend of ours posted a picture last night showing the storm system moving across southern and central Kansas. The radar image definitely had an interesting shape; some said it resembled a dinosaur and others said “giraffe.” Its distinctive, fiery shape with elongated neck and galloping legs took me a step further. I thought it looked like a giraffe from hell.

Whatever fury the radar picture suggested or the system delivered elsewhere, the forecast fell a bit short at our place. We’re not complaining, though! I haven’t yet learned how to be disappointed about not getting seventy-mile-an-hour winds or golf ball-sized hail. We did get some drenching rain for a spell and a slight pattering of momentary hail.

As it frequently does when accumulated sticks, leaves, and hordes of whatever else the elm trees are tired of holding up falls off and clogs the gutters, water was pouring over the edges and making a mess by our porch. As I periodically do during small thunderstorms and other events when the atmosphere and hydrosphere try to merge, I decided to clean out enough of the clog to get things flowing again.

I got the utility step stool that works so well for such occasions and took an extra measure, one I usually forget in all the excitement such opportunities provide; I put on a plastic raincoat.

So here I am in the thunderstorm, with distant flashes of lightning, rolling rumbles of thunder, and great rivers of water pouring from above, standing on a metal-framed contraption, and pulling out handfuls of sticks, leaves, and hordes of whatever else from the corner intersection of the gutter.

I had just about finished when I realized I needed to get at least one more handful and a finishing swipe from the right hand side. As I reached up and twisted slightly, there was a brilliant flash of lightning and a loud boom of thunder. The mere fact that I am writing about it the next morning should be adequate proof that there was no direct interaction between me and said lightning. As to the sudden great rush of water that my gutter work released, that is a rather different story. There were all kinds of direct interaction.

Apparently, I had perfectly aligned myself, having twisted my upper body and head at the exactly proper angle to fashion an amazingly effective plastic funnel from the hood of the rain coat. It were as if someone had emptied a five-gallon bucket of quite refreshing spring water. It poured down around my neck and seemed to fill the entire interior of my rain coat down my right side. My shirt was soaked, my jeans were soaked, my socks were soaked. In fairness, I should point out that my socks were already soaked before this splendid event; I’d been shoeless throughout the entire gutter reclamation project. Just as well as it turned out.

I stepped over onto the porch, folded up the folding utility step stool and set it against the wall on the porch. I looked back to admire the improvement for which I had just sacrificed such comfort and solitude. Water was pouring over the edge of the gutter in pretty much the same spots it had been before. But at least it was falling in a slightly different pattern.

In those times when our efforts fall well short of our intended outcomes, we do well to be tolerant of our own limitations. And be grateful for soft towels and dry clothes. And, especially, for a safe place to sleep, even while the rain is spilling over the gutters.

H. Arnett
4/18/19

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Career Prep

Posted on April 11, 2019 by Doc Arnett

A few of my colleagues from the hospital and I spent the day yesterday at the Career Expo for high school students. Three of us set up our booths in the morning and were joined by the surgical team and another administrator in the afternoon. In addition, there were employees from at least a couple dozen other businesses and colleges. All of us were there to share information about careers and answer questions. Over five hundred area freshmen came by during the day.

Most of the representatives had items to give away, enticements of sorts to draw students to their tables. Some of the kids treated it as a big indoors Trick-or-Treat event, going from one display to another to collect the freebies. Some grabbed handfuls of candy from the big bowls set out.

Being the Grouchy Old Badger that I am, I didn’t bring candy. We had plenty of pens and pencils and some tiny first aid kits (band aids, antiseptic & antibiotic). At her table, our head of radiology set out a big bowl of mandarin oranges. It was still full at the end of the day.

As further evidence of my meanness, I made the kids stand there and at least pretend to interact with me before they got any goodies. Most of them indicated they had no idea of what they wanted to be when they grew up. I met a couple of kids that said they wanted to be surgeons and a couple of prospective engineers.

Several of the thirty or forty that stopped by our table listened carefully and took time to actually look at the materials we had displayed. Large cards listed a few of the non-medical careers and the types of subjects and topics that related to them. For instance, under “Marketing and Public Relations,” I’d listed such things as writing, photography, journalism, graphic design and public speaking. “If you look through that list and think, ‘Oh, those are things I really enjoy doing,’ that might be a career area you should consider,” I offered. “On the other hand, if you see things there and think ‘I hate those!’ then you should probably look for something else.”

Watching all of those young teens finding their way around, I thought back to my own freshmen year. I didn’t have any solid idea at all of what I wanted to be when I grew up. I changed my mind a half-dozen times even after I started college. I’d focused on teaching by the end of my first year at Freed-Hardeman. I shifted stations but stayed in education for over forty years.

As a high school freshmen, I knew how to listen, study, get along with others, do my work and say “Yes, ma’am” and “No, sir.” Looking back over all these years, I’m not sure but what those were the things that mattered most.

H. Arnett
4/11/19

Posted in College, education, Higher Education, Work | 1 Comment

A Slightly Early Easter Story

Posted on April 10, 2019 by Doc Arnett

I spent a few hours last July cutting, tearing, digging, prying and pulling out the base remnants of old shrubs that grew along the southeast wall of our little house in Ark City. The anchoring tendrils of winter creeper left their scars on the cedar siding. It’ll take a fair amount of scraping and grinding and two coats of new paint to finish hiding those marks.

Not being in the proper frame of mind for all that last summer, I opted for planting lilies in that vacated section of ground. Figured maybe some bright blooms might distract the casual passers-by enough that they wouldn’t notice the siding. In order to give the new plants a good go of it in the southern Kansas summer, I poured on a liberal dose of the root starter recommended for transplanting. Some of that stuff you dilute in water that has just the right proportion of the right nutrients, you know.

In spite of such splendid treatment, the Oriental lilies almost immediately began turning yellow. Within two weeks, at least one of them had added a disturbing degree of wilt to accompany the paling color. By the end of a month, all of them but one had died. By September, that one also had given up the ghost, so to speak. The day lilies, living in the same neighborhood, seemed to be doing okay, as long as I watered them every few days.

Short of autopsy, the only thing I could think of in the way of investigating possible explanation was to go back and re-read the instructions on the jug of starter solution. (I may have used the term “re-read” in a somewhat misleading fashion.) Careful review of that little bit of written conveyance certainly yielded at least one strong clue: I had used about ten times the recommended amount.

Once again void of anyone else to blame for my pain and predicament, I lamented the lost plants throughout the rest of the season. Slim is the comfort of the soul who knows the burden of its own shortcomings. Somehow, in spite of such guilt and grief, I managed to make it through the winter.

Two weeks ago, while inspecting the fifty-something plants we’d set out around the house last summer, I checked on the day lilies in that southeast section. They had sprung up from the soil, a lush green of spring’s glad awakening. The blades were already a few inches tall. As I looked along the bed, I also noticed some emerging clumps of different character. Their green took the form of a series of short triangular blades arranged with circular centers. I was right well astounded by what I was seeing!

Every one of those Oriental lilies that I was sure I had killed beyond any hope of resurrection had re-emerged. Some store of hope and life that I could not perceive and could barely believe had laid beneath the surface for all those months and now erupted into undeniable growth and existence. Even when it seems for all that can be seen that we have no reason to hope for good yet to come, it can still spring up from the very soil beneath our feet.

Those who have learned to hold stubbornly to well-founded faith know that hope can yet yield its good fruit, no matter how wilted the stalk and stem of seasons past.

H. Arnett
4/10/19

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