Witness of a Lesser Light

Posted on January 30, 2026 by Doc Arnett

I had to run a quick errand in Wathena just three miles away last evening. When I came back, I stopped at the end of our driveway down by the road. I put the empty trash can in the back of the CX-5 and then checked the mail. As I closed the lid, I looked down and noticed the stark silhouette of the post and box etched on the ground.

At first I thought it was the shadow from the billboard lights over next to Fleek’s Market. Then I noticed the angle was wrong. “Oh, that must be from the moon!” I realized and looked up.

Sure enough, high above the frozen ground of northeast Kansas, a three-quarter moon shone brightly. Brightly enough to cast the shadow and illuminate a few high, thin clouds. And… the contrails of a jet a few miles high and headed east. The long narrow plumes stretched out behind the jet, glowing in their reflection of the moon’s fine light.

I wondered whether anyone else in the area happened to look up and see that same sight, the calm, simple wonder of night’s small favors—a bright moon, passing clouds, and a solitary jet headed to some distant destination.

It really doesn’t matter how many or how few take note of our passings in the night. As long as we reflect the Light and stay on our path. And—eventually—reach our destination. That. Does. Matter.

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Same Sun, Different Skies

Posted on January 28, 2026 by Doc Arnett

Heading down to the horse barn this morning, I noticed a long, tapered cloud off to the east. The southern end of its lower portion glowed orange and red, burnished by the light of the yet unseen sun. “I’m gonna keep an eye on that,” I promised myself, “That should be spectacular in a few more minutes.”

Randa and I fed the horse and started mucking the paddock. The chores went well, or at least as well as chores go when the wind chill is this close to zero! That spectacular sunrise thing, though, that was another matter.

That long, tapered cloud had moved north instead of east. Zero clouds to reflect the sun’s rising glory.

In a cloudless sky, folks from California to Oregon see the same sunset. Ditto for the sunrise from Georgia to Maine. With no clouds, it’s pretty much the same, assuming no fog or smog.

But with clouds that all changes. Move a few miles north or south and it’s a different scene. The lower and closer the clouds, the more dramatic the change. Maybe better, maybe worse, maybe equally lovely. But different.

And of course, we could be standing shoulder to shoulder and still see different things, even when looking at what seems—and scenes—the same. One person sees the glory of charging stallions, fiery breath curling at the platinum-flared edges. Another sees an angry shark, menacing and deadly. Still another sees angels ringed around the saints. And some, maybe most, see beauty that passes by unnoticed by others too focused on the tasks at end to glance up at a glorious sky as day fades into dusk.

So, yes, perspective matters. As does perception.

But the glory of the lower heavens is often shaped by the closeness of the clouds. Unlike the one that waits beyond the shrouds of this world’s seeing. That glory is fixed by the hands of God and will fill with awe and magnificent joy all who view it.

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Coping with the Cold

Posted on January 26, 2026 by Doc Arnett

Having never lived in or near the Arctic or its polar opposite, I’ll grant that I’m no expert on cold weather. Therefore, when I say “It is bitterly cold” here in northeast Kansas, I realize that some might sneer, “Bitter? Man, you don’t even know what cold is!” Granted, but I’m still going to argue that for this old Kentucky kid, minus eight is close enough to pass.

When Randa and I headed out to the barn this morning, the wind chill was a negative twenty-one. And, indeed, I do view that as a negative.

But what a great day for gratitude!

Our power hasn’t gone out before, during, or after the storm. Our house is dry and warm. We have good clothing, warm boots, heavy duty gloves, and mittens. Scarves and knit head coverings that we used to call “toboggans.” And, after the chores were done, hot coffee and fresh biscuits with butter and jelly.

So, we’ll give thanks and yet pray for those who were not spared from the devastation and destruction of ice. The images from Oxford, Mississippi are nothing short of heart-wrenching. Crystal-shrouded piles of trees and branches and power lines and utility poles. An almost Arctic tinge to temperatures and millions without power.

In the deepest throes of this world’s woes, we find our faith tested, our compassion questioned, our genuine devotion divulged. It is a challenge to remain calm during the calamities, to hold to hope even with frozen fingers, and to count our blessings during the testings, to bless those who curse us, and to remember that without love, we are nothing.

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Hard Cider Jelly

Posted on January 22, 2026 by Doc Arnett

I’ve made apple cider for decades now, first starting when my older brother Paul and I would crank the old mill that Dad bought before either one of us was born. It was at least secondhand when he bought it. Paul and I are both in our seventies so that means that old cider mill was probably cranked by Abraham Lincoln. He used to live in western Kentucky, too, so, you know… close enough.

Anyway, several years ago, I started making apple cider jelly. Not from apple juice; from actual, real, hard cider. I’d simmer the stuff in a crock pot with a few sticks of cinnamon and a bit of brown sugar. Then, do the jelly thing with a lot more sugar because that’s what Mother Sure Jell said I had to do. Of course, by the time the cooking was done, all the demon juice had evaporated.

I tinkered with different recipes and the one that got the most rave reviews was my “Captain Jack’s Pirate Jelly.” I added a bit of rum and bourbon to that one and it was mighty fine, I’d have to say. None of the alcohol made it to the canning jars but the blend of flavors was mighty satisfying. Of course, when sugar is the primary ingredient, it’s kind of hard to ruin it.

Hard, but not impossible.

This year, I started off by reducing twelve cups of hard cider to eight cups of… whatever reduced cider would be. Hardshell Baptist Cider?

Then, I added some black walnut extract from simmering wood shavings for a few hours and letting that steep overnight. Then, I made jelly.

Well, I should say that I initiated several attempts to make jelly. Apparently—and most men would be too stubborn to admit this, I reckon, but I was raised different—following the directions makes a difference. Instead of starting out by adding the pectin (Sure Jell) first, I added the sugar. Stirred constantly, brought to a boil, added Sure Jell, bring back to a boil, boil for one minute, pour into jars, put on lids and rings, hot water bath, remove, dance to the happy little dinking noises as the lids seal. Let stand for twenty-four hours.

Trouble was, my jelly didn’t jell. Even after second and third efforts at rescue. Even after doubling the pectin and increasing the sugar amounts by fifty percent for the re-try. It just wouldn’t set. I guess once you’ve ruined it by reversing the sugar/pectin thing, it’s just ruined. It ain’t supposed to be that hard to make hard cider jelly!

Men of lesser determination and greater good sense would have given up at that point. But I was raised different.

“Well,” I said to my Self because nobody else would listen, “If it’s going to act like syrup, we’ll just make syrup.” So, Self and I emptied all the jars back into the big stewer and triggered the gas. Four hours of stirring every few minutes later, the hard cider stuff had reduced by half and thickened noticeably. “Looks like syrup,” Self says to me and I agreed. So we poured it back into the little jars. Started with fifteen cups of stuff and ended with seven-and-a-half. Still looked a bit runny, though. Which is what you want for Hard Cider Walnut Cinnamon syrup, right? Especially while it’s still hot.

Riiighhhttt…

Next morning, lo and behold, a miracle! The syrup had turned into jelly! Really strong, tart, jelly. People of less discerning palate might even describe it as “a bit harsh.” Blasphemy!!!

It’s not a total loss, though.

 I’ve found that if I dissolve three tablespoons of the stuff in eight ounces of boiling water, it makes a right good cup of—wait for it—spiced cider. It was a mighty long trip to get back pretty close to where I started.

Kind of like when the Lord brings a backslider back to the altar. It’s the destination that determines whether or not the trip was worth it, isn’t it? Even if we’d have gotten there a lot sooner if we’d only followed directions.

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Chores on a Bitter Morning

Posted on January 19, 2026 by Doc Arnett 
It was not the sparse coating of snow 
That made us reluctant 
To go down to the barn to feed the geldings. 
Nor was it the lack of morning sun,
Though either one of those might suffice
If we chose to search for reasons. 

Instead it was the aching combination 
Of low temps and a strong north wind 
Bending body and mind toward finding
Another layer of cloth to wrap around 
Our shirted shoulders under heavy coats
In a wind chill that held well below zero.

Gloves inside mittens gave sufficient cover
To keep fingers from stiffening too much,
Though it made unchaining the gate a bit tougher. 
We mustered enough will and effort
To work through the chill of our chores
As we tended to the horses. 

There are times when it is not easy to find
What it is, exactly, that leads us through such duty. 
This morning, I am certain
That it is neither Truth nor Beauty.
Randa does it for love of horses;
I do it for love of Randa. 

And both aware that there are times
When the why matters so much less
Than the doing.
Posted in Christian Devotions, Farming, Metaphysical Reflection, Nature, Poetic Contemplations, Poetry, Spiritual Contemplation | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Moments of Glory

Posted on January 15, 2026 by Doc Arnett

Sometimes, when dawn comes just before the leading edge of a storm front has stretched entirely toward the east, there’s the least bit of a rim of clear sky, a border of light between the night that still covers the earth and the flush of morning’s coming. Yesterday was one of those times. Driving to work from Cynthiana, Kentucky to Georgetown in the slow brightening, I saw the occasional paleness leaching through a thinner section of dark, dappled clouds. Halfway between Leesburg and Oxford, as the curve of the road coincided with a dip in the near ridge line, giving me a view clear to the horizon, I saw, suddenly, a blast of red filling the break between earth and storm dome.

Not in hues and tones like the light of a fire but a solid shade, the red of steel ripe for the anvil. Brilliant but not blinding, it forged a beacon in the sky. In only a moment, it had passed into softer shades, strangely dimming in the rising of sun, then covered by ridge and clouds.

There are those moments in life, like the first lifting of a toddler’s hands, to stand unsupported, for only an instant, while parents applaud. Like the first word of a grandchild on the phone five hundred miles away. Like an unexpected call from a friend from years ago or the embrace of a grown child back home from overseas.

In mind’s eye and memory, the fragile joys of this life are held, not so much for remembering the past as for reminding us of a greater glory.

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In Memory of Jerry Rich

Posted on January 14, 2026 by Doc Arnett

I’m not gonna say that when the Good Lord made Jerry Rich, He broke the mold. But I will say that I don’t think He used it very often after that.

So far as I know, Jerry’s passing didn’t create any great ripples through the political or business communities of south central Kansas. I can’t recall any time that he served in public office or ran a large business. About all he did was work, raise a family, and live in the Arkansas City area for over eighty years.

Although he was born in Missouri, he moved to the Land Rush territory while still very young; he had no memories of living elsewhere. He worked at the meat packing plant until it closed and then went to work for himself. For decades, he was a farrier—a person who takes care of horses’ feet, trimming and treating, fitting and attaching shoes. He raised his kids around and on horses, encouraging them to ride and rodeo. And occasionally, boarded horses for other people.

That’s how my wife Randa and I came to know him and Norma, his wife for sixty-three years. And that, in turn, came from my knowing their daughter Sally.

Sally and I both worked at Cowley College. Randa and I were living in Ark City and boarding her Rocky Mountain Horse over by Winfield Lake. We had him lodged at a nice place with really great people but a fifty mile daily round trip definitely had its downside.

Sally heard me griping and moaning about Randa’s commute one day at work. “My dad might be willing to board your horse for you,” she offered.

“Where’s your dad’s place?” I asked.

When I found out it was less than four miles from where we lived, my interest level definitely peaked the meter. A ten minute round trip definitely sounded better than a one-hour-plus!

I got Jerry’s phone number and Randa gave him a call and set up a time for us to go talk with him. It was sort of a mutual screening process. We wanted to be sure that Chance wouldn’t be likely to get himself cut up, torn up, or otherwise afflicted by random objects around the pens. Jerry wanted to be sure we weren’t too flighty or fickle or likely to abandon the horse or not pay the monthly boarding fee in a timely manner. Or be too loony, maybe. In forty years or more of dealing with other horse people, he’d met more than his share of “all of the above.”

A week later, we moved Chance into his new quarters. With the shorter commute, Randa started spending even more time tending to Chance and working with him. And getting to know Jerry and Norma. Occasionally, I’d get to hang with them, too.

Whether together or Randa by herself, we spent more than a few hours sitting inside the hallway of the barn or just outside the main door depending on temperature, wind speed, and other meteorological factors. Listening to Jerry’s stories, gaining perspectives, swapping advice on gardening, and sharing perceptions.

He had no patience for stupidity—in handling horses, raising kids, or just in general. Hypocrisy disgusted him. He never had much tolerance for flimsy excuses, either, so far as I could tell. Even after he completely lost a thumb to cancer, he kept shoeing horses and taking care of his place. That kind of thing might make a man a little short of patience.

Some folks might say that Jerry could seem a bit gruff until you got to know him. Others suggested it might last longer than that. It’d be hard to argue with them. But if he took a liking to you, you had a friend until you gave him a really good reason not to be your friend anymore. So far as I know, Randa and I never gave him any reason.

Both Jerry and Norma were the kind of people we’d grown up around, Randa in Iowa and me in West Kentucky. Farm folks. Unpretentious. Hard working. Honest. Loyal. Take care of things and be good to your neighbors. Show up when you said you’d be there, do what you’re supposed to do, and then go on to the next thing.

Between the packing plant and farrier work, plus rodeoing and horse shows, Jerry had met hundreds of people, I reckon. He took note of how they cared for their animals and how they treated other people. Whether they were or substance or full of hot air. Or… something else. When he could, he avoided the ones that didn’t measure up. He loved to read and was colorful in his expressions: “I knew a place in Oklahoma where you could hire someone killed for fifteen dollars,” or “This land is so flat here you could watch a mouse run all the way across the pasture.”

Jerry didn’t go around spouting off his political opinions. He was pretty much live and let live on those things. But if you brought up something controversial, you’d better be prepared for an honest response. When one neighbor showed up, uninvited, extolling the virtues of the NRA and trying to convince Jerry that assault rifles should be legal, the crusty old farrier replied sarcastically, “Yeah, never know when I might need to shoot a first grader.” He had a similar lack of tolerance for politicians or CEO’s who lied or misused their positions for personal gain or glory.

I appreciated Jerry’s plain-spoken manner of communication and quick wit. It didn’t hurt anything that we tended to take similar views of happenings in the world at large and close at hand.

I suspect that if you were able to talk with the folks that knew him, the ones whose horses or mules he’d trimmed and shoed, the people he’d hunted with or rodeoed with, and maybe a small host of others, you’d find that his life made bigger ripples than his passing might suggest.

I know that for some of us, it left a hole that won’t be filled.

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Mists Across the Valley

Posted on January 9, 2026 by Doc Arnett

The rain came in, starting with just a sprinkle while we were tending to the horses yesterday morning. Over the next several hours, it varied from light showers to moderately heavy. We expected it to continue that way—based on the forecast—all day.

On my way back to the house, I read a text from a close friend that the adult daughter of mutual friends had been murdered.

I felt sadness and gloom clench my heart like the grip of Winter personified. Cold, gray, bleak, barren. Breakfast coffee held no flavor and there was no savoring of toast and butter. Just the mechanics of taking sustenance. Even the jalapeño in the cranberry jelly barely registered.

But in mid-afternoon, the rain eased up and the overcast blanket began to rip open. Around two-thirty, the sun cut through the clouds. Black branches suspended heavy beads of rain that sparkled in the light. As I looked down the slope of our driveway, across the road and Whitten’s pasture, I could see Boos’ woods lining the creek and rising up the hill. Wells of mist billowed up from the wet sod and along Peter’s Creek. It looked like a scene from the foothills of the Smoky Mountains.

The heat of sudden sun shining into saturated air chilled by rain birthed a blossoming of drifting fog. It sieved up through dark branches, rose slightly through the trees, weaved its way through the narrow valley. Through the woods, bright shafts of light alternated with visible shadows of trunks lightly etched on the sifting canvas of mist, images suspended in space between stone and sky, soil and thin branches.

Beyond the bluffs, miles away from the winter stand of native hardwoods that seam the ditches and valley, sun gleamed on billowing clouds of the passing front, burnishing them with an almost blinding white witness in the surrounding blueness of a Kansas sky.

I walked for a while, shuffling through wet grass toward Whitten’s pasture, took some pictures of the mist. In less than fifteen minutes, it was gone. Another passing, another brief interlude of beauty filtering through the dullness. I looked east and west, studying the lines and textures of the creek bottom, this small valley cut by eons of seasonal rains, bound by hardwood hills, and bordered by shorn fields after the autumn harvest.

In the brightness of such interlude, I welcomed the brief lifting of mood. In both beauty and tragedy, we walk in the wetness of passing storms, our steps forming brief marks on heavy sod. And even when our seeing is hazed by tears, remembering the nearness of Him Who Loves Us. His Spirit reminding us that our Lord and Savior walked upon this same earth, trod stony paths, and sacrificed His own life rather than surrender us to the Darkness.

Someday—by faith’s power—I know that we will look back even at such dark hours, and know that they were nothing more than mists across the valley. But for now, we will grieve and weep and seek the soothing of our souls with groanings too deep for words. And remember that He wept at the grief of friends, even though knowing that He would raise Lazarus from the dead.

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Two Soldiers, Two Chains, and One Angel

Posted on January 7, 2026 by Doc Arnett

So, Ole Herod, being the big ole meany that he was, seeing that persecuting this new-fangled religion is kind of catching on in Jerusalem, decides he’ll have James put to death. That’s one of the cool things about being king, you can do stuff like that. Since James was the brother of Jesus’s closest friend John, that made a bunch of the rich and powerful Jews really happy.

So, when Hateful Herod sees how much they liked that, he decides rowdy ole Pete is going to be next. He has him thrown into prison figuring that will really bring his poll numbers up among the Hebrews. “Just wait till we fillet that feisty fisherman!” he giggles.

So… it’s the night before he’s planning to put Peter on trial with everyone knowing it’ll have a death sentence outcome. All of the folks that really cared wuz praying their eyes out. Meanwhile, Pete’s fastened up, chained in between two guards, and locked up tighter than a tick on a dog’s ear with sets of sentries standing at the prison doors. Ain’t no way Peter’s escaping that!

Thing is, though, that arrogant rascal Herod don’t really understand the Lord’s math. Two guards, two chains, and two sets of sentries ain’t no match for one angel! Middle of the night, that angel smacks Peter right over his ribs and tells him to get hisself up and get dressed. Pronto! And grab your poncho, too! And, fer cryin’ out loud, git some shoes on, will ya!!

Chains fall off, soldiers stay asleep, and Pete and the angel walks right by the first sentries and the second sentries. Then, that big ole iron prison gate opens itself up for ‘em and they walk right on out into the city. Pete, being the grounded ole gnarly fisherman dude that he is, knows this is all just a dream and so he’s just sauntering along acting like it ain’t no big deal. Until they walked a block or two and the angel disappears and then he knew, “Holy fish scales! This ain’t no dream! I done walked right out of Herod’s prison smack dab into Jerusalem!”

So, then, he hightails it over to John Mark’s Mom’s place, where they wuz all a’prayin’.

He knocks on the door and Rhoda’s so tickled to hear Pete’s voice, she runs back to tell everyone he’s there and don’t even open the door for ‘im! Being the sane and sober good Christian folk that they are, they tell Rhoda she’s a nutcake and there ain’t no way the guy they’re praying for got out of prison.

They finally go with her just to prove that she’s as looney as Lucien’s squirrely uncle. Lo and behold, she ain’t looney at all; it is Pete!!!! He tells them to hush, gives them the short version and then he skedaddles. There they wuz, all a’prayin’ their hearts out and then didn’t even believe it when the Lord answered their prayer and whisked their boy out of prison. Ain’t that just how it goes sometimes?

It was all just real fine and everybody was so happy you’d have thought resurrection done showed up in Jerusalem. Well, that particular group was all happy…

But there was no joy in Mudville once Herod called the hangman and they couldn’t find Peter… Herod got his killing done but it wasn’t the one that he expected. It was the ones who’d “let Peter escape.” Hard to imagine anything worse than having no idea or explanation how the guy that was chained to you could just up and disappear and you not know nothing about it!

Once a king gets his heart set on a killing, ain’t nothing else gonna make him happy. And if you’re gonna go around upsetting Herod, you better be sure the Lord is on your side.

As for Herod, well, the good Lord took care of him just a few days later.

Worms, eh?! Who’d’ve thunk it?!! Getting’ on the wrong side of the Lord’s justice ain’t never worked out too well, has it? Even if you is a king.

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Messy Days

Posted on January 6, 2026 by Doc Arnett

Messy Days

While we were feeding the horses this morning, half-an-hour before the sun came up, we could see water beading on the bottom of the round metal rails of the horse pen. Hanging there in big drops that would eventually make their way down to the ground. An hour earlier, there would have been a thin layer of frozen fog crystalled over the galvanized frames but the air is already warming on this first Tuesday of 2026.

While mucking the dry lot, we could see the slickening surface of the lightly frozen cusp of dirt. It’ll get a lot worse in this day’s thaw. Between warmer air and a bright sun’s glare, things will change.

By time for the evening feeding, the paddock will be treacherous for walking—a sloppy mush over the still-frozen crust beneath the surface. We’ll wear our rubber boots, do our dookie-duty, and then use the garden hose to clean the mess off our boots. It’s just part of the arrangement in hosting horses on a tiny place in northeastern Kansas in January.

Along with beautiful sunrises, spectacular sunsets, days of fog, a full moon rising beyond the spruce and maples, and temperatures varying from single digits to the sixties. Rain or snow or miles of low fog and cloudless days or at least nothing but a few high strands of clouds barely more than wisps of white in a boundless blue sky. Probably at least one winter storm plus the one that already almost came.

There’ll be deaths and dooms and not nearly enough room for all that needs to get done and that right soon. There’ll be laughs and tears and regrets from years long past and worries that’ll never happen. The loss of friends and a never-ending cycle of nonsense in high places and cruelty in low ones. Heros and villains and everyday people. Grandkids and neighbors and best buds and BFF’s and first steps and fresh welts from slipping on ice. Deep bruises and a broken bone or two.

And in every moment of every day, opportunities to be light or darkness. To share the warmth and light of love or silently spread the cancer of indifference. To brighten a room by walking in—or by walking out.

No matter what we have to go through, we have a choice about how we handle it. Maybe we do sometimes have to wade through the muck but we don’t have to carry the stink with us everywhere we go.

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