Using the Courts

Posted on January 28, 2025 by Doc Arnett

Using the Courts

Back in the early Sixties, a Mennonite family moved to Todd County, Kentucky. Two boys, Reuben and Sammy Weaver, enrolled at Trenton Elementary School, where Paul and I were enrolled. Reuben was in Paul’s grade, three years ahead of me while Sammy was my age.

Like Paul, Reuben was tall for his age. Also like Paul, he played basketball. Unlike Paul, Reuben’s religious order prohibited him from wearing the basketball uniform used by the Dragons. Instead of turning to the legal courts, Mr. Sadler, who was our principal and our coach, turned to conversation and common sense. He met with Reuben’s dad.

How about if Reuben wears the jersey over a big white tee shirt? The jersey was actually the only needed part of the uniform, he reasoned, since referees have to be able to easily identify each player by their number. As for the shorts, those were always about style and comfort. Reuben could have his own style and comfort wearing his loose denim pants and tenny shoes. And, he could also wear his suspenders since they didn’t cover the number.

Even though the physical spectacle was right surprising at first, everyone got used to seeing a Mennonite hustle up and down the court in long pants. Reuben got to play basketball and we learned a little more about how the world could work, if we wanted it to.

And there was an additional, unexpected benefit as well.

The sight of a dozen or so Old Order Amish folk, properly clad in denim clothes, with the womenfolk dutifully adorned in white bonnets, and all of them stomping black shoes and brogans against the wooden floor of the bleachers and yelling joyfully every time Reuben scored was a mighty special thing to witness.

We’d already figured out, just from hanging out with Sammy and Reuben, that there really wasn’t much difference between us. Just clothes and buggies.

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I Will Praise Your Name

Posted on January 24, 2025 by Doc Arnett

Whether in the swelter of summer
or when the winds of winter
rip their deepest splinters
from frail flesh,
I will praise you, O God.

Whether on the brightest days of autumn
or in the darkest nights of storm
when lightning rips blinding forms
against a blackened sky
and thunder shakes the walls,
I will call upon you, O God.

Whether for my most satisfying moments
or for the times of testing
when the best that I could do
was nothing more than futile failure
that left me writhing
in anguish and shame,
I will praise your name, O God.

For over seven decades,
I have seen the work of your hands,
felt your fashioning upon the clay of my heart,
witnessed your amazing presence
in both light and dark,
seen you work for my good in all things.

And though I have been at times
rebellious in both heart and mind,
chosen evil over good,
indulged the lust of my flesh
and the pride of my eyes,

You have never abandoned me,
never failed me,
never deserted me,
never withdrawn your Spirit from me.

Therefore,
in all things,
in all times,
in all places,
in every part of my self and my soul,
I will extol your name, O God.


H. Arnett
1/24/25

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Walking on Ice

Posted on January 23, 2025 by Doc Arnett

The frozen crust of the blizzard
from nearly two weeks ago
still holds hard in the deep cold
that came with it and yet lingers.

Wind chills below zero
barely yielded to short spells of slightly warmer air
that melted some spots and swatches,
mostly where the thirty mile an hour wind
kept the blanket too thin to gather much.
Bare curves of dead grass
mark the sinuous passing
of earth’s gentle bends.

Yesterday, the sun’s long glare
glazed a thin but deadly shine
on the hard-packed ice
at the top of the driveway.

I shuffled my way tenuously,
keeping cautious grip on the Aussie’s leash,
afraid the least surge in her leading
might send me suddenly off balance,
landing in an altered phase of life.

There are times
when the way to where we believe we need to go
offers no seemingly safe way of getting there.

And so, we move with the greatest care,
trusting more in fervent prayer and desperate faith,
seeking a way for feet of clay
to walk the holy path that we hope
lies before us.

Sometimes it seems we dare the Lord
to save us from our own pitiful wisdom,
wrestling with angels and struggling
to make God’s voice harmonize
with our own stubborn choices.


H. Arnett
1/23/25

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Waiting Around for the Next One

Posted on January 20, 2025 by Doc Arnett

Snow was not rare in southwestern Kentucky when I was growing up in Todd County back in the Fifties and Sixties. Sometimes, we’d have close to a foot of it on the ground, though having just a few inches was certainly more common. Most times, it would be gone in a few days. That’s fairly typical in the moderate zones between North and South in the Lower Forty-Eight.

There were occasions, though, when the snow would come during or at the start of a deep and lingering cold. The pond and creeks would freeze thick enough that Paul and I could “skate” on them. Our idea of skating was just sliding across the ice in our work boots with our toes shielded by at least two layers of thick cotton socks. Hiking and sliding on the creeks were magical!

During the other seasons, walking through the woods was often challenging. Heavy vines with sharp spikes and thick undergrowth made it no easy hike in the woods. But on the frozen meander of the creek, there was a magical, inviting path. Sure, there was the occasional big rock sticking up in the middle, or the thick, rotting trunk of a tree long ago fallen into the water. Mostly, though, it was easy going. We could walk all the way from our place down to Simmons and beyond. Or clear over to where the Willis’s and Wallace’s lived if we were that ambitious.

In those extended spells, if the snow stayed on the ground, Mom would say, “The old folks would say ‘this snow is waiting for the next one.’” Sure enough, it seemed pretty often that we would indeed get another snow before that one was completely gone.

In retrospect, it seems like pretty simple odds that the longer you go in any given winter, the more likely you are to get another snow. But it was a pretty cool idea (pun intended) to think of the lingering fingers of snow tucked into the ditches and channels of the fields and woods as “waiting for the next one.”

Maybe that’s how we could think of those stubborn old souls that refuse to let go of their old-fashioned values. Things like honesty, hard work, kindness, loyalty, decency, friendliness, and such things. Maybe… instead of just jumping on the “everything’s going to hell in a handbasket” wagon, they’re holding out for something better. Maybe they’re waiting for the next generation to come along that’s willing to take hold of such things.

And maybe… they figure whether that next snow shows up or not, they’re going to hold on for as long as they can. Without bitterness or resentment or even so much as an “I told you so.” Maybe, they figure that’s just who they are, and they’d rather fade away slowly in the shadows than just give up and disappear all at once in the warmth of convenience.

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Sculpted by the Storm

Posted on January 15, 2025 by Doc Arnett

The Blizzard of ’25 left a variety of wondrous scenes and sculptures, most of which I have not closely inspected. The joys of knee deep drifts dissipate fairly quickly in minus five wind chills. One of the most intriguing, though, has remained available for comfortable viewing from inside our enclosed and heated porch.

We watched throughout the day on the first Sunday of the new year as the snow piled up around the front of our vehicles. In particular, the sculpting at the front of our Ford Fusion became increasingly intriguing. By night, the drift curved up to the height of the headlight. The buffer zone maintained a shape more of less mirroring the front of the car. With temperatures holding well below freezing, the drifts held their shape for several days.

At different times when I was clearing the driveway and shoveling paths through the snow, I thought about scooping away that drift. But, whether due to intentional thought or mere laziness, I didn’t.

A very slight and short-lived warming trend last week and the gradual transfer of retained warmth from the earth slowly shrank the drifts. At the upper tip of the drift by the headlight, something else happened. The peak turned into a sheath of transparent ice. With the gradual flattening formed by gravity and wind, it transformed into a glass-like sheet.

Also, a mysterious bulb of snow formed a circle inside the flat ice. At one point, the ice melted away from it, leaving a hollow halo around the snow bulb. This morning, with some additional slight melting during the night, even though it was ten degrees below freezing, one edge of the circle had vanished. Currently, the white intrusion looks like the head of a tiny ice alligator.

There are many wonders in the world, natural formations that vary from massive to minute. The breaking edges of glaciers hundreds of feet thick thundering into the ocean. Tiny icicles dripping from the edge of cedar branches. Sculpted sandstone bluffs rising high above the forest floors. Patches of lichen and algae etched into windswept cliffs. The list, I think, approaches infinity. This world, even with its awful storms, calamities, and catastrophes, inspires awe.

I find no less inspiring the work of God’s hand upon the spirits and souls of those who have yielded to his touch, whose hearts and lives have been and are being transformed. Taken from darkness and shaped into light, bearing the handiwork of the Creator of the Universe. People whose tears are shaped into diamonds by the miraculous power of love and light which is able to take every onslaught of life and use it for their good.

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Fire and Ice in the Cedars

Posted on January 9, 2025 by Doc Arnett

Toward the long shadow side of a day that seemed longer than it was because of the gray and the cold and spending a few hours moving snow away from the driveway, I noticed a bit of color caught in the branches of a cedar tree. Since it was time for feeding the horses anyway, I walked over that way and took a couple of pictures. It made a decent composition with the shadows from the branches spreading toward me, a fair degree of contrast between snow and silhouetted shadow, and that touch of golden light on each side.

As I turned toward the barn, I happened to look up toward the southward branches and saw a sparkle of sun. It didn’t take long to learn that a few icicles had formed where that edge of the tree had warmed in the sun, in spite of the single digit temps we’d had all day. As snow melted and trailed down off the branch, the chance of radiant warmth gave way to the reality of frigid air.

The icicles caught the sun coming just over the ridge. An orange glow filled the hole formed between two branches, silhouetting the cedar, and blazing the ice with light and color.

I hadn’t gone out looking for pictures, but they had found me anyway.

I think most anyone can find something of interest, something of beauty, even, if they are at least open to the possibility. Not just in the golden hour of sunlight caught just right in the dimming or dawning of day. Even in the rain, reflected branches in a plain puddle make an intriguing shot. Although great pictures are often born out of much determined persistent effort, I have found many a worthwhile snap while simply keeping my eyes open while going about my chores. Even a time or two when shoveling horse manure was interrupted by a glimpse of beauty.

It is easy enough in this world to let the glum and ho-hum leach the color from the palette of personality. Easy, yes. But it is still a choice.

H. Arnett
1/9/25
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A’Slippin’ and A’Slidin’

Posted on January 7, 2025 by Doc Arnett

Slippin’ ‘n’ Slidin’

I was feeling right pleased with myself yesterday as I anticipated cleaning the deep snow off our driveway. Two days before the blizzard, while the temperature was a crowd-pleasing twenty-nine degrees instead of zero, I hitched up the heavy blade to my little Kubota tractor. Tractor and blade were sitting dry and comparatively warm inside the garage. “All I’ve got to do,” I smugly congratulated myself, “is open the garage door, lower the blade, back out and start pushing snow.”

Indeed, the garage door opened right up, the tractor started right up, the blade lowered right down, and I started pushing snow. Made it all of three feet before the tires started spinning and the tractor stopped pushing.

Underneath the fifteen inches of snow drifted on the concrete apron of the garage, lay a thin layer of ice from the brief period of freezing rain that preceded the blizzard. Even though it was no more than a tenth of an inch thick, it was slicker than a greased flagpole. In just a few minutes of desperate maneuvering, I had wedged the blade against a small bank and had to take it off to get the tractor loose.

Even though I continued trying to move the snow with the front bucket instead of the rear blade, I frequently had to move the tractor inchworm fashion as it repeatedly got stuck in the deep snow on top of the glazed gravel. Lower the bucket against the frozen earth, use the tilting function to creep forward or backward a few inches. Repeat as necessary. Which was pretty dang often! Quite exasperating, to say the least.

Eventually, I worked my way down the four-hundred-and-fifty feet long slope to the end of the drive. Little by little, I pushed the snow toward the ditches with the four-foot bucket loader. The snow was fifteen inches deep down by the highway. It seemed to take forever to clear a path to the mailbox for the letter carrier. I didn’t have the power, the clearance, or the traction I needed.

In the midst of my frustration, I saw a neighbor pull his large tractor into the drive. I got off the Kubota and walked over toward him. He opened the door to his heated cab and smiled, “You want some help?”

“Aw, man, that would be wonderful! Yes! Thank you!”

Jay’s Ford had a six foot bucket on front, three times the ground clearance, five times the power, and enough weight for good traction. In only ten minutes or so, he had the snow pushed off the drive and over toward the ditch. It would have taken me two hours, assuming I could even get it done.

There are situations in life in which we simply don’t have the right equipment or sufficient power to reasonably accomplish the task at hand. Thank God for good neighbors!

And for sending his Spirit.

Even when we feel overwhelmed and helpless, the Helper provides that which we need, that which we cannot supply ourselves. Trying to do things on our own, we will flail and flounder and end up in the ditch. Through Christ, though, we are more than conquerors. In our weakness, his strength is perfected.

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Blizzard Sunrise

Posted on January 6, 2025 by Doc Arnett 
How glorious the sun
That shines after a storm,
Gladdening our hearts,
Brightening the morn.

How welcome the light
That shines in the soul,
Murmuring peace,
Whispering hope.

Though bitter the wind,
And deep the snow,
The Spirit gives strength
For the toughest road.

Give glory to God
And sing in your heart,
For the Light of the Lord
Shines clear through the dark.

Put on the garment of praise
And fear not the chill,
Lay hold of love,
And trust in his will.
H. Arnett
1/6/25

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Mucking the Paddock on the Day After Christmas

Posted on December 30, 2024 by Doc Arnett 
After three days of fog and mist 
And a seeping gray drizzle 
That finally turned the horse pen
Into an endless muck deeply pocked 
By the horses' hooves 
And cut by the sliding grooves 
Where hard-edged feet 
Skidded toward traction on slight slopes, 

The evening sky offered something like hope: 
A rope thin slice of orange light
At the far edge of a heavy ledge
Of dark-domed shroud. 

It flared for a moment or two, 
Framing black-limbed trees 
Along the crest of the near ridge 
And burnishing the lower ripples of curdled clouds. 

I looked up from my scooping
At the small clusters of feathery light 
Stroked along the bruised scallops of the sky
Far above the crud-crusted wheelbarrow.

I steered my mind at least for a moment
Away from the narrow drudgery of chores
And smiled in the knowing
That even in the midst of clumped horse manure,
Gunked clay and dismal days,
There still hold peace, beauty, and hope, 

If one chooses to raise their gaze
Higher than their feet.
H. Arnett
12/27/24

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A Birthday Reflection

Posted on December 26, 2024 by Doc Arnett

Twenty states, four different countries, three different continents, one island. That’s the quick geographical sketch, except to add that the states stretch from Alaska to Florida, Oregon to North Carolina, Texas to Michigan. Former students, former colleagues, present and former neighbors, fellow church members, current and former relatives including kids and cousins, siblings and in-laws, and—most especially, perhaps—friends.

Some sent a personal message via text messaging. Some used Facebook Messenger. Some even made an actual phone call! Whether it was a live serenade of “Happy Birthday to You” or just a quick click on the pre-packaged FB message, or one of the other options, every single one of them made me feel thought of, remembered, appreciated.

No matter how slight it might seem, anything at all beats the heck out of nothing. Whether it took ten seconds or ten minutes, every act of acknowledgement and remembrance brought a smile and warmed my heart. Frankly, it was a bit overwhelming to consider how many took time to wish me well or congratulate me on another trip around the sun.

As I looked at each posted comment, crafted message, digital clip, or whatever, they all reminded me of how fortunate I am to have had the opportunity for each relationship. While some are folks I know only slightly through Facebook, others are friends I’ve had since high school. The former students include a few from my first year of teaching at Fulton City High School nearly fifty years ago! From Calloway County High School after that. Then, there are a couple from forty years ago at Ohio State. Students when I was principal at Scott County Alternative. More recently—a mere twenty years ago—from Highland Community College. Colleagues from nearly every place I’ve worked in forty years of professional education.

From all the churches where I’ve preached, taught Sunday School, or just attended, the places I’ve lived, been employed, there are several who transcended the incidental of formal relationship and became true friends. Man, oh, man, I treasure those! Two or three of them morphed into David and Jonathan territory and became one of those “friend that is closer than a brother” kind of things.

Regardless of history, current affiliation, or degree of association, every single declaration or acknowledgement brought me cheer and encouragement. And reminded me that even the smallest of things can become appreciated and sometimes even cherished. Just a quick click of a pre-packaged birthday wish can help make someone’s day a bit brighter.

Even if—or maybe, especially if—that someone just turned seventy-one years old. My heartfelt thanks to each one of you who did that for me last week.

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