Walking the Dog

Posted on September 18, 2017 by Doc Arnett

Perhaps more for me than for her, I decided to start taking Layla for an evening walk. I’d rather we take those walks along some mountain trail or at least on some path that gives a view of a lake, leads along some stone-bed creek or through a woods. But I am known to occasionally sacrifice my druthers for the sake of convenience and so I’ve opted for the streets.

Conveniently, there’s a 1.1 mile loop that takes us around Highland Street to where it meets the gravel version of North F Street. The gravel runs just over a quarter-mile from Highland to Radio Lane which leads back by our neighborhood. There are a few streetlights along the route and it seems there are fewer other dogs in their yards at night so I’ve taken to the darker version of our hike. The air is cooler and we’re still able to find our way around through the mystery of night. Knowing the terrain a bit seems to help, too.

The houses on the north loop of Highland are surrounded by trees and hills which make up something of an unofficial wildlife refuge. The first time Randa and I drove around Highland Street we saw a group of wild turkeys strutting through a yard. A couple of months ago, I saw a deer standing in our neighbor’s yard. So it wasn’t a real shock when I was walking Layla last Wednesday night and we surprised a group of deer in a yard at the corner of Highland and the bean field. Actually, the surprise was rather mutual but I have neither the reflexes nor speed of deer.

The deer jumped to their feet and retreated a hundred feet or so into the field and then turned and stared at us. Although she strained at the leash in eagerness to more closely investigate, Layla never barked or yelped. She did whine a time or two as I kept pulling on her leash and walking along the gravel, away from the deer.

On our walk the next night, I was a bit more prepared. I paused at the bend just west of the intersection where we’d seen the deer. Sure enough all five of them were back and this time all of them were lying in the yard, near the streetlight pole. I tried to point them out to Layla but it’s mighty near impossible to make a dog see something when they’re already interested in something else. As we neared the house, I moved to the far side of the street and kept watching the deer. I tightened my grip on Layla’s leash, knowing that she would be eager for the chase as soon as she spotted the deer.

The deer spotted us while we were still a couple hundred feet away. Their heads rotated in unison, ears erect and tilted toward us. We passed by within fifty feet of them; they never moved and Layla never saw them. I marveled at both facts but it was the wonder of walking so closely to a small herd of wild animals that most moved me.

We do not have to travel to the mountains or the oceans to see amazing things. There is always some wonder close at hand. Whether it’s the dew on a silver strand of web or rain drops hanging from the roses, we live in a world of small wonders and marvelous grace.

If we walk softly and keep our eyes open, we will find they often show up in the most unexpected places at a rather perfect moment.

H. Arnett
9/18/17

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Autumn Calling to Labor and Rest

Posted on September 13, 2017 by Doc Arnett

It comes softly to us like a gentle friend
on these fine September mornings,
stepping lightly through the forming dew
and speaking quietly in a low voice
that barely ripples through the receding chorus
of crickets and cicadas.

It lays a hand upon our shoulders
in something like the touch of small brown leaves
gathering in the gutters on the eaves
and lying along the grassy edge of the concrete driveway.

It bends slowly toward our ears,
near enough that we can feel the breath of autumn
against the skin.
We drink in the cool, clean fragrance
that wipes away the clinging tiredness
of long, humid days and summer’s aching sun.

We know that harvest is just begun
and there are many fields
yet to surrender their yields to the barn.
There is labor left that will draw us nearer to
the halos of harvests gliding through distant fields:
long, late nights of equipment lights
shining through the dusk and into the dust
of seed husks separated from the seed,
leaves shattered from the forgotten needs of dry stalks
forming strips along the endless ridges.

But even though we know that we cannot shirk this work,
we wake to such days as this,
grateful that the days of planting
have yielded the fruits of labor and faith,
the blessings of sun and rain
upon the fields of both the just and the unjust
and will give thanks for the harvest
and the rest that is yet to come

and for these fine September mornings
that come to us like a gentle friend,
fresh coffee steaming new promises
into the healing air.

H. Arnett
9/13/17

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Old Fools and Little Children

Posted on September 11, 2017 by Doc Arnett

In order to help our children at church understand how “unity” gives us strength, I had glued together several thin strips of wood. Although most of the pieces were of similar length, some of the pieces were longer than the others. One of them was three inches longer than any of the others.

After explaining that each piece was thin and weak by itself, I showed them the thick piece I’d made by gluing them all together. “Do you think this piece is weak?” I asked them. There was a chorus of emphatic “No’s!”

“Do you think you could break this piece?” Same response.

Then I pointed to the single thin strip sticking out past the others. “See this one?” I asked to focus them. “Now watch this:” Then I gripped the piece and bent it hard. It snapped off right where it joined the adjacent strips that had been glued to it. Some of the children flinched at the sound.

“Why did it break off like that?” I asked the group of children. One girl who looked to be about seven or eight years old held up her hand.

“Because it was sticking out by itself and it didn’t have the others there to support it.”

Absolutely right! I couldn’t have come up with a better answer myself.

It seems like children often understand important truths that us old folks often ignore, doesn’t it? We are hardly ever more at risk of significant personal harm than when seeking our own way becomes more important to us than the welfare of our group.

But when a bunch of us thin strips stick together, it’s mighty hard to break us.

H. Arnett
9/11/17

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Tree Huggers and Bold Sharings

Posted on September 8, 2017 by Doc Arnett

Something about ninety-degree heat and sore feet can bring a man to lust for shade, a cool breeze, and a bit of water for drinking. He might find his wife and their dog seeking to join him there. Always good to share, of course, especially when there’s plenty for everybody anyway.

Like a few miles of bad road or a really neat restaurant in a town you didn’t even know existed, hiking in the mountains can bring unexpected appreciation for the small things in life. Small things like a pine tree only twenty feet tall with a few flat boulders underneath it. It’s just plain lovely how much difference a little shade and a light breeze can make on a hot day. Kind of like appreciation and encouragement from someone you respect. Especially when it’s sincere. Occasionally, one encounters other demonstrations of sincerity.

As Randa and I rested and the dog panted slightly more heavily than we did, a trio of hikers about a third of our age came down the path. The two guys paused in the shade but still on the trail. Their female companion didn’t pause at all. Gushing with enthusiasm and as familiar as if we’d all gone to high school together, she walked right up to us, “A bus driver told me about this: This tree smells like butterscotch and vanilla but you have to push your nose right against the pink part of the bark to smell it.” While her two male companions waited with slightly red faces, she stepped around Randa. Grabbing the tree in a big hug, the self-appointed naturalist pushed her nose against the pink part of the bark and drew in a slow, deep breath.

“Ahh,” she murmured, “butterscotch and vanilla.”

Just as abruptly as she entered, she exited stage left and walked right on past the two guys. One of them looked at us, grinned sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders. Then he turned and headed on down the trail behind the other two.

As it turns out, she was right but I did not allow Randa to take a picture of me verifying that particular information. Being suspected of being a closet tree-hugger is bad enough; I’d have to turn in my Man Card if it got out that I was also a bark sniffer.

Pride and prejudice ignored, there are many good things in life that we may never discover for ourselves. I thank God for strangers who are willing to share such insight and awareness, even if the particular mode and moment of sharing might seem a bit awkward and unexpected. Otherwise, I’d have never known about the subtle fragrances of pine tree bark in the Rockies. There have been other enlightenments along life’s trails.

It is through moments such as that some have come to know the power of redeeming grace, the unexpected liberation of salvation, the simple sharing of a cup of cold water given in the name of a man who died on a tree stripped of its own shade.

And then he continued right on up the trail he’d planned all along for us to follow, drawn by something more soothing than the smell of butterscotch and vanilla, something stronger than all our scars.

H. Arnett
9/7/17

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A Bit Short of the Peak

Posted on September 7, 2017 by Doc Arnett

By the time we’d hiked a half-mile or so, Randa and I were up above the fields and meadows that wrap around the southeastern base area of Horsetooth Mountain. The glare of sun reflected fully from the surface of the lake a couple of thousand feet below and a few miles away. We walked along a trail studded with pink granite and grouted with centuries of dirt and gravel as we moved into the timber. Mountain pine and western cedar scented the breeze.

Another mile up the trail and there were few glimpses of the wide plains or vast mountains. More often than not, we had a close view of boulders and trees, wildflowers and other weeds—the indigenous flora of the area. Occasionally we could see a glimpse of distant waters gleaming in the sun but it was mostly the things you see when you’re hiking through the timberline on a mountain trail: small vines and brush growing under the canopy of taller trees and bigger brush.

In the vicinity of seven thousand feet above sea level, we paused and rested at the base of a large outcropping. Granite rose up above the trees, a series of humped bulges of rock. Decades of dead needles nested against the boulders at the base. Nothing but lichen was growing on the upper seventy-five feet of the cluster.

We made our way carefully up through the sparse vegetation at the base, choosing each step to minimize any disturbance and prevent any damage. Our French Brittany Spaniel scrambled up with us, sometimes in between Randa and me and sometimes leading. Once atop the first section of rock, we paused and looked out to the south and east.

Until one has stood in wonder from some great vantage point, it is nearly impossible to comprehend the scale of these mountains, the scale of the terrain, the scale of the high plains of eastern Colorado. The beauty of sun shimmering clear waters, the fading layers of ridge after ridge after ridge, the smell of a mountain breeze on a morning so clear you think you can almost see tomorrow. Even Layla seemed to sense the significance of the moment; she sat quietly, ears cocked, looking one way and then another.

From such moments I try to remember, when the closeness of obstacles and the nearness of smaller things seems to overwhelm me: if I want to gain a greater view, I may have to do a bit of climbing off of the beaten path and away from the relative ease of the clearer trail. I may have to sacrifice comfort and convenience.

If we wish to see farther than we have seen before or simply to remind ourselves that our lives are greater than our present circumstance, we must take the chance of a higher perspective. Even though it may confirm that we have much farther to go, it also testifies as to how far we’ve come.

And the same grace that brought us this far will surely take us home.

H. Arnett
9/7/17

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In the Midst of Fire & Granite

Posted on September 5, 2017 by Doc Arnett

A half-mile above Fort Collins
and just a bit below Horsetooth Mountain,
we climb our way up these bulging boulders
that shoulder their way out from the pines
and lichen-covered stones that line the trail.

After an initial hesitation at the first ledge,
the dog takes to the climbing as if born for it,
a series of jumps and pulls up and over each edge,
picking her way up the granite knobs and ripples.

From the tippling flat at the southern side
we stand and look out across the wide view:
the platinum shine of lakes cuts through the haze
of the eastern plains,
a series of slopes and trails tilt into the canyons,
and succeeding layers of higher mountains
recede to the west,
each ridge a fainter gray.

A good breeze lifts the scents of pine and cedar,
filters through the layers of days of doing
what must be done
and nights of rest that pass too quickly.

Even the dog seems to know
that this is something special:
she sits in the sun,
black hair gleaming and tongue hanging out
from the heat of late summer and the climbing,
taking in the view of this fine vastness,
looking one way and then another.

Randa stands, one hand shielding her eyes
from the glare of a thin-aired sun,
and the other propped on her side,
elbow angled toward a distant ridge.

I wish that I had more than a camera,
something greater than memory,
something more worthy of such moments as this,
something that could carry an enduring awareness
that the hand of God can polish granite
and yet not bruise
the most tender shoot of columbine
wilted in a browning meadow.

H. Arnett
9/5/17

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A Preliminary Eulogy

Posted on August 31, 2017 by Doc Arnett

I’ve walked on the dark side of things,
felt alone in a crowded room
and danced upside down in the rain.

I’ve seen morning fog
drift in a lazy haze
down the slope of a mountain valley.

I’ve tasted some of the finest food in the world
while sitting at my own table
opposite a mighty fine brown-haired girl.

I’ve loved and been loved,
held my own and been shoved through
some of life’s hardest moments.

I’ve rocked and read
to my own little towheads
and sung them off softly to bed.

I’ve rocked and rolled
on makeshift stages,
and been cheered on by all of life’s ages.

I swam deep in waters warm and clear
and marveled at the living palette
the ocean brought near.

I’ve flown clear above the clouds of earth’s first heaven
and I’ve seen the black seams of coal
that are taken, not given.

I’ve cheered at games
and shared joys at birth,
and wept as bodies were shoveled back into earth.

I’ve made more money than I’ve lost,
sometimes paid others’ costs
and known in the same moment both gain and loss.

I’ve made many laugh and made several cry
and sometimes not known myself
any particular reason why.

When my life is over and by others measured,
may all agree these are the things
that I most treasured:

Friends and family,
a good day’s work,
faith, hope and love.

And homemade apple pie.

H. Arnett
8/31/17

Posted in Aging, Christian Devotions, Christian Living, Death & Dying, Family, Humor, Poetry, Relationships, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , | Comments Off on A Preliminary Eulogy

Ambience

Posted on August 30, 2017 by Doc Arnett

I’m right sure I’m not the first one to notice it but I’ve become convinced that our moments of lingering show how we feel about others. Or maybe it’s a combination of that and how we feel about a particular event that we’ve just shared. For instance, if you see people hanging around in the hallway after a movie and chatting about what they’ve just seen, there’s a good chance they enjoyed it. If you see people standing around their seats after a concert ended, talking with one another and smiling, it’s fairly likely they rather liked the performance.

It doesn’t really take a crowd, I guess. Might be when you see a couple of folks happen into each other on the sidewalk. If they’re both in a hurry, caught in between pressing duties, they might just exchange happy hellos and be on their way. Or it might be that they figure whatever’s ahead will still be waiting a while later and they’ll stand and talk for ten minutes.

Whatever and wherever, it’s something I like to see. Teachers talking together after a meeting ends. Administrators catching up in the hallway between appointments. Folks hanging around the cash register after they’ve already paid for their groceries and there’s no one in line behind them. Parking lot conversations between neighbors who’ve been too rushed for too many months.

I’m not saying this observation system is a flawless means of measuring events or relationships. Sometimes, one person loves to talk and the other is simply too courteous to just walk away. But whenever I see a lot of folks lingering in the sanctuary after services, talking with each other, taking their time and just hanging out for a while?

Well, I gotta tell you, that always makes me smile. Makes me want to just stand there and soak that stuff up like cool air on an August morning.

H. Arnett
8/30/17

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Goodness Born of Tragedy

Posted on August 29, 2017 by Doc Arnett

There is a beauty in unity,
something sweet and transcendent,
something powerful and compelling—

When neighbors and other strangers
are bound together in harmony of purpose and action,
when every member and motion lift a common load
in seamless swing from “do” till “done.”

There is a beauty in love,
something deep and drawing,
something comforting and dynamic—

When skin becomes transparent
and all that is seen is the common bond
of all that are human:
to be loved and held safe.

There is a beauty in courage,
something deep and stirring,
something of a spirit stronger than flesh—

When a greater purpose
moves within common men and women
and they risk life and limb
for those who don’t even know them.

There is a beauty in peace,
something calm and soothing,
some quiet hint of eternity—

When our better nature
refuses every vengeful thought
and we are caught up
in a fine choosing

to be both human and divine.

H. Arnett
8/29/17

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Message from the Passed

Posted on August 28, 2017 by Doc Arnett

I’ve been a Facebook user for several years now. I don’t know how long FB Messenger has been a thing but I do know I only started using it a few months ago. Whatever other quirks and smirks there are about it, there’s one aspect that I cannot currently fathom. How does it decide when to reveal the existence of messages?

On Friday evening I was catching up with some communications. For some reason, there was a list of FB messages I’d never seen before. There was one from someone who’d read some of my devotions in The Quiet Hour and noticed I was a native of Kentucky. There was one from a colleague who’d worked with me at Highland Community College and didn’t have a current phone number for me. There was one from someone who wanted to let me know that her son had a new job. There was one poignant message from someone who’d come to a funeral and wanted me to know my words had touched her heart and brought her peace in a tragic situation.

I replied to each of them, apologizing for not knowing that they had sent me a message a couple of years before I ever started using Messenger. Two or three of them responded right away. It may that one or two of the others are no longer active on Facebook or maybe figured they’d wait about as long as I did. Fair enough I suppose. There was one message that transcended all of those in regard to its emotional impact. It came from a dead man.

There’s no way I’m going to elaborate even briefly about all the history between him and me. He was my hero when I was growing up and I quite literally adored him. At some point, views that we held ran counter to one another and the closeness disappeared. Some years later, we began to enjoy each other’s company again. Then there came a rift that moved him to write to me, “I never want to see or hear from you again.” Just in case I let it slip my mind, he reminded me a couple of years after that. And so I obliged him.

His declaration of separation did not keep him from occasionally sending me another angry email of some kind. When our mother died, he chose not to join the rest of us for the visitation or the funeral. When he died near the end of September in 2015, his obituary acknowledged only one surviving brother. In fact he has two other brothers and two sisters still living. One of each of them attended his burial in western Kentucky; I did not go.

I did think of Richard often and prayed for him. I don’t know that he did the same for me but I would not be even slightly surprised if he did. I was however, greatly surprised to find out that he had sent me a message less than two weeks before he died.

As I said earlier, I have no explanation for why that group of messages suddenly showed up this past weekend. I’ve been in Messenger dozens of times and there was never before any indication that I had a cache of messages from up to nearly three years ago. I checked again last night to re-read the one from Richard. It had disappeared as mysteriously as it had appeared.

He had written, “Harold, I forgive you for all that you said and did to me. Please do the same for me.”

I hope he knows that I already did.

H. Arnett
8/28/17

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