Cold Feet

Posted on January 12, 2017 by Doc Arnett

I remember some of those bitter winter mornings back in the dark days of dairy farming. On the usual winter days back in western Kentucky, we’d dress for the weather and be just fine. On weekends or “snow days” we could play for hours skating on the frozen creeks even though we never had skates. We could slide, though, and that was close enough to magic for us. Snow was not a rarity and some years we’d get storms that dumped several inches on us. Once in March—1960 I believe—we had over a foot of snow from one storm. Paul and I built an igloo in the yard and it lasted a while.

It also took a while to build but when the temperature is in the twenties, good gloves, good shoes and a few layers top and bottom pretty much give you all you need. But when the temperature dropped down in the neighborhood of zero, there weren’t enough layers to keep feet and hands warm.

Especially during milking.

You can’t milk cows without washing udders and you can’t very well wash udders while wearing cotton gloves. Dipping your hands in a bucket of hot water feels really awesome on a day that cold but that wet heat wears off really quickly. And even though our boots had “Insulated” imprinted on them, that was a relative term. We couldn’t fit enough socks into those things to keep our feet warm on those days.

Fortunately for us, there weren’t very many of those days. There were times when we’d get so cold we’d have to take a thaw break by the electric heater in the washroom. We’d wrestle off one boot and set it over close to the heater. Then, we’d stand on one foot and hold the other one up over the heater, as close to it as we’d dare and sometimes a bit closer than intended. When that foot sufficiently thawed or the sock began to smoke, we’d put that warm boot back on and swap out to warm the other one. Then go back to milking.

There are situations in life when it takes more than the usual effort and strength to endure a certain situation. Times when the cold or some other oppression presses down with greater weight. We layer ourselves up in prayer and perseverance and do the best we can with what we have to work with. Sometimes it may seem that we just can’t get close enough to the heater. It is in those times that we find that we can endure more than we believed we could. And when we’ve been through that and found ourselves sustained by grace, we face the next winter with a bit less fear.

H. Arnett
1/12/17

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Ancient Delights

Posted on January 11, 2017 by Doc Arnett

I stand at the old cast iron sink
set in the corner of the kitchen
washing the few dishes
left on the counter from last night’s supper
and the two wine glasses
from that time of the evening
when the day passes from work towards rest.

It is neither usual nor uncommon
that I am washing a few dishes
in the hour before dawning,
nor is it any great thing,
a simple routine of cleaning
what someone else used
in preparing me food:
skillets and plates and such shapes
as make the making and the eating easier.

Then, too, there are the two loaf pans
soaking from earlier that afternoon,
coated with Crisco and crumbs
from the warm leavings of strawberry bread.

While Randa is still sleeping,
I dip my hands in this quiet chore of early morning,
nothing more than the simple washing
of a few dishes and the making of fresh coffee.

There a few things more pleasing
than those things that show others
that they are loved
and that remind us
that we love.

Perhaps this, too,
is why our Provider delights
in giving us our daily bread.

H. Arnett
1/11/17

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The Shroud

Posted on January 10, 2017 by Doc Arnett

Last summer a Cowley College relocation project involved turning a seldom-used conference room into office space for two teachers. One wall of the room hosted a 4 x 4 whiteboard cabinet that appeared to be in imminent danger of interfering with the proposed subdivision. As you know, interfering with a proposed subdivision is dang near a capital offense in a capitalist society. So, in order to spare as much hostility, destruction, contention and controversy as possible, I issued an executive order.

Soon thereafter, a maintenance crew showed up with the hundred-and-fifty pound cabinet and installed it on the east wall of my office. I had to move one of my favorite pictures but such are the sacrifices of the bourgeois. With its simulated mahogany finish, the cabinet actually looked pretty good framing in the meeting space on that side of the room. Blends nicely with the simulated mahogany finish on the heavy round table around which my administrative team and I gather on a semi-regular basis.

Even more appealing is the functionality of the cabinet. Its twin doors open up to reveal a 4 x 4 writing surface. Each door has a 2 x 4 writing surface and bonus reversible, removable panel. That yields a total of about sixty-four square feet of writing surface neatly tucked away. Exceptionally handy for taking notes during brainstorming and other planning sessions. We’ve developed grant proposals and mapped out semester plans on it.

The only disappointment has been with the removable writing panels. The one time I wrote on them, I had to use cleaning spray to remove the dry erase marking. Very disappointing, especially considering it wasn’t a matter of leaving the script up for several weeks. I’d tried to erase it within fifteen minutes. Usually, on a good quality board, the marking comes right off quickly and easily. Not with these brats. I had to scrub them like farm kids on a Saturday night.

Not wanting to spend much time scrubbing whiteboard, I started just setting the panels out of the way during discussions. That’s what I did yesterday. When I started to put them back up after the meeting, I noticed one of them had a damaged corner as if it had been dropped on a hard surface at some time. It looked like a few small pieces would drop off at any point so I figured I’d go ahead and remove them. Not as easy as I expected: the pieces were held in place with heavy clear plastic. No one had ever removed the protective shipping film.

Just in case you’ve wondered: plastic film does not make a good dry erase surface.

My good friend and colleague Eddie was in my good friend and colleague Janice’s office which is conveniently located near my office. So I had him help me strip off the plastic film. After a few years of close association, a rather strong bond had developed between the film and its substrate. I held the board firmly and had Eddie pull the film. We looked like two corporate types settling a dispute with an old fashioned tug-of-war. Or like we were skinning albino roadkill. In spite of convulsive laughter, Janice managed to record the farce using her phone’s video function.

Sometimes things turn comical when we some past oversight comes to light. Sometimes not so much. In this case, we all had a good laugh. After we’ve rested a few more days, we’ll tackle removing the film from the other panel.

I think I’m going to start calling my whiteboard cabinet the “Almost Converted Discussion Center.” I’ve seen a few people over the years that appeared to have had their “Come to Jesus” moment. Some while later, though, whether weeks, months or years, it turned out that film of self and stubbornness had never been peeled off of their heart.

Until that happens, the heart can never be the fountain of hope and healing, of mercy and compassion, of faith and purity that its Designer intended. Until then, it is the writing of the world that will be recorded, not only on its surface but on its deepest parts as well.

H. Arnett
1/10/17

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Of Empathy and Experience

Posted on January 9, 2017 by Doc Arnett

Sometimes empathy is as easy as glancing over at someone else’s situation. A house destroyed by a tornado, a car wreck, a tragedy of some sort or another. In such cases it doesn’t take an awful lot of putting yourself in someone else’s shoes to know you wouldn’t like the fit. Even a comfy pair of loafers don’t feel all that great once they catch on fire. “Sure wouldn’t want to be wearing those,” we think and understand that this is no time for judging the person who is wearing them. Instead, we respond with care and compassion.

Sometimes, it’s not so easy. A crying baby on a late flight, an impatient driver, an annoyance of some sort or another. In such cases it’s pretty easy to focus on our inconvenience and someone else’s need for improved ability, better attitude or greater consideration. “I sure never let my kids act like that!” we mutter under our breath or perhaps over it given sufficient distance or disregard. In such cases, it takes a deliberate effort to move from aggravation to consideration. “Poor things, I bet the whole family is worn out. Been there, done that.”

There’s something fine and friendly in the wonderful phenomenon of deliberately putting ourselves in someone else’s place and taking a look at things from their perspective. Something that moves us to greater understanding and insight. Something that helps us move from judging to sojourning. It is a thoughtful and gentle practice, a very Christ-like notion.

Whether easy or not, it is a good thing. What is shameful to me is when I do not gain that other perspective until life has actually placed me in someone else’s place.

I was very judgmental toward divorced people until I went through divorce and had former friends and brethren refuse to speak with me or shake my hand afterwards. I was very judgmental toward the poor and unemployed until I found myself unable to license my car in Ohio because I didn’t have insurance on it. I was very judgmental toward people who weren’t like me until I lived in a place where the majority of people weren’t like me.

Most recently, I have come to realize how utterly non-empathetic I was toward my own father when he was losing his hearing. Whether trying to carry on a conversation with him on the phone or in person, it became so frustrating that I eventually gave up. I quit calling. Instead of thinking about his frustration and isolation, I focused on my annoyance. I resented his intrusions into and interruptions of attempted conversations with others without thinking that when you can’t hear, it’s easy to not realize someone else is already talking with someone else.

He was a man who truly valued conversation, who loved visiting with people, loved sharing jokes and making quips. A man who loved communication. It was not until I began experiencing the isolation, frustration and loneliness myself that it even occurred to me that he might have gone through the same things. I wish I had shown him more patience.

Even though I sometimes still have difficulty clearly catching all of what some people are saying, the hearing aids have definitely helped. But it may be that the greatest gains are in the way of humility and empathy. To those who are open to the possibility, life has its way of bringing such opportunities to us.

I try to remind myself that in seeking to follow The Carpenter, I should not have to wait for the strike of the hammer before I consider the perspective of the nail.

H. Arnett
1/9/17

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Pride and Self-Prejudice

Posted on January 6, 2017 by Doc Arnett

About a dozen years ago I knew that my hearing was not as good as it used to be. During an extended bout of dizziness that turned out to be due to an inner ear infection, the ENT specialist ordered a hearing test. It revealed a decline in the upper frequencies. “Not enough at this point that you should get hearing aids but definitely something to keep an eye on.” Another infection five years later, another hearing test. “You should probably think about getting hearing aids; there’s a definite loss in the upper frequencies that is affecting your hearing.” Two years ago, after going to a training session and being made painfully aware that it wasn’t as slight a decline as I’d tried to pretend, I went to a hearing aid clinic. And left without making a purchase.

Why? It’s complicated.

Middle-aged ego forced to acknowledge that “middle” was becoming something of a euphemism? Yep. Hearing aids are undeniable evidence of markedly declining physical ability. Undeniable and visible to others. “Hey, there’s an old man here. Certainly ain’t what he used to be, is he?!”

Inconvenience? Well, yeah. You like having something stuck in your ears? Of course, if I was forty years younger I would have been wearing ear buds since toddlersville. But to be chic, you had to have tiny cords attached from the ear bud to some electronic device. The closest I ever got to “chic” was the last time I bought Chiclets and that would have been in the Eighties…

Cheapskate? Ouch, that’s painfully close to truth, or at least truth somewhat adulterated by factors One and Two listed above. Might be more excuse than reason but it definitely has some reason-like qualities.

You can buy an iPhone with the equivalent technological processing capability of the first three lunar missions for under a thousand bucks. All the technology of hearing aids plus exponentially more than that. An incredible computer shrunk to palm size. Hearing aids? Unless you’re willing to take a chance with an online purchase from an unheard of manufacturer—”Hey, I used to be an engineer and a buddy and I made these in my garage”—you’re going to be paying from four to six times the price of an iPhone. And in many if not most cases, without any reimbursement from insurance. So yes, the economic aspect was a huge factor in my reluctance.

Eventually, though, you weigh the price of exclusion, embarrassment, missing out and not being able to function effectively in professional and personal roles and you decide that if you’ve done without a nice bass boat for this many years, you can probably make it a while longer without that luxury. So, instead of having a 200 horsepower Ranger Pro parked in the driveway, I’ve been wearing hearing aids since October. They’ve definitely helped. I’m saying “Yes, ma’am” more frequently than “Huh?” at home now and can understand at least ninety percent of what’s said in administrative council meetings.

One of the most awkwardly affirming moments about my investment was when I called my oldest son a couple of weeks after my reluctant purchase. “Well, I finally got myself some hearing aids” I confessed in a somewhat forlorn tone of voice. Without even a hint of respectable hesitation, Mike responded, “Good, you should have done that years ago.”

That’s true for a lot of our pride-driven reluctances, isn’t it? Sometimes admitting what everyone else already knows takes more effort than it should. But it’s still worthwhile and definitely better late than never.

H. Arnett
1/6/17

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Houston, You Have a Problem

Posted on January 5, 2017 by Doc Arnett

Most coaches, teachers and other philosophers will tell you that having some degree of ability seems to make folks reluctant to admit their deficiencies. A player who regularly drills three-pointers from twenty-seven feet might convince herself that’s the only skill she needs to be a great player. Students who can sort of write a sentence don’t believe they need none of that there grammar nonsense.

Adding to the frustration of my advancing loss of hearing was the fact that it seemed to me that I could usually understand face to face conversation in normal volumes. I especially found it easy to understand native English speakers of male persuasion who spoke at a normal (Southern) rate of diction. Fast speakers with a distinctive accent were more challenging but that was true even back when my hearing was akin to that of a rabbit with a good set of freshly cleaned ears. Something like forty years ago…

Soft spoken women were killer, especially when they stood fifteen feet away and the AC was pushing air out the vent directly over my office desk. By the third time I asked such visitors to repeat what they have said, mutual frustration was evident. Few of them resorted to throwing objects in my general direction and I consoled myself with the realization that their diction really could use some work.

My own frustration turned to near anger, though, with folks who left phone messages I could not understand, especially at that critical moment when they spoke their own number.

On a good day with a really good cup of coffee, I can say my own phone number in a few nanoseconds and understand it quite clearly. Of course, I already know it and have heard it hundreds of times before. A number of people who seem to think they have a matter of some importance to discuss with me will spend thirty seconds leaving a detailed message. Then, right at the most critical moment, when they seem to suddenly suspect they are being charged by the millisecond for using my answering service, they try to cram their phone number into a single syllable. “Eighonesevtwfrfr3jubvlefie.”

Now think for a minute folks, other than the good will and dutiful attention of the person for whom you are leaving a message, what is the single most critical element of reciprocal communication? If you want someone to call you back, what is the essential element of that person being able to do that?

That’s right, friends and neighbors: an accurate phone number. It doesn’t matter how carefully I listen to your message and how promptly I am willing to return your call if I can’t decipher your verbally scribbled phone number. Frankly, if I listen to your message three times and still can’t understand your number, you’re getting a very special place on my priority list of callbacks. No long term animosity, of course. You’ll hear mooing at the front door before you hear back from me. That sounds like meanness, I reckon, but it’s really not even a threat. If I don’t have your number, how am I going to call you back?

Here’s the bottom line: I have a hearing impairment and everybody in America knows that means you’re supposed to alter your communication patterns and do everything in and beyond your power so that I don’t have to actually admit that I have a problem and take actions myself to deal with it.

Geegawlawoolikers, I already wear glasses! That I don’t really need… most of the time… unless I’m trying to see something…

H. Arnett
1/5/17

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No Joking Matter

Posted on January 4, 2017 by Doc Arnett

I remember Dad joking about his hearing impairment around fifteen or twenty years ago. “I used to tell folks I was hard of hearing,” he’d quip with a wry grin, “Now, I’m just plain deaf.” From the vantage point I’ve gained, I’m not sure he was actually joking.

Whether from simple genetics or nearly sixty years of combined exposure to farm equipment, teaching shop classes and remodeling, I noticed my own loss of hearing several years ago. It moved from annoyance of myself to annoying others with my frequent “I’m sorry; say again, please?” to frustration to isolation.

I gave up on conversations in moving vehicles, especially with people who were sitting behind me. The combination of road noise and female voice frequencies made it impossible for me to catch all of what was said. I’d learned years earlier to combine partial hearing with amateur lip-reading. It’s quite challenging to read lips of someone who is sitting directly behind you.

And so, I began pretending not to hear or notice. I’d read or just stare vacantly out the window while those around me carried on their discussions. I rarely had to pretend to be preoccupied; I’ve had a natural tendency in that direction since childhood. The pretending came into play when I’d hide my frustration.

Each burst of laughter drove home the isolation and sense of exclusion. Obviously everyone else heard the punch line and thought it quite clever. I might have some idea of the general topic but that rarely moves one into appropriately timed outbursts of glee and amusement. Feeling left out in a large room with a few hundred other people who clearly are sharing something of significant entertainment value brings a very special sense of exclusion.

The solution seems simple: go buy hearing aids. Like a lot of the solutions that seem evident to ourselves and others, addressing hearing loss proves more complex than the casual observer might imagine. And in continued similarity to some of those other complications of mortality and humanity, putting it off doesn’t make it any easier.

H. Arnett
1/4/17

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A Good Christmas

Posted on January 3, 2017 by Doc Arnett

A week before Christmas, the wind chill was at double digits below zero with a couple of inches of snow blowing in over the ice storm that shut down the interstate for a while. On Christmas Day, you could walk or work outside in shirt sleeves. Neither was what I’d call ideal weather for the occasion but we made do just fine, thank you.

Although I had to finish up the smoked/grilled pork loin with a couple of minutes in the microwave, it turned out pretty well. Randa’s brine marinade and dry rub had more to do with the pleasing flavor than did my grilling but the combination made a right palatable job of the whole deal. Her other efforts, along with Christy’s and Leah’s provided us with a fine meal.

The dessert table lasted all afternoon and evening and still provided take-home servings as well. Although the TV room was mid-project on new walls, we managed to find enough seats for everyone to watch a football game or two and the Chiefs won. We had another game—not football—at the dining table as well. Leah’s big layered ball of plastic wrap with lots of little goodies wrapped in made for some fine family fun.

As long as I don’t have to travel in it, I prefer several inches of snow for Christmas, with it cold enough to make the snow last for just a few days. Ideally, it’s around thirty degrees with no wind. Clear skies. Go build a snowman or two and have a small war with lots of laughs and no frostbite.

But at the end of the day, it matters little whether or not it’s the sort of holiday to put on post cards or not. Being together with some of the folks you love, eating well, visiting a while and sharing good memories while making good new ones and remembering the birth that is still changing lives: those are the things that make a good Christmas.

Whether the weather is wonderful or not.

H. Arnett
1/3/17

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The Shepherd’s Return

Posted on December 22, 2016 by Doc Arnett

I can only imagine what sort of wonder filled the hearts of those shepherds after that awesome sight in the fields beyond Bethlehem. Without wasting a lot of time debating the possible meanings, implications and interpretations, they headed on into town and found the very thing they angels had announced to them. Must have been quite the conversation later that night as they headed back out to their fields and for quite a while after that. I’m pretty sure it was some time before things truly returned to normal for them, if they ever did.

Might be that even the sheep noticed something different, some lingering sign of glory and wonder in the way the shepherds walked and talked, even the way they tended sheep. The view of thousands of angels proclaiming good news has a way of changing dudes, I’d imagine. At least for a while.

We remember them as the shepherds who saw a bunch of angels, found a baby in a feed trough and announced heaven’s own testimony that this was the promised Lamb of God. I bet the sheep remember them as the keepers who watched over them, led them beside still waters and into green pastures and kept them safe from their enemies. I think it’s absolutely perfect that the birth of The Good Shepherd was first proclaimed to men of such lowly estate who knew the importance of the ordinary.

And I think it would also be pretty neat if those we love remember us as people who celebrated the wonderful events but spent most of our time doing what needed to be done, accepted the ordinary of our lives as extraordinary opportunities to love, give, watch over and watch out for them and honored the birth of the Messiah by loving those that he loved.

And will one day witness a celestial event even more glorious than his humble birth. No matter what field we happen to be in at the time.

H. Arnett
12/22/16

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Shepherds-Part I

Posted on December 21, 2016 by Doc Arnett

There is nothing in Luke’s account of that wonderful night to suggest that the shepherds in their fields were expecting the amazing events that unfolded. In fact, there’s nothing that even hints that they had been filled with faithful anticipation about the coming Messiah. I’m almost certain that none of them looked at the rest of them that morning and said, “You know, boys, I’ve got a powerful feeling that something really awesome is going to happen tonight. I think this is going to be it! You know what the prophets say and there’s Bethlehem just right over there…”

I think it’s more likely that one of them said, “That cantankerous ole ewe nearly crippled one of my best lambs yesterday. Boys, I’m thinking ‘ewe stew’ is on the menu tonight… or maybe ‘ole ewe barbecue’…”

Whether or not anything like that unfolded, I know that these men of no social esteem were simply doing what they usually did. Living in the fields, tending to the sheep, keeping watch over the flocks. As a result of God’s good grace and their duty to the ordinary of their lives, they witnessed one of the most extraordinary events in history. A bright light shone about them, an angel spoke to them, and then a multitude of the heavenly host appeared and shouted news of the Son of God. Post haste, they headed into town and soon found the newborn Baby of Heaven wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.

They brought no gifts of gold, frankincense or myrrh, nothing of earthly value. What they brought was true worship, genuine adoration and intense wonder and joy. They found the baby, gave their testimony and went back to their fields. Back to doing what they do, not seeking the glorious events of the world, not desiring some transcendent fame or fortune, just living the life they had been given.

But I’m pretty sure that life was never quite the same after that.

H. Arnett
12/21/16

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