Through the Eyes of a Little Boy

Posted on December 19, 2025 by Doc Arnett

Do you remember when some folks brought their children to Jesus and his bigshot disciples tried to shoo them away? Probably something like “He’s too busy dealing with grownup stuff to mess with these kids!” or something like that.

As for Jesus? Well, he weren’t having none of that!

“Are you guys nuts or just stupid?!! These little rugrats are exactly what I’m looking for. Well, at least in spirit, they are… And you think you’re special because you’re ‘all grown up?!’ Hah! Being ‘all grown up’ is exactly what’s wrong with you!”

He went on to tell them that only folks that can humble themselves like a little child are ever going to get into his outfit. Only those who get Little Kid Like Christmas Morning Excited about the Kingdom of Heaven will be welcomed into it!

I knew a little kid like that…

A kid that loved cats and dogs and playing. Chasing around the yard, jumping over stuff, running along dusty cowpaths in the pasture. Feeling puffs of fine red clay dust shooting up between his toes as he ran barefoot. A kid that wore patched jeans and homemade shirts. Who never imagined being grown up and living in a nice house and driving a nice car. A kid who thought anyone with a TV was pretty well off and anyone with a color TV was just plain rich!

So… when I feel disappointed that I didn’t accomplish more in life, tempted to resent the people I knew in high school or college who earned a lot more money than I did, let my focus get warped by what could have been instead of what is… that little towhead farm kid is my touchstone, my benchmark, my Point of View.

I just spend a little while showing him around the place here, this big old Craftsman farmhouse, the little orange tractor, and the big black pickup. He goes nuts when I let him sit on the motorcycle and promise him a ride later.

I let him rub the horses’ faces and necks, let him sit up on Earl’s back (Cody’s too unpredictable). We inspect the fences we’ve built here, the rooms we’ve remodeled, the cabinets we built. I show him the magic of turning wood on the lathe and launch a wooden top spinning across the floor.

I talk about my career as a shop teacher, college professor, A-School principal, director of research, v-p for academic affairs. Show him copies of articles I wrote, books I published, records of presentations. Tell him about places I’ve preached and speeches I’ve made. I even tell him that I once put new brakes on a pickup truck! (That part really amazes him.)

Then… I show him the pictures on the refrigerator. “Who are all these people?!”

“I’ll tell you later; you wouldn’t believe me if I told you who their Papa and Grandpapa is…”

After a while, I can tell that he’s overwhelmed by all of this. “How in the world did you learn all this stuff?”

“Well,” I reply, lifting him up and holding him against my hip, “I had some mighty good help—from you.”

“Me?!!” he responds, eyes and mouth agape. “How did I ever help you do anything?!!!”

“Well… A few different ways… One, you always loved learning. Whether it was in school or in the kitchen or in the garden or out in the hayloft. Or reading books. You loved to learn about people, places, and things.

“Two, you always liked to work and do stuff. Even when you were a little kid.

“Three, even as you got older, you never tried to plan out your life. You always just waited to see where God led you. You didn’t make long term goals, you didn’t make your life about what you were going to achieve next. You just wanted to do whatever God wanted you to do. That was the only plan you ever had. That meant you could move from one place to another, go to one job after another, even take a different path in your career.

“Fourth, and this was really important, you never really thought much about what you might own in life. You never thought you’d have to be rich to have a good life.”

So then, I ask that little kid, “Well, what do you think about all this?”

He gets quiet and his eyes get just a little shiny, “I never imagined, never in a million years, that this was even possible… Are you sure I helped you?”

“To be honest,” I respond, “We both got a lot of help from a lot of people—teachers, neighbors, friends, Mom  and Dad, sibli… brothers and sisters, church folks. But more than anything… it was God.”

“Why did they all help us? Why did God help us?”

“The only thing I can figure out… is that they all—especially God—must really like us a lot more than we thought!”

He looks around at the white pole fences, the big white house, the cars and pickups, the birch trees shading the garage and the horse trailer sitting in the circle driveway.

Then he looks back at me and says, “I reckon they do!”

I can take my Old Man Me, look at my life—both past and present—and twist myself up with guilt, regret, disappointment, and disillusionment. Or… I can remember that little kid and ease down to my knees, bow my head, and give genuine thanks for being blessed beyond imagination.

That little kid used to fantasize about being a famous baseball player or singer some day. I tell him about all the people that took time to wish me a “Happy Birthday” yesterday. How I’ve known them as students, friends, neighbors, colleagues, church associates, or just people I’ve “met” via Facebook. He asks how many and I tell him. And he thinks for a moment and says, “That’s like ‘almost famous,’ isn’t it?”

And I tell him, “Close enough, Bubba, close enough.”

Posted in Aging, Christian Devotions, Christian Living, Family, Farming, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Cold Days and the Way of Faith

Posted on December 16, 2025 by Doc Arnett

These mornings of freezing temperatures and nights of single digit wind chills remind me of those aching days in the milk barn when I was growing up. Although there was an old electric heater in the tank-and-wash room, the milking parlor was unheated. Uninsulated. And unfun.

Even though we didn’t know the kind of cold that growled through Iowa and Wisconsin, and snarled and hissed across the Dakotas, we knew what cold felt like. Not the sub-forties, and not just barely below freezing. The kind of cold that froze ice eight inches thick on the pond and turned the little creeks into miles of meandering ice paths. The kind of cold that made ice on our eyebrows and froze our breath onto the outside of the old towels we wrapped around our faces. The kind that makes hands and feet ache after a half-hour of milking—and you still have an hour left.

On the most severe days, we’d take a short break next to the old heater whose coils glowed red against the ceramic stacks. Take off one boot and hold it above the heater. Maybe even try to stand on one foot and hold the other sock-clad foot just above the heater. Sometimes our toes were so numb we couldn’t feel the heat until it began to burn through those old cotton socks. Wish we’d known how much better wool worked! Even a double layer of those old, worn, white athletic socks we wore wasn’t enough to keep the cold away for very long. And even though our green, rubber boots had “Insulated” embossed on the heel, that was nothing more than a thin layer of sprayed-on felt. The boots never felt insulated on those days.

So… those are the things I think about these days while scooping up frozen horse manure in the dry lot and dumping the rock-hard clumps into the wheelbarrow.

This is the kind of weather that lets you know how good your gloves and boots really are. Forty-five minutes of farm chores with the wind chill near the zero mark will tell you the truth about your winter gear. Just like X-rays and brain scans, sleepless nights and sick kids, tough times and lean years: those all tell you what kind of faith you really have.

Even if you don’t have the kind of faith that lets you walk on water or move mountains, you can have the kind that helps you fill the sandbags and trudge through the darkest valleys. The kind that keeps getting you out of bed every morning. Doing each day the things that must be done, the things that feed families and nourish the sick, clear the roads and deliver the loads, replenish the shelves and repair the lines. The things that help a hundred or a thousand unseen others.

The kind that reminds you that even a cup of hot chocolate given in the name of Christ will not lose its reward. Even if it doesn’t include marshmallows.

Posted in Christian Devotions, Farming, Nature, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Mystery of Fog

Posted on November 20, 2025 by Doc Arnett

It’s something so deep in me that I really have no idea what its founding connections are.

Even as a young kid, I loved foggy mornings: the mystery, the softness, the way that everything far away disappeared and even the things that were near faded. Gone the harsh light, the keen edges that marked the boundaries and defined the shapes. Only the close colors held true. Even though I knew—or at least believed—that everything that I could no longer see was still there, I could choose to be unaware. I could pretend, at least until the fog ended, that only what I could still see survived the mystery of fog.

Of course, the real pleasure of those heavily shrouded mornings was privileged to those who could stay at home. Our bus driver, Mister Perkins, hated the fog. I could see him shaking his head as he slowed down even more for the curves on the gravel roads, hesitating much longer than usual before pulling out onto the highway beside Cooksey’s Salvage Yard. No way to know for sure that there wasn’t a semi barreling through the fog without its lights on. He muttered too softly for us to make out clearly the words kids weren’t supposed to hear.

I suppose that much of the pleasure I take from fog depends on the privilege of being spared the risks that others must take. Unretired and not unemployed, they have no choice but to head to work. They do not have the luxury of lounging longer after breakfast, sipping coffee and watching in wonder as the fallen leaves matted across the yard lose their harsh rustle.

On the way to feeding the horses this morning, I walked across the shed coverings of maple and birch, soaked with slight rain and heavy fog. Even the cottonwood leaves made little sound beneath my boots.

Maybe that’s what I like the most—the way that fog mutes the noise, narrows the choices, and quietens the voices. Something about it, even though there are hints of somber and sadness in the mist, offers something that feels like peace.

And in this world of harsh noise and much clamoring, when it’s hard to take a single step that doesn’t trigger some sort of harsh reaction, anything that feels like peace seems to offer some release. How much more, then, the real deal that comes from trusting Jesus and knowing that no matter what else seems to shroud the things that we hold dear, His Spirit is always near.

Even in our fogs.

Posted in Christian Devotions, Farming, Metaphysical Reflection, Nature, Poetic Contemplations, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on The Mystery of Fog

The Farrier’s Passing

Posted on November 11, 2025 by Doc Arnett 
On the evening of the day that Lewis Johnson passed away,
it was nearly dark when we made our way back home
from working on our daughter’s barn over in Missouri.

In the hollow spaces formed below the trees,
Randa and I tended to the needs of the horses,
dumping feed into buckets and mucking the paddock.

We thought of Lewis and the last time he came to trim,
moving slow, breathing hard, and taking time to rest
after each hoof had been clipped and rasped.

Cancer and chemo had stripped away muscle,
all the hair on his head,
and his great, black, cowboy mustache.

That was six months ago on a chilly April day
in northeastern Kansas and I remember thinking, 
“This might be the last time he’s able to come and do this.”

It was.

We felt the sadness of those shadows 
beneath the sixty-year-old cottonwood
that spans out over the round pen,

That same great tree he had stood beneath,
grateful for shade on blistering days,
and we marveled at the way he handled the horses:

Thick arms, hard shoulders, and strong hands
spanning decades of knowing and doing,
speaking gently to the geldings and moving smoothly.

One of us held each horse 
while he sliced off frayed layers of the frog,
nipped away the fractured edges of the hoof.

Then, holding the foot between his thighs—
living hide held against the tanned leather of his farrier’s chaps—
planed the bottom smooth and flat.

Finally, bracing the foot against the steel stand,
his hands swinging in the arc of a smile,
he smoothed the outside edge with a coarse file.


And after he’d finished each horse, 
he’d softly rub its neck and scratch its withers,
Pat him a few times and say, “You’re a good boy.”

Then, he’d turn to whoever was holding the rope,
grin and say, “You gotta take time to love on ‘em 
and thank ‘em.”

With glistening eyes, I leaned against the cold metal rails,
looked up after a moment and saw a nearly full moon 
glowing like the touch of God above the eastern ridge,

Framed by the silhouetted shape of autumn leaves
hanging in the hollow space of heavy limbs
in the slight chill of a November night,

Needing every bit of light that a moon could manage.
Posted in Death & Dying, Farming, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Relationships, Spiritual Contemplation, Work | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on The Farrier’s Passing

A Single Leaf

Posted on November 3, 2025 by Doc Arnett

In the afternoon following a hard frost,
nearly an inch of slow rain,
and a hurricane two thousand miles away,
I pause by a single scarlet leaf
as large as a man’s hand
that has landed by a small puddle on the concrete patio.

Its color is brilliant even in the muted tones
below an overcast sky,
and the puddle is pocked by slow drizzle
and a scattering of tiny twigs and locust leaves.

In the middle of the moment
of such glowing attention to such a trivial thing,
I wonder if it is somehow indecent of me
to ponder and marvel at such simple beauty
in the midst of such destruction and heartache
that the same Nature brings
in some other place…

Whether resolution or practiced self-delusion,
I realize that even if I bathe my soul in tears
and cloak myself in years of sorrow and mourning,
it would not lessen in the least
the suffering of these other ones.

I remember, too,
that there are other forms of caring
and that the simplest act of giving
gives greater power to faith
than all of life’s lamenting.

I will praise the God who gives
and takes away
and will find goodness in the day that He has made:

I will cherish the flower and the fallen leaf,
offer something other than a cup of cold water to those in grief,
and will consider that a single moment of contradiction
neither diminishes nor increases
the terms of the leases we are given
in these marvelous wonders of Creation called “flesh,”
destined for death and glory
when a renewed Story will be written on new tablets
when all of sorrow is ended.

Posted in Christian Devotions, Christian Living, Nature, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on A Single Leaf

Blessed Beyond Belief

Posted on October 23, 2025 by Doc Arnett

Please forgive me for what might initially seem a little less than dignified and refined. Not that you’ve come to expect dignity and refinement from me but this one starts out with something quite a bit lower than the angels, I reckon.

Our big ole Craftsman style farmhouse in northeastern Kansas has three bathrooms: one on the main level and two for the upstairs sleeping quarters which include two or three guest rooms. During the day, we mostly use the little half-bath on the main floor. Decidedly more convenient than having to use the stairs.

So, needing to expel my properly processed breakfast coffee, I stepped into the little Palace of Necessity.

I noticed the porcelain receptacle had that special blue cleaning fluid in the bowl. So, I walked back into the kitchen and asked Randa, “Do you want me to use the upstairs bathroom so that can soak longer?”

To my absolute astonishment, even knowing my age and disposition, she replied, “Yes, please. That hasn’t had time to really work yet.”

So, I cheerfully trudged up the seventeen steps and turned to my right. As I walked into the bathroom, I chuckled to myself. “When I was growing up, we didn’t even have a bathroom in the house! Now… I can choose one of three!”

To be fair, we did get indoor plumbing when Dad had the old house torn down and a new one built in its place on the farm in Todd County, Kentucky back in 1961. We basically went from the 19th Century to the 20th in just a few months. Just in time to host the reception for my oldest sister Freeda’s wedding.

I didn’t really think much about what my life might be like when I reached the age of my grandparents. I mostly just thought about baseball, chores, playing baseball and basketball, and reading books. But I can confidently assure you that I never even imagined living in a house like this and having three indoor bathrooms!

It is so easy to perch ourselves in the ratty old outhouse of negative thinking, isn’t it? Start focusing on disappointment, troubles and trials, and disillusionment. Replaying old negative memories and fantasizing about future troubles. Granted, I have the advantage of having grown up with less than I have now. Having had a career that far exceeded any expectations that I had. I reckon that makes it a bit easier to appreciate the little things.

But, as I’ve come to grudgingly admit, it’s really more about the simple effort of appreciation than it is about incidental realization. God and a bunch of other folks have been far better to me than I have deserved.

And, honestly… I’m okay with that. Especially since I can still make it up and down the stairs.

Life is good.

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Sixth Annual Cider & Fireside Chatauqua

Posted on October 21, 2025 by Doc Arnett 
In the glow of low fire
fueled by oak and hickory,
four men sit between flame and shadow
less than a mile north of the Arkansas River,
sipping bourbon and beer
and sharing the nearness of autumn night.

They speak in greater depth than ordinary conversation,
having chosen discussion of things that matter—
in this world and in the one to come.

“What things are worth dying for?”
“What guides your life?”
“What have you learned since last we met?”
“What are our ‘God-given rights?’”

And a dozen other questions and topics
that emerge in an extended conversation
both focused and meandering about the threads
of meaning and being beneath the Milky Way.

A few thin clouds,
high and white,
drift above the cedars and oaks,
hickory and ash.

At times,
one or two stand
near the steel circle
that bounds the flames and coals,
feeling the warm glow,
watching the curling wafts of red and orange
that peel away the bark
and feed on the heartwood
grown and formed by decades of slow growth
and constantly adapting to the storms and seasons
that have formed them.

Their shadows stretch
into the woods behind them,
mingling into darker shapes.

They talk late into the night,
sometimes somber in the nearness of loss and pain,
sometimes laughing loudly at improvised humor,
but always receiving more than they give.

They are here not for proving themselves right
and others wrong,
but for the gain of knowing and being known,
to take measure of their own thoughts
against thoughtful response.

Iron sharpening iron
in the forge of a deeper fire
than what burns before them,
searching for some seam of light
that cuts briefly through the dark glass
and keeping the nearness of the flaming Spirit
between themselves and the howling of the world.


H. Arnett
10/21/2025
Posted in Aging, Christian Devotions, Family, Metaphysical Reflection, Nature, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Relationships, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Sixth Annual Cider & Fireside Chatauqua

Thoughts from Above the Porch

Posted on October 9, 2025 by Doc Arnett 
Standing two hours before dawn 
on the flat roof over the back porch,
on something that could be a balcony
if my wife’s husband could be convinced
to attach a railing of some kind
that would keep kids from inadvertently
experimenting with gravity,
somehow thinking 
that falling really fast is actually “flying.”

I watch in silent wonder
at a harvest moon two nights past full
backlighting drifting clouds
in their thin-veiled shrouds
as they drift toward the south
and just slightly east.

It is no wonder to me
that those who do not know its Maker
worship the moon,

No wonder that those
who do not know The One
who set its limits
might kneel beside the ocean
or stand on mountain bluffs above the surf
and worship the things made rather than The Maker.

I take them as no less heathen or idolatrous
than those who worship money, power, fame, or sex.
It seems actually a bit less of a stretch
to worship what so clearly seems 
more powerful,
more grand,
more great
than those things that so clearly beget
such corruption, 
such neglect of friend and family,
such saturation of self and ego,
such abandonment of principle.

Watching the mesmerizing changes
of shape and shadow,
light and color in a shifting sky,
I remember that I, too,
am pulled to things that do not bring good
and like the ancient apostle
am often drawn to do other than what I should.

And so, today,
I will confess to Him Who Made Me
that the only good I find in me
is what He has placed
and I will try to live a quiet and peaceful life,
and leave to others the strife of judging
lest I be judged.
Posted in Christian Devotions, Christian Living, Metaphysical Reflection, Nature, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Thoughts from Above the Porch

Morning Moon

Posted on October 8, 2025 by Doc Arnett 


On the first chill morning of October, 
The horses seem to walk a bit slower
Going from pen to pasture,

Their hard-hooved steps
Muted slightly by a thin cushion 
Of browned cottonwood leaves
Soaked by a slow inch of rain that came
In two nights and one day 
And that may bring a slight freshening of green
To what lean grass remains in the pasture. 

We slip off the halters
And the geldings pause beneath the catalpa,
Sniffing and sampling the thick clumps of fescue.

They move on toward the north end,
Knowing there might be a bit of orchard grass
Still scattered about beneath a pale white moon
Slipping toward the horizon
Underneath the bright blue sky
Of a whole world moving through its seasons.

Back at the barn with a bag of fresh feed
Riding on one shoulder,
I pause beneath the cottonwood, 

See the full, fading moon framed above the barn, 
Caught for a moment 
Between the lower branches
And the steel frame of the high gate 
And marvel at its soft beauty,
Its gentle light in these autumn nights, 
And how good rest feels
Following the long days of harvest.

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High Goals & Lumps of Coal

Posted on October 6, 2025 by Doc Arnett

I remember hearing and reading a few decades ago, “Set your goals high. Then, even if you fail to reach them, you will still have accomplished much.”

I suppose it sounded good to some folks… but I wasn’t one of them. “Why would you set goals so high that you knew you’d never reach them?” I wondered. It seemed to me more like self-deception than self-improvement. Maybe it was just that contrary streak that ran through me but I never could buy in to that approach. It was more effective to me to set high but attainable goals and do my darndest to reach them. That way, instead of consoling myself that I’d accomplished much trying to reach for the stars, I could endure the rock-solid, all-the-way-through-my-soul sort of disappointment that comes from knowing I was fully capable and just didn’t do it!

The truth is, I haven’t really done an awful lot of setting long-term goals for myself. Lots and lots and lots of daily to-do lists but most of my bigger projects have mostly been a matter of just deciding to go after something without a highly detailed, lock-step plan. Even though I’ve done a few things that a certain little tow-headed Todd County kid never thought he’d ever do, it’s mostly been a matter of following something that had sprouted in my heart. Not so much a finely tuned pursuit of carefully selected ambitions as just heading where it seemed God was leading.

I’d wanted to be a college professor ever since a month into my Introduction to Education course with Vernon Shown at Murray State University in 1975. But it wasn’t until I had a bunch of knucklehead sophomores at Calloway County High School in 1984 that I knew the time had come for me to make the change. Being a college prof meant earning a PhD so when Ohio State University offered me a fellowship, I went to OSU. Earning that degree was just about the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life but it wasn’t ambition nearly as much as it was simply getting my union card so I could teach college.

Once again, I wasn’t shooting for the stars, just following what unfolded as the course of my life. There is, though, one particular ambition that is mighty lofty: trying to be a true Christian, a genuine disciple of the Carpenter.

I’ve drawn a few splinters, made a mess of things more than once, and possibly have served more as an object lesson in grace than as a role model of righteousness. But… that is still the goal.

While reading in Ephesians this morning, I was struck—yet again—with Paul’s admonition: “… put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.” Man, talk about shooting for the stars! Talk about impossible goals! Talk about going way beyond!!!

“Created to be like God.”

Sounds pretty much impossible, doesn’t it? Like something we could never accomplish? And yet… there it is. In bold, plain, simple language. “Righteous and holiness.” Yep, exactly that. Still that. Always been the goal, always will be if we are sincere about following Jesus. Much easier to just go to church, pay lip service, and continue living like the creatures of the world we were before our supposed conversion.

I know that I’ve still got quite a ways to go. I know that I’ll come up shorter than a turtle trying to climb a fence post—but I’m not giving up. It’s the reason I was made a new self sixty years ago.

And I know that God’s still working on this old lump of coal… and He’s given me a Spirit of power, not one of fear. You know, that old, “through Him I can do all things” thing.

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