More than Conquerors

Posted on August 6, 2018 by Doc Arnett

In regard to “organization,” I’d give Saturday’s Conquer the Gauntlet-Wichita somewhere between four and six out of ten. There was no one directing parking, the PA system used by the starting gate folks wasn’t working and the line to relief was twenty to thirty minutes long. Just for the record, eight portable units are not enough for eight hundred people. Of course there was always the option to just go over and stand near some bushes and pee right there in front of the entire gathered group. So far as I know, the wacko who came to race wearing nothing but athletic shoes and pink underwear was the only one who chose that option. The mere sight of that probably upped the need for the porta potties by another hundred people or more.

As we recovered from that spectacle, Randa and I noticed a heavy front loader/backhoe heading out on the trail. Our suspicion was that at least one of the intended obstacles were not yet ready for use at race time. Finishing up my Powerade Zero, I also discovered that there wasn’t a single trash can to be found on the premises.

On the other hand, registration went well, with four separate lines assigned according to your quarter-hour start time. Well, at least your intended start time. By the time my scheduled wave got going, we were about forty-five minutes behind schedule.

But all the other runners massed around me maintained a pretty good outlook on things and I decided to rise to the level of my surroundings and enjoy myself. No point ruining a perfectly good opportunity to play in the mud and gain a bunch of bruises by having a lousy attitude!

And so, by the time I’d slogged through a small pond and crossed a very mucky creek three times, I was definitely having fun! There were four or five obstacles that I simply didn’t have enough strength to complete. I managed to do all but the last two of about thirty rungs of the overhead gabled ladder. I barely even got started up a couple of others. Every time I fell from an obstacle there was a nice cushioning of water beneath me, including the very last challenge. On that particular one, that nice cushion of water was rather deep.

Even though I was quite tired and my arms burned from the exertion of the day, I was still able to swim. And even found enough reserve to pull myself up out of the water pit and make it to the finish line.

In life we may find some obstacles that require more strength than we think we have at that particular moment. Fortunately, there is a Source that provides more than what we have. And when we can no longer climb the way we intended to go, we may find ourselves swimming instead of climbing. As long as we get to the Other Side, we have conquered.

In fact, as long as we keep our integrity and our faith intact as we complete the race, we have become more than conquerors. No matter how sore we are the next day!

H. Arnett
8/6/18

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The Waiting

Posted on August 3, 2018 by Doc Arnett

Somewhere in between
migraine and insomnia,
something other than dreaming wakes me:
a faint clawing along the upper spine
that moves through the base of the skull,
unwinds thoughts
and pulls them out the wrong way,
a curious replaying of a day
that has not yet happened.

After three hours
of quietly turning upon my bed,
I get up and walk outside,
feel the cool of smooth stones
against my feet,
the defining air around my skin,
and wonder at the thin brightness
of a half-moon shining through the branches
of elm trees nearly as old as me.

It seems a bit odd
to play the chances of residential traffic
at three in the morning
but I’m pretty sure
no one’s headlights
are going to come shining through
for this particular view
of a man my age
standing in his underwear
and staring at the moon
as if it might have answers.

I know the Source I seek
and will wait for the speaking
that will come soon enough,
when I have made myself quiet and still,
ready to surrender to a Greater Will.

H. Arnett
8/3/18

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A Soothing Stream, A Healing Flow

Posted on August 2, 2018 by Doc Arnett

One of my favorite spots on the farm I grew up on in Todd County, Kentucky, was a little spring. It fed into the tiny creek that ran from our place over to Simmons’ farm. My memory may be a bit off, fed by several decades of separation, but I think there was a big hickory tree close by that shaded the spring. I know there was an old gray tobacco barn nearby.

At some point, someone had built a stone wall around the spring. Considering the the dates on the stone markers in the old family cemetery that was up near the house, it was most likely in the middle part of the 19th Century. I figure its main purpose was to keep livestock from mucking around in the spring. Cut limestone block formed a box between three and four feet tall, about three feet wide and five feet long. The wall was fashioned into the creek bank in such a way as to keep the cows out and keep the creek bank from tumbling down as well. The southeast end was open except for a low retaining wall that let water pool up a few inches before it overflowed out into the creek.

Rather than jutting out perpendicular to the stream, the small structure was built at a slight angle running with the flow of the stream. That angle and the low retaining wall kept the stream from flowing back up into the spring. After heavy rains flooded the creek, that design also assured that the high flow would empty out of the spring and it would soon return to its relatively pure state.

Conveniently, the tractor trail crossing the creek was right beside that spring. Whenever we were working ground or hauling hay in the field nearby, Paul and I would stop and quench our thirst at that spring. Sometimes we’d scoop up water in a glass jar. More often, we just cupped our hands and drank one handful at a time. After we finished drinking, we’d sometimes scoop up water and use it to wash our faces. During hay hauling, we’d also wash the dust and stems off our arms.

The spring was a reliable source of water pure enough for drinking. Even on the hottest days of summer, it was cool and refreshing. We never drank from the creek, only from the spring. Owing to the work of people long passed, we had something that we could count on, something to help us through the long days of labor.

Though our days on that farm ended long ago and we have nothing more than memories of it now, we do still have people in our lives who provide similar respite. Our conversations with them leave us refreshed; their words bring strength and healing, encouragement and support. Hopefully, we also serve similar service from time to time.

So that we are not overwhelmed by the murky surges of flood and storm, we need to keep a bit of tilt in the downstream direction. We need to keep the dark forces of the world from ramming themselves into the sacred pool that lives within us. We need that small but powerful wall that protects the source yet still allows an outward flow of the good that is supplied from within our souls. A wall that guards the heart yet still offers hope and solace to a bruised and aching world.

We need hearts that are both pure and loving.

H. Arnett
8/2/18

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After the Storm

Posted on August 1, 2018 by Doc Arnett

Skeptical but compliant,
we moved to the basement as directed
after the sirens sounded
and cell phones displayed the warning
that the current thunderstorm
included conditions favorable to
the development of a tornado
in close proximity to our location
and that Doppler Radar indicated
rotational movement about five miles away.

Strong winds and heavy rain
moved on through the area
and we went back to work,
joining the few who had looked at the sky
instead of their screens
and figured they knew
this was nothing to worry about
when your office is on the ground floor
of a three story building
and kept on working right through the whole deal.

Two hours later,
under pristine skies,
the temperature and humidity
were both twenty points lower
and we enjoyed the beautiful evening,
sitting on the deck and eating fresh watermelon
from the vine that sprang up from last year’s compost pile.
At the same time,
other neighbors not too far away
had to deal with broken branches
and uprooted trees
and destroyed property.

Sometimes it seems
that it is not possible
to move from the heavy heat of oppression
to the clear relief of gentle refreshing
without some sort of storm in between.

Still, I believe
that a tornado is a bit excessive
and prefer other means
of improving one’s situation.

H. Arnett
8/1/18

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Playing the Odds

Posted on July 31, 2018 by Doc Arnett

Based on the portion of sky that I could see outside my office window, I was pretty sure the siren that sounded yesterday afternoon was a tornado warning. That conclusion was immediately confirmed by an alert on my cell phone. I promptly locked my computer screen and walked out of my office. Along with twenty-five or so other employees, I headed to the basement of Galle-Johnson.

Naturally, a few of the Kansas natives had to head outside for their own assessment so they could make an informed decision about the advisability of taking time away from their duties in the interest of personal safety. I was willing to go along with the National Weather Service and their interpretations of Doppler Radar and weather modeling.

And so we spent a little over half an hour in the basement, checking on family and weather status via cell phones and chatting with one another. There was never any claim of a sighted tornado so far as I know, only the indications of wind rotation and other factors that suggested that a tornado could develop within the storm that was moving through our area at around forty miles an hour.

It’s a sort of Kansas Roulette that some people prefer to play, waiting until there’s a confirmed funnel cloud or even a definite tornado on the ground before they will take cover. After all, tornadoes tend to be highly localized; you can live two miles away from a powerful specimen and only witness moderate wind damage.

Some folks follow a similar pattern in other settings. Like people of questionable judgment poking sticks at a tiger in a cage, they stay in or near a situation that can clearly develop into something with devastating results. It might be an inordinate relationship, something that verges on illegal or dangerous or both. It could be a hiking, bouldering or rock climbing event that involves wet rock or a sandy surface. It could be a group of friends thinking about robbing a liquor store or setting a barn on fire. Instead of exercising due caution and moving away, some folks continue to press the edge and court disaster.

Sometimes we forget or ignore the fact that that funnel clouds develop at certain places, that tornados touch down at specific points. These points and places are not always where we expected. They are sometimes quite immediate and do not offer us enough time to move to a safe place. By the time the situation reveals itself to be more dangerous than we realized, we are already swallowed by it.

Even though history, calculus and insurance underwriters may indicate that the chances are in our favor, sometimes the chips we have to play are just too precious. No matter how many times we’ve made it out before and how good we think the odds are, when a tornado takes a seat at the table, the house never wins.

H. Arnett
7/31/18

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A Beautiful Neighborhood

Posted on July 30, 2018 by Doc Arnett

I took advantage of the unseasonably mild weather around the neighborhood in East Lansing where my son, Sam, and his family live. It is an area with a pleasant diversity of residential architecture, perhaps what one should expect in such close proximity to a major university. There are many very nice homes—brick or stone, mostly—with well-tended lawns.

Quite a few of them also have tastefully done landscaping. Contour plantings of vinca, hosta, hydrangeas and a variety of other plants wind their way around the houses and along the drives or sidewalks. Some have Boston ivy covering the walls of houses shielded by tall shade trees. Every now and then one will see a Japanese maple adding its elegant shape and contrasting colors to the greens of surrounding vegetation. The rich tones of lush lawns provide a harmonizing blend of tones and textures. It is like walking through a life-size issue of Better Homes & Gardens. The beauty of these homes and gardens is soothing, aesthetically nourishing.

Occasionally, though, one may see sections of brown grass and small plots of heavily wilted hydrangeas or vinca or other plants. It is a none-too-subtle reminder of the role that irrigation or other form of supplemental watering plays. No matter how healthy the plant, deprive it of water for a while and it will soon succumb to the heat and wind. Even in the shady areas, drought deprives vines and flowers, bushes and shrubs of needed moisture.

So, too, even the strongest of faith need the regular nourishment of soul and spirit: time spent in the Word, time spent in the Spirit, time spent in fellowship with others. We need the refreshing of worship, the quiet seeking, the empowering presence that flows through believing prayer.

In the gentle rains of the Comforter’s fillings, we are strengthened and readied for the things to come. Like well-tended gardens, we will flourish with not only the blooms of promise but also with the fruit of the Spirit that so richly blesses our lives and the lives of others.

H. Arnett
7/30/18

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The Trust Fall

Posted on July 27, 2018 by Doc Arnett

When I was growing up in Todd County (KY), we would sometimes go over to Fort Campbell’s “Field Day.” It was a big event, hundreds or maybe even thousands of troops engaged in demonstrations, maneuvers and other activities. I have a vivid memory of one soldier exhibiting handling of non-poisonous snakes. He deliberately let a black racer bite his hand. “Yes,” he said, showing us blood streaming from where it had bitten him in the joint between his index and middle fingers, “it will sting a bit and it will bleed, but there’s no real harm.” I immediately went home and quite intentionally avoided picking up black racers.

The drama of a basically self-inflicted snake bite notwithstanding, the high point of the annual event was the 101st Airborne’s Screaming Eagles jump demonstration. What seemed like hundreds of troops streamed out of low flying cargo planes, parachuting down to the earth. Their descent under billowing silk (or nylon or whatever their parachutes were made of) seemed magical, mystical and somehow incredibly powerful. Not quite gravity-defying but certainly courageous and impressive.

I never lost that sense of wonder over the ensuing decades. Today, at Red Wing, Minnesota, I got to do something even more amazing—a tandem jump at 12,500 feet—with the Army’s Golden Knights. The Knights are the Army’s team of expert skydivers and one of their units does tandem dives as a way of strengthening connections with educators and other community partners around the country. Thanks to Major Sam Arnett’s support, Captain Jon Garvey’s wonderful coordinating hospitality, and the terrific work of the Great Lakes Recruiting Battalion, I joined a group of fourteen other jumpers at Red Wing (MN) Airport.

After an hour of instruction and several weeks of deliberate visualization of a successful exit from a fully functioning airplane and frequently reminding myself “These people are experts who all want to live till another day,” I was as ready as I could be. Nervous and prayerful and hoping I didn’t wet myself like a scared baby at the jump door, I waited my turn on a very cloudy day with forecast of rain and thunderstorms. As a member of the last group, I kept hoping the weather would hold off; throughout the morning, I was thankful every time it seemed like the sky grew a bit brighter.

By the time we jumped, the sun was burning through the clouds. Strapped to Sgt. Noah Watts, a dude with thousands of jumps in his record, I stood at the door and leaned into the wind. Two seconds later, we launched out into nothing but air.

At about 120 mph, we plummeted toward earth… but astoundingly with no real sensation of falling. Our forward momentum created an arc of transition from horizontal to vertical. The sound and feel of rushing air dominated the initial experience. After Noah tripped our chute at 7500 feet, the silence was amazing. I sat in the harness sling, marveling at the beauty of the upper Mississippi River and valley which join Wisconsin and Minnesota. Green forests and bluffs, crop fields and city streets, and the braided channel of the river formed a spectacular view.

Much to my surprise, I experienced no nausea, even when staring straight below. Except for the occasional thrust of G-force after a turn, it was like sitting in a swing. A swing with someone else controlling the push, entirely.

I reflected on our hookup in the plane a few minutes earlier. As Noah prepared to connect our harnesses, I thought, “I don’t think I’ve ever so fully put my life in someone else’s hands before.” It was humbling and a bit marvelous. I fully trusted those hands, of course.

Everything Noah did from there back to our safe, sliding landing in the grass between the runway and taxi strip proved my trust was well placed. The experience was even more profound than I anticipated. It took me twenty minutes to wipe the grin off my face and may take another few hours. Or days…

It is an incredible thing to fly to the earth at a controlled rate, feeling the rush of air around you, watching the changing perspective of ground features. It is an incredible thing to place such trust in the hands and heart of a stranger. It reminded me of a similar experience over fifty years ago when I put my soul and my eternal welfare into the hands of someone who loved us enough to come down from heaven to earth and to even descend into Hades in order to set us truly free.

In reflection over the many experiences of my life—changing jobs, moving to new places, raising children, facing heartache and tragedy—I realize that many of the things I’ve been through have actually been a lot scarier than jumping out of an airplane. And yet, everything that has happened over those decades has proved to me that all of the trust I have given the Captain of my soul has been well-placed.

H. Arnett
7/25/18

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Blessing for a Summer Morning

Posted on July 24, 2018 by Doc Arnett

May the dawning of this day
bring you grace to face every challenge,
courage to embrace each opportunity,
and the wisdom to understand
in an even-handed manner
which one lies before you.

May this evening’s passing
find you with a lasting peace
that transcends understanding,
a deep appreciation for both blessing and testing,
a genuine desire to grow in faith, hope and love,
and your heart and mind together

set on the things that are above,
the things that cannot be stolen or destroyed,
the things that last beyond the distractions
of this world’s pretended joys,
those things that will endure
beyond the burn and blaze of the nearest star.

H. Arnett
7/24/18

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Reflections by a Mountain Stream

Posted on July 20, 2018 by Doc Arnett

Just west of Golden,
Highway 6 follows Clear Creek
through its small canyon.

The waters move by rushes and pools,
pushing their way through
a tumbling of boulders
bordered by pine trees
and shouldered by the highway.

On a clear summer morning
while the dog days of July
linger and smolder on the plains and prairies,
I park on a clinkered pullout
and walk beside the stream.

The sounds and smells of mountain air
lay bare the smog of the soul:
building tensions of work,
the weariness of repetitive emotion
that forms some sort of carpal tunnel syndrome
in the twisting forms of thoughts I ought to be able to banish
but instead wake to their shapings in the small dark hours.

I sit on a boulder in the piercing sun,
draw in the clearing air
and feel the sounds of water pounding over and against the rocks,
see the froth of what is caught in the shallows,
the changing colors that correspond to depth and speed.

I need years of this,
this strange peace of the sounding surge
that merges vibration and sensation,
the constant smoothing of driftwood and boulders,
the smell of melted snow and pine needles,

away from the relentless minding of miles and minutes,
the infinitely small demands of contrived duty
and obligated responses.

I need years…
but I will take this hour
of intentional pause
and make myself know and remember
that my destination will still be waiting
whenever I arrive.

H. Arnett
7/20/18

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Marking the Passing

Posted on July 5, 2018 by Doc Arnett

I had planned an early morning bike ride as the start to my Fourth of July. Not because of its patriotic implications but rather because if one is inclined to ride a bike in southern Kansas on the Fourth of July, early morning is probably going to be the best time to do it. As it turned out, the temperature was in the low seventies and there was almost no wind. Very nice. I did my fifteen miles and made it back before eight o’clock.

As follow up to my ride, I planned to work on the deck, which sits on the east side of our house. If one is going to work on a deck in southern Kansas on the Fourth of July, the early morning hours are a good choice. Lets you take advantage of the neighbors’ tall trees. It being early morning and a holiday, I thought it might be best to hold off on using any of the more aggressive power tools. So I spent some time caulking, then laying boards in place. After that, I did some measuring and layout for the support posts for a planned extension of the deck. While I was doing that, I heard one of the neighbors start up his lawnmower.

As a matter of fact, I heard him start his lawn mower about a dozen times in the next several minutes. After he was finally able to keep it running, I figured my power saw would not make any excessive contribution to the ten o’clock assault on serenity.

After a couple hours of more work on the deck, I thought it was time for a lunch break. During the lunch break, I decided it was time to check for possible communications on my cell phone. I found a message from one of my church members asking if I could possibly help with her grandmother’s funeral. That evening at six o’clock. Of course I could!

And so, after a run to Lowe’s in Ponca City to get more material and after digging six more post holes and after a very needed shower, I headed out to Geuda Springs for a graveside service.

The temperature held steady in the low nineties, and a light breeze eased in from the south. A thin line of hardwood trees stretched along the west edge of the country cemetery. With the shade not quite reaching the gravesite, I joined sixty or seventy relatives and friends to help commemorate the seventy-seven years that Grandma Billie had spent on this earth.

I spoke very briefly about the comfort of faith and then talked about how she enjoyed country music, line dancing, going to concerts, and traveling around the country. In honor of her love of country music and the long life she had lived, I played my guitar and sang “Song of the Violin.” Billie had also loved shopping for clothes and shoes, and going to anything that involved the kids and grandkids: baseball games, softball games, basketball games, school events and such. She especially loved wearing dangling earrings and her family especially loved her cooking. One grandson spoke fondly of chicken dinners and ice cream treats in the freezer.

Surrounded by miles of corn and soybeans and recently cut fields of wheat, we shared grief and celebration. Some shared the comfort of faith; all shared the connection of a single life that had now passed. Cousins visited with one another in the shade, a few folks reminisced about former days and great-grandkids chased each other through the cemetery.

In a little while, folks began leaving, rolling slowly out the lane of the cemetery and turning west onto the gravel road that led over toward the paved road back to town. As the summer sun sagged a bit lower in the sky, a small cloud rose behind each car, a funnel of dust marking each passing and then settling back onto the grass and rocks. Until stirred by the next passing.

H. Arnett
7/5/18

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