Chaplin Nature Center

On a bright summer morning
before the heavy heat of mid-day,

we make our way among the shadows of twisted trees
beneath a speckled covering of leaves and branches,
past chance sightings of dragonflies and butterflies
in their flits of darting and tumbling.

Along the line of this tiny ridge
a small creek defines one edge—to the east—
while what seems could be an ancient road
borders the other side.

I have seen old road beds before,
deep ruts long covered by a mat of leaves and grass
and the thatch that grows up beneath the trees
shaping something that seems smooth to something other than an oxcart.

None of the trees growing up in this narrow flat
that borders the bluff seem any older than me
and the way it holds to an even width
makes me think this bank I’m walking was not circumstantial.

Along the bluff and across the bottomland,
large sycamore and elm and other hardwoods rise up.
A massive oak takes my eye away from the mystery of the road;
thick dark limbs in soft bends curve up toward the light.

We come to a clearing, a spreading of green grass
in a deliberate space meant for sharing food.
We stand in the midst of stillness and sunshine,
a soft stirring moving around us in the upper branches.

I see no sign of trail leaving the area
other than the one that brought us here.
We turn back to walk among the shadows,
along the known path that takes us back where we have been.

There will be other times for following other trails,
or the making of new ones.

H. Arnett
6/8/16

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A Dream of Dark Waters

So in this dream I go down to the river with Ben and Sara. Ben is my fourth child and Sara is his betrothed. We go down to the river to go canoeing or kayaking or tubing. Sometimes dreams leave me a bit fuzzy on details like that. The river is supposed to be clear and kind and inviting but it has been raining lately. Instead of being clear and kind and inviting it is dark, brown, roiling and surging. I go in anyway.

I have no idea why I would wade into a river like this but I do. There is a tall fence on the opposite side running parallel to the river. The boards are wide and thin, standing upright along the line. I’m sure that normally the fence would run along the stream but in this dream the water has risen up high on the fence. The tops of the boards stick up almost a foot above the level of the water. I swim over to the fence and take hold of a board. Somehow, even though it is flowing heavily around me, the water has no pull.

I walk along for a bit, holding onto to the tops of the boards and easing downstream. Suddenly, I look behind me and see a wave three feet high bearing down on me. I quickly take a breath and close my eyes, brace for the overwhelming surge to break over my head. Instead, I feel my feet leave the bottom and the wave lifts me up and carries me along. The tops of the boards have disappeared beneath the rising waters. I swing my feet downstream and lean back to keep my body parallel to the surface of the water and above whatever might be hidden beneath.

In a bit, I catch hold of a small tree and pull myself over to the edge and out of the water. I look back upstream to where Ben and Sara were standing and can no longer see them. Somehow I know that they are downstream, looking for me. Somehow I also know that I will find them soon and we will all be safe. I wake and find it is almost time for rising up and starting this new day, this new week.

I suppose with relatively little effort I could make some sense of this dream. It takes very little to figure out what might be going on in my life that makes me feel like I have been pushed away from things easy to grip into a surging stream much stronger than me. Anyone very familiar with the college would be able to talk about that with a pretty good chance of nailing a thing or two that might be concerning me. And there’s always some degree of helplessness that we feel when others are in control of things that deeply affect us.

What I keep thinking about is how that great surge that bore down upon me did not overwhelm me. Even though it swept my feet away from the bottom and my grip away from the fence, it never broke over my face. There was no panic, no choking, no coughing, just a lifting up and carrying away. And even though I knew that I could not fight my way back upstream, I also knew that forces larger than myself would move me forward and I would once again stand on solid ground with those I love.

I’ve certainly known worse ways to start a Monday.

H. Arnett
6/6/16

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A Unilateral Truce

I would like to define myself by my finest moments: laughing with colleagues, listening intently to a friend, offering help to some stranger, working carefully to fit a cabinet door. That’s how I like to see myself and how I like others to see me.

I’d just as soon leave off those other glimpses: dark moments of anger, darker moments of depression, ancient hurts stirred into regrets, indifference to the hurts of others, good pieces of hardwood molding wasted by a quarter-inch mistake. Those are the things I’d like to keep hidden—from myself, my family, others I love and strangers.

It is doubtless stronger in some than in others but in nearly all people is a desire to escape the constraints of our deficiencies. We want to triumph over every defect, wipe out every blemish, overcome every fault. Or at the least, keep those hidden from most of the world. We want to be perfect, or at the least to be quite excellent in every aspect.

It’s frustrating enough to have such expectations for ourselves and doubly damning to raise such for others. And sometimes, we really don’t know which disappoints us most—our faults or those of others. I cannot confirm but strongly suspect that we are most offended when we see our own defects in others. Whatever most irritates me may well be the thing that I most resent within my own character.

This can lead to a multitude of undesirable results, most of which degrade our relationships, our effectiveness and our own well-being. A relentless expectation of excellence in every aspect of life creates standards that neither we nor our colleagues, friends and family can live up to. Mistakes are inevitable, disappointment is guaranteed and human inclination will prevail.

We need mercy and we need to show mercy. In our expectations and in our responses. In our actions and our reactions. Strive for excellence, yes. Demand it without exception, no. The great assumption of the Golden Rule is that we desire good for ourselves. Even in the midst of our flaws and faults, our doubts and darknesses, our achievements and our failures, we seek good.

Truly it is our finest moments that put trophies on the shelf, plaques on the wall and ribbons on our chests. We are also shaped by the mistakes, regrets and bad decisions. We are defined by how we respond to all of those—in ourselves and in others.

And I have found that those who have chosen to live through all of that deliberately embracing God’s own mercy for themselves and showing it to others have chosen to live well.

H. Arnett
6/3/2016

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Reassurance & Redemption

Randa and I have driven for nearly ten hours along the southern edges of three states to be here for this Memorial Day weekend. It is the first time we have seen Jeremiah since he returned from Afghanistan last fall. He and Misty have driven five hours from Little Rock for this rendezvous at Dan and Christie’s home. It is our first time to meet their second daughter.

Isla let me hold her for a little while on the back porch earlier in the evening before she made her preferences more clear. Dan and Christie’s youngest, Dalton, was barely walking when we saw him almost a year ago. He has certainly mastered mobility to a far greater degree and maneuvers a three-wheeler in between a half-dozen chairs on his way from the north end of the porch to the south. He is soon happily pedaling away in the paved drive.

It is Miah about whom I am nervous. She was rather quiet and reserved on our very few visits before this and it has been over a year since the last one. I am unsure whether she will remember me and what reaction she will have regardless of memory. Memory can be a rather capricious creature at that age… or any other.

After supper, I sit for a while in an armless chair set off from one end of an antique dining table. Sons and daughters-in-law visit on other chairs or the sectional set to frame the TV viewing area. Long shadows stretch across the lawn as dishes are cleared from the Duncan Phyfe table with its few ashy-colored moisture marks in the old lacquer finish that colors the walnut veneer.

Miah comes to me and wants on my lap. Soon after, Anne Marie, who is three or four years older than her, joins. I play silly games with them and make silly noises every time Miah or Anne Marie pretends to pull my nose off my face. I pretend to bite their fingers and chew on their arms provoking even more shrieks and giggles. It’s the sort of inanely repetitious thing that thoroughly delights the involved small children and perhaps even more thoroughly annoys everyone else. Before long, Dalton decides to join his sister and cousin and comes to climb onto Papa Doc’s lap along with them.

I begin singing “Camptown Races” and bouncing the little ones up and down on my knees. It’s not the sort of song that brings throngs close to the stage at a Bluegrass festival but it’s a definite hit with these three. Mercifully for all but the knee jockeys, by the time I’ve run through the song three or eight times, it’s time for brushing teeth and putting on jammies.

Next, it’s time for hugs and kisses and for all frogs and fishes to be done for the day. The kids head to bed and the adults head back out to the back porch.

I step out from under the eave into the soft, cool darkness and see the stars as only those who live or travel away from towns and cities ever see the stars. The blinkings of lightning bugs drift across the corn field and pasture. Small voices fade away and I know that I have not entirely wasted my life.

H. Arnett
6/2/16

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A Powerful Calling

For a good many years—a few decades at least—I have tried to figure out God’s plan for my life, what his calling might be for me. Frankly, I will admit some level of relief that he has not seemed to call me to be a missionary to Iceland or Indonesia… or to Mississippi, for that matter. If it was his intent that I spend my years tending to lepers or saving leopards, I have not yet figured that out and continue with some degree of gratitude for my ignorance on that point.

What I have come to realize, through study of the Scriptures and reflection on experience, is that I have actually always been aware of my calling—God has called me to obedience, to service, to love.

When Peter and John headed over to the temple (Acts 3) for afternoon prayer, they did not say to one another, “Let’s go look for someone to heal.” They were simply following their normal routine. But they went about that routine with their eyes open. They came upon a man who needed healing and they healed him. Paul did not go to the island of Malta to heal people but after being shipwrecked there he ended up healing all of the sick there. Jesus did not set out to feed thousands of people. After preaching to them, though, and seeing their hunger, he responded with compassion in a miraculous manner.

In each of these cases, the responses of compassion, caring and curing were not the focused purpose; they were inevitable consequences that resulted when compassionate, caring and empowered people saw the needs of those around them.

When Peter was about to heal the cripple at the temple, he said, “I don’t have any silver or gold but what I do have I give to you—in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk.”

God has never called on people to give something they didn’t have; he has always expected us to share with others from what we have received. There are always people in our lives who have less of something than what we have—less food, less clothing, less strength, less time, less courage, less hope, less confidence, less assurance of their value, less appreciation for their work. If we open our eyes and look around us, we will always find opportunity to share, to lift up, to encourage, to give.

Whenever we give, share, serve, or love others, we give to Jesus, we honor him. And find ourselves the richer for it.

H. Arnett
6/1/16

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A Fine Legacy (Dennis Strange)

A soft rumbling rolled slowly from low clouds as I crossed the street Monday morning. A few drops of rain spatted against the windshields of parked cars along Second Street. As I stepped off the concrete onto dark pavement, I noticed that the white sedan that is usually parked right in front of the building was missing. I was also pretty sure I knew why.

It has been nearly two weeks now since Dennis Strange left his house to make a quick run to Long John Silver’s to pick up food for the family. He never made it back home.

Dennis seemed to be the picture of health, at least to casual acquaintance. He had a robust appearance and a gregarious nature. He was friendly, outgoing, a man who loved people and loved to laugh. Even to someone like me, whose sole basis of observation was the occasional passing on the sidewalk, two things were obvious: he was friendly and he was devoted to his wife.

Tammy has worked for years as an administrative assistant in the Natural Science and Math department for Cowley College. Dennis seemed to show up nearly every day for lunch with her. Sometimes they ate over at the college deli, The Jungle. Sometimes they ate in the department lounge/workroom. Regardless of where they ate, it would be apparent to any onlooker that Dennis was exactly where he wanted to be, enjoying being with his wife and whomever else happened to be around.

A sudden and severe heart attack ended all that while Dennis was in the drive-through at Long John Silver’s that evening. He was only sixty-two, the same age that I am.

As I sat in his memorial service held in Brown Theatre on our campus, I noted a few things about a man I didn’t really know. The large portrait on the easel on stage showed the expression of a man who loved life. His cherished motorcycle sat between large bouquets of flowers, a dynamic symbol of freedom and adventure and in his case, family and friendship.

One of his daughters talked about the early rides with her dad and eventually, the pleasure of owning her own motorcycle and riding alongside him. Friends spoke of their rituals of riding with Dennis. They all spoke of his love of people. “He didn’t care whether you were rich or poor, whether you were clean or dirty. He didn’t care how you looked or how you smelled. He didn’t care what color you were or where you came from. He was going to talk to you, regardless.”

One of the son-in-laws was quoted as having said “He was the most Christ-like non-Christian I ever knew.”

In the stories that were shared—and even in the ones people said shouldn’t and couldn’t be shared—all agreed that Dennis Strange was playful and mischievous, adored his daughters and grandkids, was deeply devoted to his wife, and loved Arkansas City. He was clearly a man who genuinely loved people and enjoyed his associations and encounters with them. The few hundred people sitting in the audience shared their grief, chuckled at some comments and laughed out loud at others. And as we watched the video scrapbook of Dennis’ life, all of us honored his memory in some way or another.

To have our few flaws acknowledged and our best traits celebrated, to be remembered with tears and laughter and honored with a fine, fierce loyalty is a pretty good thing, I think. It would be quite a challenge to leave a more notable legacy than family, friends and a community that knew you loved them.

H. Arnett
5/25/16

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A Reluctant Blessing

On the Sunday following Pentecost,
I stood in white shirt and jeans
beside a white-haired woman
who was wearing a simple print dress.

She lifted her hands toward heaven
voicing with many others yet another song
I didn’t know even though the words
showed clearly on the screen.

In the midst of the singing
I caught some scent of poor hygiene
that put me on the verge of nausea
and almost sent me toward the door.

Each swirling of her hands
in joyful praise
sent another souring
spreading my way.

I looked over at her,
saw clean scalp showing through thin hair,
a gentle face washed
with the pure presence of adoration.

I closed my eyes
and remembered my own mother
and the way that dementia
took away some good habits of personal care.

As we moved toward the middle
of the next song,
I felt a strange sense rising within me,
a need to speak a private message.

Afraid of her fear
or the judging of others near us,
I hesitated, waited
for some stronger stirring.

With each verse,
a terse urgency built
until I feared I might choke
if those words remained unspoken.

I leaned over close,
my face against her short hair,
my voice low and quiet
only inches from her ear:

“May the hand of the Lord be upon you;
may he fill you with the longing of your heart.
May his mercy and honor be yours;
may the hand of his blessing be upon you.”

When the song ended a bit later,
we sat down and she leaned over,
reached a thin-skinned hand toward me,
“Thank you for that,”

she whispered softly, “Thank you.”
I smiled, softly squeezed her hand and nodded,
wondering if I might feel some new prodding
as we settled into the sermon.

We often walk in the fringes of others’ lives,
having no idea of each other’s’ confessions
nor of how much good can come
from the obedience of a murmured blessing.

H. Arnett
5/23/16

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Grindstones & Gratitude

Yesterday, I held an end-of-the-school-year debriefing with some of my key administrators. These are the people whose work helps assure that classes are scheduled, that students get enrolled, that our technical programs operate, that our online, on-campus and outreach activities take place. These are the people who work long hours handling complex tasks that are essential to the functioning of our college. They are not the only ones—they are the ones with whom I met yesterday.

We had some preliminary semi-formal conversation about a few issues, including the monumental task of transitioning from an often dysfunctioning and occasionally collapsing student information system to a new one that we are hoping will lead us directly from Egypt into the Promised Land. Frankly, some are worried there might be a bit of wandering in the wilderness time. It has been a more challenging than usual year: the SIS issues, key changes in several administrative processes, a predatory move by a large university threatening the concurrent enrollment program we’ve operated for two generations in area high schools, a heavy cloud of threatened funding reduction from the state and dramatic turnover in staff and faculty. We talked about some of those for nearly forty-five minutes.

After that, I handed each one a sheet of paper and asked them all to write their name on the top of their sheet. Then, we passed the sheets to the person on our right. Each person was instructed to then write down something they liked, admired or appreciated about the person whose name was listed at the top. By the time the sheets got back to the original owner, there were several positive, appreciative comments, each signed by the person who wrote it. Every face at the table softened for a few moments as we each read our individualized support document. Then, there was a series of “thank you’s” and meaningful looks across the table.

After that, I had each person write down something from this academic year that brought them a sense of pride, satisfaction or accomplishment. “You don’t have to share these if you don’t want to,” I directed, “But you will be welcome to do so.” Everyone opted for the sharing, to which everyone responded with nods of agreement and expressions of support, “Oh, yeah, that’s a good one,” or something similar.

The next part of the meeting was something I stole from Zig Ziglar. “Write down five things you like about your job.” As we went around the circle, I added a few more things to my list. But the first thing everyone else mentioned was already the first thing on my list: the people we work with.

These are not the only people to whom I owe a great deal for their work, dedication and commitment. That longer list would include the department chairs, other members of the administrative group, our teachers and a host of other employees at the College, all of whom I trust already know that I love and appreciate them. I am blessed to be working with a core group of key people who share a consistent professionalism, an unswerving drive for excellence, commitment to students and a strong but unpretentious faith.

I wanted us to close out the year with an awareness that their colleagues support and appreciate them. I wanted us to focus for a while on the positive and to remember that even in our challenging times there are good things going on.

I could have finished up the year without doing this with this small group but I have learned that people need to know they are valued, respected and supported. They need to know, not suspect, presume or wish. If I do not deliberately show my appreciation to those around me, they will assume that at best they are taken for granted or that I just don’t care. Even if neither is true, how will they know?

H. Arnett
5/20/16

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He Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere (Guy Clark)

I will sing a song of sadness
for a man I didn’t really know
although it seems as though
I knew him pretty well.

I knew many of his songs
and some of his stories.
Most of them were good;
some of them were incredible:

a rare blending of a poet’s eye,
a craftsman’s heart,
and an absolute familiarity
with the dark hours of love and loneliness.

I never understood—
and still don’t—
how a singer could be that talented
and still be unknown by so many.

He sang about south Texas,
the people and the land,
dark rooms and tunes,
love songs that made me weep and smile.

My best friends,
my own kids,
my wife and I
sang his songs

and grew closer for the singing.

Randa and I did meet him once,
in a back room after a concert in Kentucky,
thanks to the creative conniving
of a son not as timid as me about such things.

While Sam grinned like a possum eating briar berries,
Guy autographed my vintage Gibson
in a neat hand just above the very end of the neck.
He hesitated with the fiddle, though,

“What a beautiful old instrument!”

He paused, held it up,
tilted it against the light,
“This is too beautiful for me to sign on top,”
he said softly, reverently.

Then he turned it and signed it on the spine.
You could play it for hours
and no one ever know or notice
that Guy Clark had autographed that violin.

I’ve met men
who seem to think
nothing is more beautiful
than the sight of their own name.

And here was a man
known in the highest inner circles
of Americana’s blending
of country, folk and bluegrass,

a man whose passing will be mourned
by such names as Vince Gill,
Emmylou Harris,
Ricky Skaggs and countless others,

whose own humility
and love of craftsmanship,
beauty and art,
made him turn to the side

to find a place
where he could honor an autograph request
without marring the face
of a stranger’s fiddle.

So yes, I will sing a song of sadness.
I will sit in a dark and empty room
with an old guitar
that won’t ever stay in tune.

And I will sip bourbon and cry
and be thankful that I came to know
so many songs,
be thankful for my wife,
my kids,
for Bill and Brenda Jolliff,

and for the best songwriter
you’ve never heard of,
a man who knew
what it was

to love a place
that you can never go home to,
to love people
who’ve already ridden that long, slow train

that takes us all
and all we know.

H. Arnett
5/18/16

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Tree Trimming

After assisting with Cowley College’s GED graduation event Saturday morning and before attending two graduation parties, the grand fund-raising Duck Dash and another party, I thought I’d relax by cutting down an elm tree. Seemed like a good idea since this particular elm tree has been working on destroying our wooden fence for about twenty-five years or so.

At some point in the past, it seems that someone topped the tree at about five feet above the ground, just above the top board on the fence. The tree responded by sprouting three main branches at that point. These had in turn been allowed to grow for about fifteen years or so, with each reaching a diameter of eight-to-ten inches. Not too long ago, someone had cut out two of those, leaving the third one to continue growing. It was about thirty feet tall.

As you may know, as long as a main branch is growing, so is the trunk. A foot above the ground, that tree is now about sixteen inches thick. The tree grew up through the middle of our plank fence. Most wooden fences do not benefit appreciably by having a tree nearly a foot-and-a-half thick grow up through them.

This particular fence was built with twelve-foot planks on a horizontal weave pattern. In between the end posts of each section is a center post. The planks bend around the center post on alternating layers to create the weave effect. A four-inch center post provides a functional space for creating the desired aesthetic effect. A sixteen-inch tree does something else.

It tears the fence up.

Thanks to the slow growth of the elm, some of the planks bent to a greater arc. One of them popped loose from the post at one end, splaying out toward the neighbor’s house. Another plank broke and yet another one is now embedded in the tree trunk. The fence is ruined. And I declared war on the remaining branch. And I won.

With a hand axe, I notched the tree with the intent of felling it beside rather than on top of our small storage shed. I waited until the wind was out of the north so it would be less likely to fall across the neighbor’s fence and hit his storage shed. Or house. Then I took my battery-powered DeWalt reciprocating saw and set in to work. Just in case you’re wondering, elm is fairly dense. It takes a while to cut through. But, when the cutting was done, the tree fell exactly where I’d hoped it would. After two or three more hours of cutting, stacking, loading and hauling, nearly every trace of the tree was gone.

Except for the stump, five feet tall and sixteen inches thick, still standing in the middle of the fence. Along with a dozen other smaller trees that were allowed to grow up through the fence at various places around its perimeter. Every one of those could have been pulled up by hand at one point. The fence could have been preserved and protected with only a small amount of effort. Pulling up sprouts is easier than cutting down trees.

I’ll need to remember that next time I take a look around inside my life.

H. Arnett
5/16/16

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