Pictures in the Dark

Posted on February 6, 2019 by Doc Arnett

From here in town
it looked like that low shroud
of winter gray touched the ground.

All day long
the freezing fog had held
close and cold like bad memories.

And so I’d hoped
for some good night shots
of softly glowing lights in muted air.

But when we drove up there
above the hill and away from the house
we found the freezing mist had thinned and lifted.

It’s not often
and I’ve tried hard
to keep from being disappointed

when things
seem to go a bit better
than what I had expected.

It’s a twisted spirit
that finds itself more comfortable
when the darkness deepens and draws close—

and a cold soul
that feels more at ease
in the presence of pain and ghosts.

Soon enough
it will be spring again
and I’ll walk this slope in warmer air,

cared for
and carried by
hands stronger than the seasons,

part of a plan
longer than my years
and greater than my reasons.

In that
I will rest
no matter how close the fog

nor how cold and deep the darkness.

H. Arnett
2/6/19

Posted in Christian Devotions, Metaphysical Reflection, Nature, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Spiritual Contemplation | Comments Off on Pictures in the Dark

A Bit of Green

Posted on February 5, 2019 by Doc Arnett

The Bermuda grass, which kinked and crawled and crept across the small row of lilies, seeming to spread three feet or more in a single season, is brown and dormant. Presumably, with the warmth of April—or maybe March—it will turn green again and continue growing.

Last year much of it died during the winter. According to the guy who works for Gottlob’s Landscaping, it was most likely due to the dearth of moisture. From October through much of March, we had almost no rain or snow. “Even though it’s dormant,” he said, “the roots still need water in the soil.” If that’s the key factor, this should be a banner year for Bermuda.

Per the Community Collaborative Rain, Snow & Hail Network, Cowley County, Kansas has recorded right at twelve inches of precipitation from September till now. Even though the yard is still mostly brown, there’s a tinge of green underneath the elm trees in the west yard. Some of the creeping fescue and red fescue that I sowed last summer is still holding on. It’s a thin stand but it’s enough to make me want to plant some more this year.

That’s the power of even modest success.

It gives us hope for the next effort. Even a little bit of stubborn green standing up in the lonely tones of mid-winter is enough to makes us think that it’s worth the long hours of working the dirt, planting the seed and watering its needs through the long hot summer. Even though the bigger part of what I planted last year didn’t survive, the part that did gives me hope for the work that is coming.

When we choose to focus on what good surrounds us, when we deliberately consider what has been blessed, when we decide to learn from the past, something as simple as grass can teach us a thing or two about moving ahead. Even in the most barren spans of our lives, we can usually find something that has thrived.

And keep pressing forward.

H. Arnett
2/5/19

Posted in Christian Devotions, Gardening, Metaphysical Reflection, Nature, Spiritual Contemplation, Work | Tagged , , , , , | Comments Off on A Bit of Green

Good Friends and Great Music

Posted on February 4, 2019 by Doc Arnett

About twenty-five years ago, we “discovered” Fernando Ortega’s music while browsing through CD’s at a Christian book store in Lexington, Kentucky. It was pretty much love at first listen. His clear, beautiful voice, his gentle melodies, and his touching lyrics drew us right in.

Over the years, we’ve continued to appreciate the blending of folk influences and the diversity of his poetry and musical compositions. His song Angel Fire is haunting and touching, mourning the loss of a spouse and touched by the beauty of the San Gabriel Mountains. Mi Abuelito celebrates the life of his grandfather and his burial near the tiny village of Chimayo (also another song) east of Albuquerque. City of Sorrows, blending visions of Old Testament prophets and modern history, pays empathetic homage to Jerusalem. Old hymns, fresh tributes, sacred selections and odes of deep love and respect. His music has become part of who we are.

We have sung and still sing his songs in our living room and in our churches. Stricken, Smitten and Afflicted is a perfect communion hymn, as is Here Is Love. We plan to include Angel Fire in our respective funerals. His albums are among our most enjoyed and appreciated possessions.

We were delighted to find out a few months ago that he would be performing at Tabor College in Hillsboro, Kansas. Immediately, we invited a couple of friends to join us. And so, with joyful anticipation, we headed north Saturday afternoon with Mark and Diane Flickinger. It didn’t hurt anything that they were both alumni of Tabor. It also didn’t hurt anything that they suggested we have an early supper on the way at “The Bread Basket” in Hillsboro. A hearty meal of Swiss Mennonite cuisine turned out to be a perfect prelude for Fernando’s concert.

Set in the almost brand new and certainly beautiful Reichert Hall, the concert was everything we’d hoped for and more. We’d done so little research over all these years, we didn’t even know that Fernando plays the piano. And plays it quite well! His voice—even in live performance—was as clear and beautiful as we expected. His sense of humor was another discovery. Quick and charming, he shared witty remarks and occasional stories. A couple of the stories were ended abruptly with, “I’m not sure where I was going with that.”

During the concert I sneaked a few looks over at our friends. Even though they weren’t as familiar with Fernando’s music as we were, the looks on their faces seemed to make clear that the Flickingers were enjoying the performance as much as we were.

In addition to the songs and stories, Fernando also shared deeply personal insights and experiences, including the loss of family and friends. As he recounted his own struggles from about five years ago, he confessed, “There were times when I’d just go to my knees and pray, ‘God, just get me through these next five minutes.'” There was poignancy in such deeply personal revelation.

Sharing times of fear and despair, moments of joy and sorrow, experiences of pain and fulfillment, this is the basis of relationship, the foundation of meaning and connection. In my admittedly limited experience, it is rather rare that a concert includes such things as this. But then, Fernando Ortega is a rare talent, a man anointed for worship and sharing in song.

Whether as internationally known performers or known only by a handful of friends and family, such sharings enrich our lives and draw us closer together. Even quiet conversations that fill in the miles of long travel through the rich darkness of a Kansas night become precious threads in the ties that bind us together.

Those, too, are parts of the soul’s own music that bring us all closer. In Fernando’s words, “Heavenly Father, remember the travelers; bring us safely home. Safely home.”

H. Arnett
2/4/19

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Woodchucks & the Rapture

Posted on February 1, 2019 by Doc Arnett

So… tomorrow is Groundhog Day, eh?

So what happens if the dude decides not to show up? What are the implications if Ole Punxsatawney Phil rightly figures it’s way too cold to come poking up from the deep warm recesses of his winter rest? What if every Marmota marmax in the whole dang country boycotts? What if they’re snow-blind and even though the shadows are there, they just can’t see them? What if they’re so struck by the beauty around them they simply forget to look down?

No matter what happens in and among the population of our overgrown prognosticating ground squirrels, I reckon we’ll probably manage to deal with ever how many weeks of winter remain. If Felipe and his tunneling kindred are no more accurate than the various political polls that told us Donald Trump didn’t have a snowball’s chance of becoming president, then I’m guessing we’ll just have to learn to live with yet another errant prediction.

Regardless of the predictions and prognostications, we’ll still have to pay our heating bills, deal with our seasonal affective disorders and pay our taxes. Some folks swear at the weather, the groundhog, the bills and the president. Others say, “I hear there’s six inches of fresh powder up in the mountains. Kids, layer up and grab your snowboards!” And, I think there are still some folks who take a look outside and say, “What a perfect day for a cup of hot chocolate and reading a book.”

Predictions and prophecies, prognostications and pontifications, and all such run the gamut all the way from “the sky really is falling” to “Nirvana is just around the corner.” Other than occasionally buying an extra loaf of bread and voting for people who actually seem capable of rational thought and reasonable compromise, I really don’t bother with much in response to all the noise and chatter.

I try to be like the old black preacher I heard in South Fulton, Tennessee about forty years ago explaining why he and his brethren didn’t get caught up in the contrived controversies about millennialism: “Some folks say there’s going to be ‘Thousand-Year Reign’ and others say it’s just figurative. Some say there’s going to be a rapture first and then judgment. We don’t care one way or another. We know that either way we’re gonna be with Jesus and that’s all that matters to us.”

Kind of funny how many things don’t perturb folks who have their priorities properly sorted out.

H. Arnett
2/1/19

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Hard Times

Posted on January 31, 2019 by Doc Arnett

With the current Arctic Atmospheric Orca sending its blast across a vast part of the country, it occurred to me this morning that this is a mighty fine time to be inside.

A mighty fine time to have a furnace that works and insulated walls to help stall the loss of heat. A mighty fine time for cars that start and heaters that work. Layers of warm clothes accented by insulated gloves and boots. It’s a mighty fine time for being blessed with the things that make the difference between comfort and discomfort, pleasure and pain, living and not living.

And as I thought about that, I thought, “What a lousy time to be homeless.”

What a lousy time to be stuck outside, to be searching for a warmer box, a bigger barrel burning under a bridge, a safer place. What a lousy time to be broke, poor and hungry.

And as I thought about that, I wondered, “When is a good time to be homeless?”

Haven’t figured that one out yet.

H. Arnett
1/31/19

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The Pursuit of Unhappiness

Posted on January 30, 2019 by Doc Arnett

Sometimes it occurs to me that the real issue in most, perhaps all, of my disappointments is a misinterpretation of what life is about. More specifically, about what my life is about.

God’s plan for me is not about my gratification, my achievement or my happiness; it is about bringing people to salvation. It is about advancing the gospel and building up the body of Christ, preparing and equipping us for good works. It is also about preparing us for eternity, bringing us to the fullness of the image of Christ.

Contrary to one of the illusions neatly tucked away into our Declaration of Independence, happiness is not something obtained through pursuit. It is a by-product, not a goal. The more deliberately we focus on our own happiness, the more elusive it will be. It is gained through surrender, not through overwhelming force. It is a choice, not an accomplishment.

When I learn like the ancient tentmaker that God is at work in all things, when I believe that the One who has begun a good work in me will finish that work, when I know that my Creator is operating within me for both intent and action, then I am able to rejoice in all circumstances.

When I believe that no matter what is going on in my life, that God is both forming me and using me for his divine plan and purpose, then I am liberated from the petty notion that my life is about something as fickle as what makes me happy.

H. Arnett
1/30/19

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Breach Baby

Posted on January 29, 2019 by Doc Arnett

Disappointment and I have a long history together. Maybe it goes all the way back to birth. I suppose it’s possible that it goes back earlier than that but birth is probably sufficiently early for this discussion. You’re probably suspicious that I’m being facetious here, maybe even devious or deliberately deceitful. On the facetious part, you’d probably have a case. But, in point of fact, I was a breach birth.

Nowadays, there’d be a surgeon on hand and as soon as it was determined that I was determined to be difficult, they’d whisk Mom right into the operating room and C-section that little brat right out of her. But, in the dim days of my transition from womb to room, if the baby was positioned for something other than head first entry, well, that’s what happened.

And so it was that my little feet hit the air before my head and I was birthed into this world before I’d got the chance to have a look around. Not that an opportunity to reconnoiter a bit would have changed anything. But at least I could have seen what I was getting myself into. Instead, I came sailing into this world feet first, backwards of most everybody else and seeing things differently right from the get-go.

Most likely a disappointment to the doctor, my parents and everybody else that was around at the time. I think most everyone got over it pretty quickly, once it was determined that none of us had apparently suffered any ill effects of any significance. Except, of course, for the permanent effect on my psyche. I’m not sure if I was born ready to run or ready to kick. Ready to get away or ready to give chase.

Regardless of all that, regardless of my beginnings or anyone’s particular reaction to my arrival, I am pretty sure about one thing: learning how to deal with disappointment is right critical to making a good life. And a big part of that is cultivating a deliberate inclination of realizing that things can be quite different from what you expected and still be pretty darn good.

Even a baby that’s born backwards has advantages over one that’s born sideways.

H. Arnett
1/29/19

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Little Hops of Faith

Posted on January 25, 2019 by Doc Arnett

I’m sitting in the physical therapy room at South Central Kansas Medical Center, watching Amanda work with four-year-old Faith. Faith’s adoptive mother, Lisa, who is also her grandmother, tells me that the little girl “was left in her crib sixteen hours a day, maybe more.” That absence of interaction has left Faith with some challenges that other four-year-olds don’t usually face. Although the little redhead is tall for her age, her coordination and motor skills lie toward the other end of the comparative spectrum.

Amanda has Faith standing on a tiny trampoline and tells her to get ready to catch a soft rubber ball. Faith holds her hands together and lifts them up just above waist level. She catches the first toss while maintaining her balance on the somewhat unstable surface of the mini-tramp. She has no idea how many muscles she is using nor how this activity is helping her remedy the deficiencies of her early neglect. Her lack of awareness is really not that much different than mine.

Time and time again, God has set me on some sort of slightly unstable surface and said, “Here, catch.” I don’t always enjoy the game and seldom accomplish the desired goal on the first attempt. But somehow he manages to keep me trying, feet shuffling about in their search for surer standing, elbows shoveling air as if my effort was all that mattered, head twitching about trying to find that ball lost in the sun, and lungs sometimes gasping for air. Me thinking “Man, this is really some kind of game!” and God softly murmuring encouragement and consolation, “Yes, it’s called ‘Life,’ and you’re doing better than you think.”

Noting that my presence is distracting Faith, I excuse myself from the conversation and leave the room for a while. When I slip back in later, she is joyfully hopping from the middle of the room toward the south wall. It’s a long room. It takes her a bunch of six-inch-hops to make it. As she turns, Amanda calls out to her, “That’s really good, Faith. Can you hop back over here?”

Lisa softly exclaims, “She’s never done that before!”

As long as faith works within us and we keep responding to the Voice that keeps calling us onward, we will find ourselves doing things we’ve never done before. Sometimes in slow, aching trudges. Sometimes resenting the nudges. But each little hop of faith is helping us reach places we’ve never been before. Our effort and the guiding of the Great Therapist.

Along with countless prayers and immeasurable love.

H. Arnett
1/25/19

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Snow That Ain’t

Posted on January 23, 2019 by Doc Arnett

I’ve heard and read that the Arctic tribes have over a hundred words for “snow,” reportedly to distinguish between the various types. Of course, I’ve also heard that the good old days were much better than today so I take that report with a small dose of skepticism. Might be the Eskimo only have twenty different words but there’s a lot of variation in the spelling, you know?

What I do know is that the type that briefly fell here in Ark city last evening is what my brother Paul and I used to call “fertilizer snow.” If you’ve ever ripped open a few 50-pound bags of ammonium nitrate or Triple-Twelve and dumped them into planter hoppers, you know what I mean. Actually, if you’ve opened just one 5-pound bag to topdress a small section of lawn, you probably know. All those tiny white pellets, sized somewhere between buckshot and BB’s, small and round and hard.

That’s the snow that we had last night. Tiny, little, hard frozen pellets. Hail without the ambition. Kind of useless for snowballs and sculpture. More like sleet, really. Not the classic beauty of the romantic flake that catches on the eyelid of your lover. Not the stuff that forms miles of winter wonderland. But snow nonetheless.

Kind of like the gruffy old codger who apparently came from a different mold, one that we genuinely hope was broken immediately thereafter. The drummer who beats to a different march. The eighty-year-old widow who will shovel her own dang sidewalk, thank you very much.

No matter how little we think the other folks are like us, they’re still folks. Still made in the image of our Creator. Still the neighbor we were taught to love. Before we get too carried away with what beautiful fluffy flakes we are, might be good for us to consider that the God who made us also causes the sun to rise on the just and the unjust.

Once we’ve melted, we’re all just water.

H. Arnett
1/23/19

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The Softer Works of God

Posted on January 22, 2019 by Doc Arnett

I love the way the moon shines through the clouds on a night when they aren’t quite thick enough to completely block the light but not quite thin enough to let its shape show clearly, either. Last night, after I rolled the big trash cart out to the curb for today’s pickup, I turned back toward the house. I saw the glow coming through the clouds, a bluish halo mostly circular in shape but a bit distorted by the varying thickness of the clouds.

Beyond that muted light, the sky was dark. Not ominous, just dark. I stood still for just a while, studying the way the high, slender limbs of the neighbor’s great maple swooped upwards. I saw the dark silhouettes against that soft glow, saw the branches shuddering in the strong southern breeze. Leafless, of course, on a January night in southern Kansas, the finer stems disappeared toward their ends, too thin to be seen in that bit of light and from this distance.

I thought of lives I’d known, of people whose softer light never cast shadows beyond those who surrounded them. Those whose quiet and gentle ways made long days seem more bearable, whose lack of loud demands made them easier to be with. I thought of some of the folks around Browns Grove, Kentucky, that I’d known so many years ago. I thought about a couple in Columbus, Ohio, that I’d met while I was in grad school. I remembered with deliberate appreciation some of the church folks I’ve known over the years: Kentucky, Tennessee, North Carolina, Ohio, Missouri, and Kansas. A few relatives, a number of people with whom I’ve worked.

I’m sure it is the brighter moon, the spectacle of the eclipse and the moon’s full glory on a clear night that brings such delight and moves us to marvel. But when life is quiet and the stage not so crowded, in the tender hours of memory, it is the softer light that moves me to peace. Memories of those whose hands were not heavy upon my life but who certainly touched my soul, who showed me one does not have to stand center stage. Those who are barely caught in the careful look behind the draping shape of the curtain, whose hands have nonetheless shaped the show.

I look up at the sky on a lightly shrouded night, see that muted glow through the clouds, and know that God’s work in my life has not always been done through the glaring light. Sometimes his fine and wonderful work is shown in soft and gentle movings that lead me to be still and know.

H. Arnett
1/22/19

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