Hiking-Part II

Posted on August 29, 2018 by Doc Arnett

At the top of the trail that moves up along the abandoned quarry out at Camp Horizon, Mark and I pause—briefly—before heading right back down the way we came. This hike is not so much about enjoying nature as it is the first five miles of a two-month preparation for a twenty-mile hike at the Grand Canyon in late October. Lord willing.

We step from stone to stone, ledge to ledge, sometimes following the edge and sometimes walking in the small ditch formed by heavy storms. Tall grass and weeds fill the narrow border between the trail and trees. I see a bit of a black blur and Mark calmly exclaims with genuine delight, “Ah, there’s one of those!”

He probes the grass gently with his hiking stick and a very healthy looking tarantula emerges from the thick grass. It is the first time I’ve ever seen one of these critters without cage or glass between us. The effect is very much what I would have predicted. I stay several feet away, watching the thing as if it could spit venom or throw darts. In Mark’s company, I assess a five-inch leg-span. Had I been alone, I’m sure I would have to double that estimate.

I ask Mark, “So, what do those things feed on? Small bunnies and such?”

He laughs and adds to the menu, “Puppies and small dogs.” I think he may have added more factual information but by then I was focused on picking my way down the trail (away from the tarantula) so as to minimize the impact on my left knee which was giving hints of coming soreness.

Soon after we get back to the river road, a very small snake moves quickly from the center of the wide trail over toward the grass. Mark tries to gently pin it with the end of his hiking stick but missed a bit. Ebbing light and its rapid movement precluded identification, though I thought the color suggested copperhead. “Right color,” Mark concurred, “Kind of small and skinny, though.” Whatever it was, we leave it to its own choosings and continue our way back toward home.

A red ball sunset bleeds through the sycamore and cottonwoods along the river as we turn up the wide path leading back up the bluff. There is a particular beauty in the dying of the day, something in the way the colors change. The shadows are softer even as the darkness begins to deepen. Sometimes the night comes when there is still more trail ahead of us and sometimes the climb comes when we are already tired and sore.

We press on, knowing there is rest ahead, but we must finish the climb before we can find that place of gentle comfort. We know, too, that the morrow will bring more miles to travel, more discoveries to be made. Even in the blessing of shade we know that we are being made ready for the next part of our journey, even though we may not know quite where that will lead us.

Aware of danger and open to delight, we keep our eyes open and step forward in the faith and grace that has brought us safe this far.

H. Arnett
8/29/18

Posted in Christian Devotions, Christian Living, Exercise, Humor, Metaphysical Reflection, Nature, Spiritual Contemplation | Comments Off on Hiking-Part II

Training Hike-Part I

Posted on August 28, 2018 by Doc Arnett

This is not a leisurely walk in the woods that my friend Mark is leading us on, this evening; this is training. We have the idea that we might do a rugged hike out West this fall and this is the start of our preparation for that. And so we head across his yard and take a short cut to Camp Horizon.

We step through a narrow growth of trees and across the remnants of woven wire fencing, onto a grassy lane of sorts. Bounded by Johnson Grass and brush, we soon come to an open road, then head downslope toward the river bottom. The trail cuts down the hill, and grass soon gives way to stone and gravel. I am suspicious that my heavy semi-hiking shoes would have been a better choice than my lightweight trail runners. I can feel the press of each rock through the soles.

When we get to the bottoms, we head left on a wide trail that is mostly dirt and grass, continuing the brisk pace Mark has set. Old growth sycamores, elm, walnut and a variety of other hardwoods rise up beside us. Stinging nettle lines the edge of the road. A quarter mile later, we come to the old quarry and our training shifts up a couple of gears. As we make our way up the edge, we have to pick our way along, choosing each step and moving up a couple hundred feet of elevation in five minutes or so. This particular trail seems to blur the line between hiking and climbing.

At the top, we pause ever so briefly, take in the view… and then head right back down the trail to the quarry. From there, we move on along the river road and then take another trail up toward Inspiration Point. A hundred yards up, that blurred line disappears; this is climbing.

Across the face of exposed limestone, we pull ourselves from ledge to ledge, bracing our hands and bending our legs up high to find our footing. Just above the small outdoor chapel, we settle back into hiking, except for the last little bit that moves back into that blurred border. Here now at Inspiration Point, we stand two-hundred-and-thirty-one vertical feet above the Arkansas River. Miles of green spread out around us, northern Oklahoma and southern Kansas separated by a river on its way from the Rockies to the Mississippi. We can see the granaries in Ark City, the wind turbines south of Newkirk, and the rolling edges of the Flint Hills.

Even training can have its fine moments. In the midst of life’s push for the things that we have to do, it’s okay to pause sometimes, catch your breath and enjoy the view. Even Jesus liked to get away from the crowd now and then.

H. Arnett
8/28/18

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Finding the Foundations

Posted on August 24, 2018 by Doc Arnett

Coming up toward the crest
of the last long hill
before Cowley Twenty runs east into Cowley One,
about a mile-and-a-half west of Rose Valley Cemetery,
there’s a large culvert
that runs under the rough-patched pavement,
carrying the storms from north to south
beneath the road
so it doesn’t end up in the woods.

There’s a pretty good wash there
where the water comes tumbling out,
spouts into a lining of rough rock and rip rap
dumped into the trough to try and keep things
from getting too out of hand
and undercutting the land that holds travelers in place.

Just below that,
set into the edge of the trees
and mostly hidden by the weeds and leaves of summer,
there’s a ledge of sorts—
a hanging lip bound by roots
and the shoots of some sort of thin promise—
and then nothing:
a big hole gouged by pounding water
hounding away everything that feels like dirt,
cutting down fifteen feet or more
and skirting out a rounded run
big enough to hide a truck in
if you could get it through the trees.

Down at the bottom,
you can see the burnished face of hard-edged limestone,
the upper rims of bedrock
that halted the gouging
and forced the waters to seek a softer path.

Life has its ways
of finding the edges of our firmest places,
no matter how much space
it has to hollow out for the knowing.
Eventually the slow-growing deltas
will keep some of what has washed away,
the fine grains of what we couldn’t keep,
but it is the cutting in the narrow stream,
formed in the shadows and hidden from dreams,
that usually defines us.

H. Arnett
8/24/18

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Margaritaville Syndrome

Posted on August 23, 2018 by Doc Arnett

Halfway through the same thirty-two mile bike route I’d ridden the week before, I headed up one of the same hills on Cowley One, a couple of miles south of Rose Valley Cemetery. As I stood up to put a little extra power into my pedaling, I noticed a sudden tweaking in my thighs. “What?!” I exclaimed to myself, “I’m barely halfway through this ride! How can my thighs already be cramping?!”

I sat back down quickly and down-shifted to an easier gear. “What is going on today?”

Several miles earlier I’d been surprised at how much more effort the ride was taking and then realized the wind was stronger than I’d anticipated. Determined to take the route I’d planned, I’d ridden directly into the wind for another seven miles. But now I was not riding into the wind. Why in the world would my legs be cramping with another fifteen miles left to ride?

And then I remembered: I’d adjusted my bicycle seat before starting out on this ride. I knew to never do that before a long ride. Make the adjustment and take a couple of shorter rides to let your body adjust. I knew not to do it but I had done it anyway. Sounds like a gravestone epitaph, doesn’t it?

I’d raised it up no more than three-eighths of an inch and adjusted the distance from the front of the seat to the handlebars. Very small adjustment. But it had changed the angles, put the rotations of my feet, ankles, legs and knees into different relations. Even though my muscles were very used to the motions, they were not used to these positions. And they made me very, very aware of that.

I was already sore but after a few more miles and a few more hills, I was hurting. I thought about calling Randa and asking her to come pick me up. But I was determined to finish the ride I had started.

Like a few other times in my life, that determination came with a price tag. By the time I topped the last big hill on Highway 166 heading west toward Ark City, my thighs and lower back were killing me. By the time I crested the railroad overpass on Kansas Avenue, it was about all I could do to pedal at the pace of cultural change in a remote village. Half a mile left with only a slight uphill slope.

Finally home, I leaned my bike against the doorframe of the garage and walked into the house. I could not move without pain, could not stand up straight. And knew, like the last line of one of Jimmy Buffet’s most famous songs, it was my own damn fault.

It’s sometimes a thin line between the vice of stubbornness and the virtue of persistence. Mostly it’s a matter of perspective: do we agree with the purpose or not? Even when others may think we’re being really stupid, there is value in making ourselves stay with something long after it’s not easy. Each time we push our way against the wind and up the hill we increase our stamina and increase our confidence. Doing something worthwhile after it’s not fun anymore is a very useful life skill.

Eventually we have to ask ourselves, “Is it worth it?” Every other opinion in the world will not matter. The key is knowing whether we’re sticking with something that really matters. Or just being stubborn.

In either case, though, a good long soak in a tub of warm water can do miracles.

H. Arnett
8/23/18

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A Different Plan

Posted on August 20, 2018 by Doc Arnett

To say I was excited about church last Lord’s Day morning would be an understatement. While preparing my sermon on “Snakes and Stones,” I’d had a moment of insight that was so powerful it felt like divine revelation. Literally, I got goosebumps as I was telling Randa about it. It was the sort of confirmation that made me feel like the Spirit was definitely leading me in my preparation and would also lead me in the delivery of the lesson from Matthew Chapter Seven about “asking, seeking and knocking.”

In addition to that, Randa and I had been practicing for a month on a contemporary Christian song that is simple yet powerful, a song of worship, adoration, hope and comfort. Even though we’d gone through the song at least two dozen times or more, there were times when I’d still get choked up. The power of “no more sorrow, no more pain” from Chris Tomlin’s I Will Rise would wash over me and my throat would get so tight I couldn’t get the words out. Even in our rehearsals here in our small living room, we worshipped. And worked on getting the notes right.

Okay, Randa worked on getting the notes right, searching for just the right third or fifth, whether going higher or lower. I mostly just kept singing the same ones over and over. She’s the real talent of this musical team, the one who can actually hear and find the harmony parts that so often elude me. Somewhere around the thirtieth time through, she was close enough to comfortable that she agreed we could go ahead and sing the song on Sunday.

And so I went to bed Saturday night, full of hope and optimism for our worship at the Community Church of South Haven. “Dear Lord,” I prayed, “Let your Spirit come into this church tomorrow.” That prayer and both the song and the sermon kept running through my mind and it was over an hour after going to bed that sleep finally found me. It left a few times during the night, though, and every time I woke up, the lyrics of that song were on constant rewind.

When the sound of distant thunder woke us Sunday morning, I lay awake for several minutes, not really feeling like I’d been to sleep at all. In spite of the slight temptation to slumber a bit longer, I got up, went to the kitchen and started a batch of homemade cranberry-walnut scones. Something a little extra to welcome folks to worship.

In spite of the rain that alternated between sprinkles and downpour on our drive over from Ark City to South Haven, we were both in good spirits. As we headed toward downtown, I saw a large RV with a small trailer parked on the street in front of the church. “Probably somebody visiting the people that live right across the street,” I thought as I turned into the parking lot, splashing through the stream of water that washed across the packed gravel, following the depressions formed by years of tires.

I parked in the reserved spot right by the back door and we gathered up the basket of scones, my Bible and notebook, and guitar, wishing we each had an extra hand and an umbrella for it to hold. As soon as we got into the building, one of the members met us in the hallway and said, “There’s some guys here that want to talk to you. The leader’s name is Bryan.”

I would quote my exact thought here but I’d hate for you to lose that saintly image you most likely have of me. “Oh, boogers!” would be a fairly approximate paraphrase.

“They want to sing a song,” she continued. “Nope, they’re not singing a song,” I replied. She said, “Okay,” and headed back over to the sanctuary.

“What is this?” I yelled to myself. “I’ve got this all planned out—scripture, sermon, song, everything. I’m not letting some bunch of people that I don’t know come in here and take over the service.”

Randa set the basket of scones on the small serving table in the back of the sanctuary and I walked up front and set my guitar on the nearest pew, knowing no one would want to sit on the very front row if there were any other options. I walked over and greeted the piano player while she continued with the prelude. I made my way to the back in time to see “Bryan” stand up and hug Randa when she introduced herself. “Oh, boy,” I thought, “One of those guys.”

Sure enough, when I introduced myself, he ignored my outstretched hand and hugged me. “Dude,” I grimaced to myself, “this is Kansas. You don’t hug men you’ve just met. It just ain’t proper.” We spoke briefly or rather I should say that I interrogated Bryan in a less than cordial manner:

“Are you going to make an appeal for financial support?”

“How many songs are you wanting to sing?”

“What song would that be?”

“Well, let me talk to a couple of people…”

On our way out into the hallway, a couple of scriptures came to me. One was “I was a stranger and you took me in.” The other was similar, “Be careful to show hospitality to strangers, for some thereby have entertained angels,” a reference to Abraham just before a heck of a hailstorm hit Sodom and Gomorrah.

After conferring with Randa and Pam, I took a bulletin over to Bryan, pointed near the bottom of the left hand column and said, “We’re going to plug you guys in right after the ‘Children’s Sermon.'”

Then I went up front, sat down with a sigh and Pam welcomed everyone and church began.

At the designated time, Bryan and Hunter and another guy came up. Ben or Noah went over to the piano. Bryan introduced their group, explaining they were on their way from Minneapolis to Texas and had sung in Wichita on Saturday night. “For some reason, we just felt like we were supposed to take this exit. When we got over here, we passed this church and knew this was where we were supposed to be this morning.”

They sang their song, one Bryan wrote, I think, about “Giving It All” to Jesus. The folks listened, enjoyed it and were blessed by it. Not one word about needing financial support.

Bryan had kept his word so I added more to mine. I dumped out the morning’s collection on the table and passed the plates around a second time. “These boys need to eat,” I said, and the people responded.

After the sermon and our song—which by the way—was quite well-received by the visiting musicians and the home town folks, I gave the benediction and dismissed the congregation. There was a lot of standing around and visiting.

Bryan was rather taken aback when I handed him the money; someone had put in a hundred dollar bill and I left that wrapped around a decent collection of twenties, tens and fives. He headed out to the RV and came back with a box full of their CD’s and gave everybody that was still there at least one copy.

Then, a few of us took the boys down the street to Kay’s Café, home of “The Best Burger in Town,” a claim which is undisputed since the burgers actually are quite good and Kay’s Café is the only place in town. We all had a good lunch and a good visit.

So far as I know, Bryan and the boys are in Texas now, singing at Teen Challenge locations and other congregations. We’ve invited the boys to come back on their way home from Texas. Do a proper concert, not just a limited sample. Seemed like the right thing to do for a group of young men out on the road, traveling on faith, sharing their talents, blessing folks and giving folks the opportunity to be a blessing.

And I was reminded once again, that when you invite the Spirit to come in, you have to be willing to alter your own plans about exactly what that might look like. Seems like it’s always easier to think about other folks yielding to his work…

H. Arnett
8/21/18

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Not the Easy Way Out

Posted on August 20, 2018 by Doc Arnett

Only a few miles out on a thirty-mile ride Saturday morning, I knew that something was up. I was breathing harder than usual, even on the relatively flat parts of the ride. (Relax, folks; there’s no heart attack in this story.) Usually when I’m biking east by Duncan Park, I’m easing along, enjoying the view of woods and boulders on the north, tree-lined fields on the south.

Saturday, I was pushing my way toward the curve that sweeps up the low ridge and turns north. Even on that low flat section I was breathing hard. By the time I got to the top of the rise, I was really sucking air and could feel my heart pounding in my chest.

I eased up on the pedaling and kept going, though slow enough to catch a bit of rest and my breath. “What in the world is wrong with me today?” I wondered. “I rode this same route a week ago without any problem.” I shook my head, wondering if a week without exercise could make that much difference. About the time I decided it apparently could make that much difference, I noticed the long grass on the shoulder and road bank to my right. It was bending toward me, swaying a bit in the pulses of the wind.

“Well,” I said to myself, “that would explain it!” Based on the weather forecast for the day, I’d expected a slight breeze, something that would barely bend the tall, slender stalks. This was something more than that. Enough something to make what was usually easy a moderate task and turn what was usually tasking into an outright chore.

So, being the natural glutton for punishment that I am, I rode a few miles more and then turned directly into the wind. I knew it would be harder that way and I could have turned east instead of west and taken a shorter and easier route back home.

Sometimes, though, the easier route does not take us where we want to go, especially when we are trying to follow the Higher Way.

H. Arnett
5/20/18

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A Good Place

Posted on August 15, 2018 by Doc Arnett

For about as long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by hammocks. The image of someone stretched out on a piece of canvas, gently swaying in the breeze beneath the shade of two trees always struck me as the ultimate notion of peaceful rest and relaxation. I was also struck by the entertainment potential of watching someone trying to get into one for the first time.

I can’t actually remember my first effort, but I think I was a teenager. Apparently I managed to sit near the center, pull my legs up and pivot on my rear end and get myself set into place without doing a Hollywood Flip. Otherwise, I’m confident my memory would be rather vivid in regard to the experience.

After several decades of thinking I’d really enjoy having one, I finally decided to buy a hammock. For several weeks I kept seeing ads on Facebook for a “free” hammock. I knew the price would actually be disguised as shipping and handling costs or something like that. But, figuring it would be worth twenty bucks and had a money-back guarantee, I finally clicked “Submit” on Fox Outfitters’ shopping cart page.

When I also finally checked the mail this weekend, I found my hammock stuffed into the box.

No, friends and neighbors, Randa and I do not have a huge mailbox. Just the usual off-the-shelf at Wal-Mart size. Off-the-shelf at Wal-Mart from twenty or thirty years ago probably. It’s darn near amazing how compact a double-size hammock can be when it’s made from nylon.

Another thing that amazed me or at least pleasantly surprised me was how easy it was to hang my hammock using the handy tree straps that were included at no extra charge. In very short order, I had that new favorite thing hanging from the heavy frame timbers of our corner porch. It would work better for hammock hanging if those posts were about four feet further apart. It would not work better for supporting rafters, though, so I reckon I will leave the posts where they are, at least for the foreseeable future.

Another thing I foresee is spending a fair amount of time in the cool breeze of the evenings, reflecting on the beauty of the surrounding trees. Reflecting on the happenings of the day and speculating about the days to come. A hammock seems like a right good spot for that, a good place for letting go, for forgiving and forgetting. A good place for focusing on whatever things are lovely, whatever things are pure and pleasant, whatever things are honorable, worthy of praise…

Any place where we do that would seem like a good place, I think.

H. Arnett
8/15/18

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Doing the Right Thing

Posted on August 14, 2018 by Doc Arnett

One of the principles that Mom and Dad drilled into their kids was “always do the right thing.” It seems that as far back as I can remember, they worked to instill that in all six of us. “Even when it seems like it’s the last thing you want to do, do the right thing.”

I have to admit, there were times when I didn’t do that. More times than I want to admit, more times than I care to remember.

And yet, even with that admission, I can say that I have tried to live by that principle. Sometimes it cost me extra money. Sometimes it cost me opportunity. Sometimes it cost me popularity in a certain setting. Sometimes it made others angry for a while.

But it has worked to my benefit far more times. My neighbors know that they don’t have to worry about me swiping their stuff. My colleagues know that they can trust what I tell them. My friends know that I will keep my word, whether I swore to it or not. My family knows that I will admit my mistakes and work to make them right. That’s what a good raising will do for you.

Not only did Mom and Dad lecture us to do always do the right thing, they also demonstrated that concept. They were certainly not perfect but perfection in character and behavior was always their goal. It’s called “integrity” and Solomon was another admirer of the trait.

Though the legendary king recorded his observations nearly three thousand years ago, his words still ring true: “Better is a poor person who walks in integrity than a rich person who is crooked in their ways.” (Proverbs 28:6)

Through thick and thin, through lean and flush, that notion has guided me for about six decades. Even though it’s caused me a few bumps and bruises, it’s been worth the walk. Even when it leads me to resign from a high-paying job.

I think I’ll stay on that path a while longer.

H. Arnett
8/14/18

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A Simple Sharing

Posted on August 9, 2018 by Doc Arnett

While it seems there is never any shortage
of heartache and grief,
there are times when it feels like
things come at us in bunches.

At lunch at the college deli yesterday,
two friends and I shared concerns:
we’d recently learned that another friend’s husband
was given a short time to live,
a resurging of cancer leaving little chance or hope
of much life this side of the river.

One of the two knew too well that particular pain,
having lost a son a few years ago—
a raging rush that took him in less than a month—
and the other had just buried a cherished mother-in-law,
and yet another friend here at the same college
about to bury his father.

There are times when we find the waves of grieving
sweep down upon us with force and fury,
a crushing weight,
the stinging of salt water in the eyes,
an impossible swelling in the throat,
a deafening roaring in the ears
that seems to block out every near sound
as we sink, drowning in the emptiness.

And yet we know that we have made it through
every other thing that life brings our way,
that faith and friendship, and force of will
still work their power within us.
That though we may occasionally walk with a limp,
we are not crippled,
and though we may sometimes
be bent beneath the load of sorrow,
we have somehow always received
grace for the day and strength for the morrow.

And so we pray for healing,
for the revealing work of Divine Direction within us,
accepting that we will be shaped
by those things that beset us,
but refusing to be disfigured by regret.

And though we cannot help but bear the marks
of battles we have survived,
even in our pain we will gain greater caring for others,
we will take measure of grace and sharing
and refuse to be defined by our scars.
Hoping against hope,
we know that even our woundings will bring healing.

H. Arnett
8/9/18

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Relationships & Organizational Effectiveness

Posted on August 8, 2018 by Doc Arnett

Yesterday, I welcomed a group of new teachers to Cowley College. For several hours, I engaged them in a series of discussions and activities. The apparent purpose varied throughout the day. Sometimes it was to learn one another’s names, sometimes to learn about the evaluation forms, and other times to become familiar with the College’s mission, vision and values. But no matter what the particular topic was, the real purpose of the whole day was something else: forming and building relationships.

I know it’s not original with me and I’ll never be an expert on the subject but I am absolutely convinced that the most critical aspect of an effective college is based on relationships. The human connections that develop in an educational institution—or most any other organization—are the real glue that holds things together.

Most schools, churches, businesses, charities, etc., go through periods of change. New administration, new legislation, new organization, or whatever else brings perceived upheaval and threat to the status quo. Some will fight against it, some will embrace it, some will resist in passive aggressive manner and others will adopt a “this too shall pass” mentality.

Through its best and worst moments, through all the ups and downs, through the good, the bad, and the ugly, the real glue that will keep things from going absolutely topsy turvy is relationships. Connections that go deeper than job descriptions and assigned duties. Knowing and caring about each other. What began as acquaintance and grew into collegiality or even true friendship.

This is not new but it is always powerful. In the end, it is not ideas that make organizations great. It is not organizational charts and annual reports. It is not management theory or mandatory meetings. It is the choice to initiate, foster and sustain relationships that creates the true power of an organization.

H. Arnett
8/8/18

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