By Other Means

Posted on July 18, 2016 by Doc Arnett

It was a long week, filled with several opportunities I did not seek and do not wish to repeat. Monday brought the third and fourth of repeated migraine onsets within a ten-day period. Tuesday introduced the dizziness that by Wednesday had progressed to the point where I could not have passed a field sobriety test. Medical diagnosis indicated a blending of fluid buildup behind the inner ear, sinus congestion, low blood pressure (maybe induced by or at least connected to the migraines) and low pulse rate. Of course, it’s entirely possible that the low pulse rate is due to the incredible physical conditioning regimen that I used to practice on an almost daily basis. Let’s not bet the farm on that one, though. The clinic insisted on performing an additional EKG just in case my heart actually had quit beating and the nurse’s assistant had merely overlooked that fact.

Between the medical appointments and personal incapacity, I missed a couple of days of work. By sheer strength of will (pronounced “stubbornness) I put in two or three hours on Wednesday morning because of the critical nature of the tasks at hand. The HR director, recognizing my debilitated condition, insisted on stepping in for me and offered to have someone drive me home. She became somewhat insistent about that as well but since I have a reputation to live down to I drove myself.

But other than the pain, instability and frustration, things weren’t too bad. Within two days, the prednisone had alleviated the dizziness to a helpful degree. By the end of the week, I was able to walk in the intended general direction with only slight deviation and the pain had subsided to more of a distraction than a consuming force. Still, I’d have to admit that I pretty much felt like a bag of dead mice without the accompanying odor. So far as I know, that is.

On Friday, according to the reports of others, I participated appropriately in what might appeared to be the concluding round of faculty negotiations for this year. I took care of a few other things in the office and left only an hour later than our summer early dismissal time. In spite of my progress, I’d admit that I still felt pretty low on energy and ambition.

When I got home, Randa was mowing the yard. Even though she was at that time mowing in the shady part of the yard, her face was somewhat flushed and sweat beaded on her forehead and rolled down her face. Almost every man cell in my body wanted to hand her a glass of iced tea and take over the mowing. That would be the manly thing to do.

But then there were all of those dead mice cells.

So I ended up sitting on the couch underneath the ceiling fan in an air-conditioned home while my wife finished mowing the front yard in ninety-degree heat. There are times when all the pride in the world and all of our good intentions cannot rival the strength and wisdom of letting someone else do something for us. Most likely, we will have the opportunity to return the favor. And I am gradually learning that there are times when the most appropriate reaction is gratitude instead of guilt.

That one may take a while but I’m feeling up to the task. And besides, I do know how to make real iced tea, Southern style.

H. Arnett
7/18/16

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H-38

Posted on July 12, 2016 by Doc Arnett

Just past Kansas Avenue if you’re going north on Summit, the road completes the other end of an S-curve. Just out of that curve, there’s a Casey’s and then there’s the coin-operated ice vending machine. It’s pretty handy; if you’ve got cash you can get a sixteen-pound bag of ice for two bucks. Or, if you’ve got cash and an ice chest, you can get twenty pounds of ice for two bucks. Or, you can go to Casey’s and get a ten-pound bag for two bucks.

With the sky pretty well clouded up and the temperature still riding above ninety degrees at six-thirty yesterday, I pulled in for a sixteen-pound bag.

There was a small sports utility vehicle parked across three parking spaces right in front of the vending machine. Inside, some guy was talking on his cell phone. I pulled around behind him and parked. As I got out of my car and started to walk around to the machine, he quickly got out of his vehicle and stepped over in front of me toward the dispenser.

It was too hot to waste energy getting peeved over something like that so I just laughed to myself on the inside. On the outside, I smiled at the slightly stocky, slightly pudgy older guy, and said hello.

Apparently thinking some sort of explanation was in order, he said, “Yeah, I was talking with my son. His mom has cancer and she has to start chemo and he called to tell me to get her H-38.”

He poked a dollar bill into the slot, watched it disappear and then fed in another and then stepped over to the dispensing chute. “He said this H-38 is made natural and the pharmaceutical companies have been fighting to get it off the market because it’s more affordable than the other medicines and it’s also the most effective for fighting cancer.”

He stood there in his khakis and sports shirt, waiting for the bag to slide out. “You ever heard of that H-38?” I poked my dollar bills into the slot and stood there in my white linen suit, waiting to push the button for my sixteen-pound bag. “No, I guess I haven’t.”

“Well, it’s made natural and it’s the most affordable cancer medicine they have. The pharmaceutical companies have been trying to get it taken off the market but they can’t.”

His ice came sliding down the chute and he stood the bag up on end and tore along the perforated lines to separate the two tabs at the top, then tied the tabs together to close the bag. “This sure is cheap ice, isn’t it?”

I grinned and nodded and agreed. He lifted his bag off and turned toward his fifteen-year-old SUV. I pushed the button and heard the whirring sounds of internal mechanism preparing my bag of ice. He set his bag onto the floor in front of the back seat and closed the door.

He turned back toward me, his face puffy and gentle, “I’m seventy-three and I don’t take any medicine except for headaches. I guess maybe it’s because I’m part Indian.”

“Well,” I smiled, “I guess that part’s working pretty well for you.”

He grinned back. “If you know anyone that has cancer, be sure and tell them about that H-38. It’s made natural and it’s the best thing there is for cancer.”

There are some things that eat deeper than cancer. Things that leave us lonely and longing for something stronger than that ancient aching inside of us. Something that leads us to share with strangers what we barely dare to speak of with family. We isolate ourselves in dark rooms at night and walk out into the light using cell phones and iPads to insulate ourselves from those near at hand yet never understanding why we don’t feel connected.

Maybe what we need are more conversations in parking lots and waiting lines at Casey’s. And choosing not to resent small inconveniences.

H. Arnett
7-12-16

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Airport Reunion

Posted on June 29, 2016 by Doc Arnett

It’s not unusual to see postings on social media of soldiers returning home from the Middle East. Many are joyous: mothers and wives returning to children and husbands, fathers and husbands returning home to their families, even the occasional exultant reunion of human and canine companion. Granted, it’s pretty rare to see a video of a cat jumping and whirling with excitement about someone’s return. For cats it’s more like, “Okay, you’re back. Water bowl’s empty.”

Other than the cat, though, everyone seems to understand that it’s a pretty special thing. We smile, we hug, we cry. We caress the face of our returning beloved, needing that additional reassurance that she or he really is standing there in front of us. Many of us give thanks that nothing that we dreaded has occurred; our loved ones are safe and sound and we are reunited once again. Over are the long days of trying to stay busy and not worry and the longer nights of sleeping alone with the occasional dream that we dare not mention to anyone, especially to the one who is gone.

We know enough of those stories of IED’s and mortar shells, suicide bombers and blown-up hotels to know that it is not a given that this story has a happy ending. We’ve seen too many flag-draped coffins, too many deeply scarred bodies and faces to believe that it can’t happen to the ones we love. Even in the age of Skype and video chats, it is only that moment of actually seeing and touching and holding and being held that we truly believe that they are home and safe.

Knowing the joy and comfort of such moments, we sense something of the relief of others when we see those pictures of strangers. Certain images are captured and shared and we experience something like empathy as their joy, even if only in a slight way, becomes ours as well. These moments help us hold to hope and we use them to help us heal from all that separation has cost us. We long for a time when such leavings and losings will all be behind us; we ache for knowing that nothing could ever again separate us. And deep down, we know that this ancient and persistent desire is for an end to mortality itself, a longing for eternity.

Until then, we do whatever it takes to make it from one day to the next. We pray, we hope, we take the kids to their games, we do the thousand things that must be done. And when we see the pictures on Facebook, we smile and sometimes share.

But I will tell you this, when the pictures are of your own son and you remember the call when he told you that the blast was close enough to break windows in the building where he was working in Afghanistan and you see him sitting there safe and whole and with his own sons gathered around him, touching his face, you know that you are grateful and glad.

In that instant, it becomes more than a picture; it becomes God’s own grace. And in your gladness you remember that one day, there will be no more leaving.

H. Arnett
6/29/16

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Last Day of the On Course Workshop at Bon Secours

Posted on June 27, 2016 by Doc Arnett

A small island forms the focus of a small pond,
both bordered by light gray stone
each stacked in its own place against the press of earth and time
and the way that water has of trying to bring both together.

A small waterfall spills into the curving line
that ripples from the heart in the center,
bound by more stone and gurgling its way
into the larger circle of island and pond.

A Japanese maple over twenty feet tall
rises up above all else on the island—
small trees with lemon-colored leaves,
a few reeds, and low flowers blooming in the last of June.

Beyond a similar stand of small trees
bordering the edge of the pond,
large hardwoods lift long, swooping branches,
locusts and oaks that shade the curving walk.

In the low light of morning,
the water reflects both shade and light,
shadow and stone,
and the already brightening sky.

An orange bridge arches over the water,
where a man older than these trees
pauses for a while, hands spread against the rails
as if trying to hold something in place for a moment.

He leans out and over, held lightly by wood and steel,
looks beneath the face of rippling waters,
and feels there something of a young boy
curled up beneath a pile of sleeping cats,

safe in the sun and held in the heart
of an old galvanized washtub
sitting on the back porch of a two story brick
built before the Civil War in southern Kentucky.

The man looks down through the long years of pain and hope,
trial and blessing, love and laughter,
aches and tears, and many days of long work,
sees that small self from nearly sixty years ago,

and murmurs:
“Sleep well and warm for a little while longer,
take a little more time to dream and believe.
This is going to be a good day—for both of us.”

When old men dream dreams
and young men see visions—
that is always a good day
and nothing good is stirred

without a few ripples.

H. Arnett
6/27/16

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Taking It All in Stride

Posted on June 23, 2016 by Doc Arnett

The calendar says “June” but the weather feels like a month that rhymes with “Fry” or one that’s even hotter than that. When I got into my car late yesterday afternoon, the onboard temperature reading was “106.” Granted, the car was sitting directly in the sunshine and metal objects sitting in the sunshine in southern Kansas on a clear day in June tend to exaggerate such readings. Such was the case yesterday; by the time I drove home, it was down to a much more humane reading of ninety-eight. I was so elated by my change in fortune that I went into the house and promptly sat down underneath a ceiling fan.

I suppose I could have comforted myself by thinking about a few multitudes of poor souls for whom sitting under a ceiling fan in an air-conditioned home is not an option. But then I realized that some of those poor souls live in Australia where it is now winter. Frankly I was a bit jealous and Lord knows there’s not a lot of comfort in jealousy.

Then I realized there are some poor souls who live in northern Canada and northern Alaska and Siberia. I think they’re probably really happy that it’s finally the start of summer up there and they’re tinkled pink with the lovely seventy degree weather and wonderful fishing. Frankly I was rather envious of them and envy sure isn’t the ticket to feeling better about one’s condition.

So then I started thinking that maybe thinking about a lot of people who should be more miserable than me wasn’t really a charitable way to go about the whole thing anyway. Maybe they shouldn’t be more miserable, maybe they should be grateful for whatever tiny bit of good they have in their life. Maybe they should be glad the heat index isn’t a hundred-and-horrible wherever they live.

But then I realized that maybe the heat index is a hundred-and-twenty-plus-horrible where they live. And maybe they don’t have AC or maybe they do have AC and their monthly electric bill is about half the value of my old Ranger pickup truck. And maybe their job only pays a quarter of the value of my truck. And then I got to thinking about how some people actually die from heat stroke. Just sitting there inside their apartment surrounded by concrete and asphalt and they just keel over.

Well, you can imagine how much better that made me feel about my circumstances. Should I turn off my AC? Turn off the ceiling fan? Put on a heavy coat and go sit in the sunshine?

“No,” I thought, “It’s better to light one candle than to curse the darkness.” So, I got up, put some ice in a tall glass and poured myself a chilled Sangria. Just getting off my butt made me feel so much better about things that I started working on the crown molding. And pretty much quit feeling sorry for myself for a while.

Pretty soon I got so carried away I started feeling grateful and quit feeling jealous of all those lucky rascals who would gladly give up nearly everything they own to trade places with me. No matter who our next president is…

H. Arnett
6/23/16

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For Whom the Bell Tolls

Posted on June 17, 2016 by Doc Arnett

He met his wife Rachel when both were students here and he credits the College not only with that budding romance but with turning his life around as well. After finishing college, mostly, he came back to Arkansas City. He worked for Cowley College for thirteen years, eventually becoming the Vice-President for Institutional Advancement.

To many of us, Ben Schears personifies the best of the best at Cowley: friendly, cheerful, enthusiastic, dedicated. To some, our Core Values might be nothing more than a poster, a short list to be memorized right before the accreditation inspection. For Ben, treating people with respect, demonstrating integrity, holding himself to high standards and being a servant leader are essential aspects of his being.

Over the years, he—to many students, employees and other supporters—became the face of Cowley College as he worked tirelessly with the Foundation, adopted students as family, provided support and encouragement to his own team of employees and modeled cooperation and support for other staff members. He had thought—and many of us had hoped—that he and his family would be ours until he was at least as old as I am now even though he’s barely halfway there at this point.

Sometimes, though, the things we want and believe are for the best are not part of the Plan as it unfolds.

I know as sure as I know my own name that all things work together for good for those who love the Lord and are called according to his purpose. I know that we will look back and see a plethora of wonderful things that emanate from the wellspring of this turning. But I still do not yet like this change.

Among a myriad of actions and reactions stemming from the changeover in administration unfolding at the College this year was Ben’s decision to apply for the presidency of Northwest Kansas Technical College. It was a surprise to some that Ben would consider leaving Cowley; to those who knew the circumstances, it was no surprise at all. We saw the way the changes ate away at him, eroding the best parts of the personality that we loved. To see the sadness in his face, see the light gone from his eyes, the joy from his laugh was to share in his sorrow and make it our own. And we were helpless to change things.

But he was not helpless. He interviewed for the position and accepted it when offered. Not without mixed feelings. The man bleeds black and orange and wakes up spitting tiger drool. There’s a part of him that always will be loyal to Cowley College. But he will become as much a Maverick as any alumnus out in Goodland, Kansas. He will lead in love and humility and he will carry the care of his new college as if born to it. He will become as loved there as he is here.

And he will be missed.

I walked down an empty hallway this evening and paused by the doorway at the east end of Suite 206, Galle-Johnson. I looked into that empty office and felt its hollow darkness. I ached at the absence of that impish grin and bright-eyed laugh. I grieved for the loss of his presence, his walk amidst the folk of a crowded room, the genuine pleasure on his face and on the faces of those he greeted. I grieved and gave thanks for every moment I’ve had with him and his family.

We walk through the sun and shadows of this life. There is joy and pain. Those who love as Ben Schears loves will always feel more of both. They will weep and laugh and leave their marks on others’ lives in their passing through.

And we will all be the better for knowing them.

H. Arnett
6/17/16

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Beyond the Lonely Places

Posted on June 16, 2016 by Doc Arnett

It’s been nearly forty years since I saw the man standing by the road in the rain. I was a young shop teacher driving a yellow and black ’67 Dodge pickup. He was short and middle-aged, dressed in an old brown suit and holding a battered suitcase. I stopped and offered him a ride.

In spite of his relief to be out of the rain, there was a sadness in his pale blue eyes, a thinness of spirit that seemed as weary as the few strands of hair draped down against the wet skin of his forehead.

As I drove on from Fulton toward Clinton, he told me that he was a barge man, a river rat from Memphis. He’d been upriver and was trying to get back home. Contrary to the image of the suit, his hands had the thick, toughened look of a man used to holding things that didn’t like being held and that had to be made to fit certain tasks. A few miles later and the thinness began to make sense.

“My wife died of cancer last year; we’d been married thirty-eight years.” He looked out the window for a minute and I saw him wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. Without looking back he sighed, “I just can’t seem to get over it.”

I paused for a moment, not knowing quite what to say. “That’s a tough thing,” was all I could come up with. In another mile or two, I thought of something else. “Guess you don’t have any place to spend the night, do you?”

“No,” he shook his head, “I don’t know anybody between St. Louis and Memphis.” He looked out at the buildings lining the edge of town and added softly, “I can’t afford a hotel.”

“Well,” I replied, “we don’t have an extra bed, but we’ve got a couch long enough for you to stretch out on. You’re welcome to spend the night with us.”

I think he was afraid to believe I was serious. I was and he got over it. After supper, he took a bath. He slept dry and sound, safe from the fears that live beneath the bridges that pass over the highways and in the dark corners of strange places.

By ten o’clock the next morning, thanks to a reluctant but generous donation from my good friend Billy Berryhill, who owned a small garage in Fulton, the sad stranger was in better spirits. He was on a Greyhound bus headed to Memphis and he was wearing a new pair of shoes that fit and didn’t have holes in the soles.

I never saw the man again but I think about him pretty often.

I think about him when I see other strangers standing in the rain beside lonely roads. I think about him sometimes when I see the ten pairs of shoes sitting in my closet. I think about him when I think about my friend Tom Hale who worked that mighty muddy river and who also knows from both sides of a barge about the kindness of strangers. I think about Billy Berryhill, too, and his thick, callused hands belying the gruffness of his voice as he opened up his wallet and handed me fifty bucks for a man he’d never even met. “Yeah… uhm-huh… he knew you were a soft touch as soon as he looked at you, man.”

I think we’ll all meet up again—someday—and there won’t be a single stranger in the bunch, not even the ones who’ve never seen each other before. In some way, maybe the ways that matter most, we’ve all met before, some place or another.

H. Arnett
6/16/16

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A Lakeside View in the Middle of June

Posted on June 14, 2016 by Doc Arnett

I sit on the porch of another man’s cabin,
looking out at the lake cut into the run
of a long ditch draining a pair
of low sloping hills in between
broad fields of fresh-cut wheat.

At the steep end to the north,
shades of beige jag the edges of the water,
a jumble of big stones and rip rap
pushed up from the dredging
that formed the deepest ledges.

A thickly slatted wall of green
frames nearly every edge of the lake,
tall stakes of cattails frame the border
from grass to water,
defining the points and inlets
curving the seven acre spread
that blends reflections of textured pasture
and sky into the wind-ruffled surface.

Along the lower edges of the reeds,
a yellowish band marks the lower water level
after the heavy rains of May
finally eased their way into longer days.

A small clustering of the upper ends
of old gray trunks and branches
rises beside the crappie beds,
the last stand of timber that once spread wide shade
into the spill of the ditch
that now beds the bottom.

Ancient springs feed clear water
into this soothing presence
while a half moon hangs high in mid-afternoon
and a softening wind scruffs the surface of the lake
and eases beneath the roof of the porch.

I could sit here for days
and not waste a single moment.

H. Arnett
6/14/16

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A Friday Blessing

Posted on June 10, 2016 by Doc Arnett

May the grace that is needed
on this good day
find its way into your work and your words.

May your heart be gentled
by kind thoughts
and reflections of good moments.

May the work of your hands
be blessed and fruitful,
and leave you the better for that work.

May your brow be soothed
as if by soft breezes
and a pleasing fragrance like that of blooming locusts.

May the sound of your voice
carry with it
some sense of peace and calm.

May those around you
be warmly blessed
by the goodness of your heart.

May others know
that you desire good for them,
that your caring is sincere,

that the nearness of their burdens
weighs upon you
and that you bear that load

with a willing hand
because you understand
that the sharing brings blessing

to all who carry that common weight.
And may the Lord himself
give you strength and grace

that is greater than your day.

H. Arnett
6/10/16

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More Than One Door

Posted on June 9, 2016 by Doc Arnett

He is universally regarded as one of the greatest Christian preachers of all time. For the sake of the Cause, he endured persecutions of severity: flogged, whipped, beaten and even stoned and left for dead. Even as he moved from place to place, his enemies pursued and harassed him. Along with this measure of suffering, he demonstrated remarkable power in speech and deed. He performed miracles of healing, even to the point that handkerchiefs he had touched restored the sick to health. Through his preaching and writing, the Gospel of Jesus Christ of Nazareth spread throughout the world. Even though he lived nearly two thousand years ago, his literature still compels, inspires and motivates millions.

At one point, this missionary of the Messiah came to the city of Troas and found “the Lord had opened a door for me.” Imagine the opportunity!! A man of such faith and power, such persuasion and gift in a place where God had opened a door! Imagine the scores, hundreds, even thousands who might be converted and saved. Imagine the good works that could be done: the blind seeing, the deaf hearing, the lame walking, the mute speaking, the lepers cleansed and the sick healed!

In spite of all of this possibility, the Apostle Paul promptly left the city, turned away from all that opportunity that the Lord himself had provided. What would lead this powerful servant to turn his back on all that and go somewhere else? Simply put, he couldn’t find his friend there. (2 Cor 2:12-13).

So what happened? Was Paul chastised and disciplined? Was the Lord disappointed in him? Did his life take a severe downward turn into gloom and misery because he neglected the opportunity the Lord provided? Nope, not at all.

He went on to Macedonia and with the rest of his life. And you know what? The Lord opened other doors for him, no matter where he went. And Paul continued to minister, serve and preach the Gospel. And to endure persecution from time to time.

For too many years I have lived in fear. Afraid that moving somewhere else or doing something else might lead me out of God’s will and bring down wrath upon me. Afraid that seeking a different job might not work out as I hoped. Afraid of disappointing God. I think I’m starting to get over that.

I’m starting to figure out what Paul knew. The tentmaker understood with great clarity that as long as he continued to seek God no matter where he was, he would have opportunity to serve Him.

Our God is big enough to open more than one door.

H. Arnett
6/9/16

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