Author: Henry O. Arnold

Long before the high-tech music machines and pipe organs of today with all of their fancy bells and whistles (pun intended), there was the pump organ that required a two-man team to play it: one on the keyboard to play the music, the other to manually pump the bellows hidden behind the organ that fed the massive pipes with air. One could not exist without the other.

This story was given to me by my musician friend, Tommy Baily, so I thank him as my source. Back in 18th century France organists would tour cathedrals giving recitals. In one French city a famous musician came to town to give a series of sold out concerts. The first night concert was a huge success with a standing ovation at the end.

As the famous organist was leaving the concert hall, the young man who had been pumping the bellows came up to the organist and said, “We had a great performance tonight, didn’t we?”

“We didn’t have anything,” replied the haughty organist. “I had a great performance.”

The next night when the concert started and the organist began to play the music, there was no sound coming from the pipes. He kept playing, waiting for music to soar through the pipes, but it never did. So, the organist went around back and yelled at the young man, “What is going on back here?”

The young man looked at him and said, “It looks like you are not having a great performance tonight.”

We get through life “with a little help from our friends.” It is what makes our journey tolerable, and at times, enjoyable. There are so many people in our life that remain in the background but should be acknowledged for any success we might enjoy. That is why authors have “Acknowledgement” pages in their books.

And I never do a show without thanking and praising the hard work of those who are never seen by the audience. Their names are in the program but they remain hidden from sight. Backstage crews are as vital to the success of any performance as those of us who make “their exits and entrances” on the stage. All hail to the bellows players. All hail to the publishing and editorial teams. All hail to the backstage crews.

When I was age twenty there was a lot of raging going on in this country: Vietnam, Civil Rights, street riots, burning buildings, mass demonstrations on college campuses with multiple killings—remember Kent State (white kids murdered)? Remember Jackson State (black kids murdered)?

Those were the daily headlines back then. There was a “famine in the land” for a true word. I am over seven decades into this life, and I can say with King Solomon, there is nothing new under the sun. We still rage. We are still brutal. Our souls are wasting away because our conversations lack true words.

We are complex human beings. The fabric of our souls is thin and woven together with delicate threads. The space between us can be measured in widths of hair follicles. When I meet and converse with people who might be different from me in so many ways, I still hope for a human-to-human connection. Each time we meet and with each conversation, a layer of human connection is added and we take a step closer to true fellowship.

There is a spiritual component at play here. It is more than just reaching across the divide. It is a giving up, a losing of oneself. Self-help is not the way. It is self-sacrifice. Jesus said if you want to find yourself, you have to lose yourself. It is a divine paradox that defies all manner of personal vanities, defies all the raging for those self-important rights and privileges. And it is hard work. Sacrifice always is.

We are capable of civility. It begins with conversations that are equal parts listening and speaking, equal parts conviction and empathy, and equal parts understanding and forgiveness. We all desire it. We must first be willing to offer it.

On the surface, many conversations may not have the qualities of what we expect from long-term friendships. But kind words spoken are the forays into a deepening relationship. It is the frequency of encounters that matters. It is the generosity of spirit that counts. It is the respect and dignity we offer each other by pausing in our day to look each other in the eye and speak kind words and blessing.

My father taught music and theatre at Lipscomb University for over thirty years, plus he was the worship leader for the chapel services. During my period as a prodigal, the strain on the father/son relationship was heavy. But in time we were reconciled and took joy in one another. That was a miracle I attribute to divine Providence; I needed the miracle of repentance while Dad needed the miracle of patience.

Back in the 1980s I created three one-man shows. The most popular was “The Word Made Flesh,” the story of Jesus compiled from the four Gospels. Dad invited me to perform a portion of this show for a chapel service. Not long afterwards I received an invitation from the higher-ups at the University to do a full show for their annual “High School Day.” Kids came from all over the country and spent a weekend on the campus and I was to be the closing night entertainment. Dad had brought a guest to the show, a recovering alcoholic, someone he was mentoring. So like Dad.

I’d played for a few high school audiences and hated it, but this was a paying gig, so I girded up my loins and prepared for the worst. While pacing backstage and listening to the hubbub of 1,500 rowdy kids on the opposite side of the curtain, I kept wondering how in the world did I get here and how I might pull off a vanishing act at the last second.

Then a mysterious heaviness came over me, a feeling that I was to give a personal testimony to these kids. Whoa! Not part of the deal. I knew it wasn’t the butterflies working overtime, and the feeling only got stronger, like God squeezing my heart. So I made a bargain. Big mistake. Never negotiate a deal with God using terms you lay out. I said, “If these kids give me a standing ovation, I will give a testimony of my past life and new faith.” Kids never give a standing ovation, so I was confident of my advantage.

For over an hour, those kids were respectful, listening with intent, laughing when appropriate and quiet when the story turned somber. At the end of the show during the blackout, I kept repeating, “Don’t stand. Don’t stand.” But when the lights came up for my curtain call, the kids were on their feet. So much for the effectiveness of my incantation.

I testified that in the not-so-long-ago I had embraced a waywardness I regretted. Then I pointed to my father up in the balcony and said that he was the reason I was here tonight; that my earthly and heavenly fathers had rescued me, enabled me to be forgiven, to be justified, and to be loved. The kids weren’t really sure what to make of this, but the moment wasn’t really for them. And when I reflect on that occasion, I really did get the better end of the bargain.

My artistic life was and is never predictable, so I was pleasantly surprised when (a very long time ago), I was hired to produce a dramatized version of the New Testament using multiple actors, with music and sound effects. The text would be the King James Version chosen by the executive producer, i.e. “The Money,” because the KJV was public domain and royalty free.

Because of my theatrical experience and classical training, “The Money” wanted me to read the role of Jesus. The KJV is similar in style and language to that of Shakespeare, so I was thrilled to have this opportunity. I embraced this project, heart and soul, but with no practical sense of what it meant to produce such a mammoth project.

When I rode in “The Money’s” Silver Cloud Rolls Royce to the lawyer’s office to draw up the contract, I regretted not taking that business class in college. The contract favored “The Money.” I was given a fixed budget, which meant, by the time I turned in the finished recording, I was paid the equivalent of a convict’s wages. But I did get to hire several actor friends, including my sister and my father, which was a supreme blessing.

“The Money” immediately began a direct-mail sales campaign. His hope was to get a big-time televangelist to endorse the product and pick our dramatized New Testament as a give-away for their fundraising appeals. When “The Money” got word from a leading televangelist of the day that he liked the product but could not stand the guy who played Jesus, “The Money” made an executive decision: re-record the Gospels with a new Jesus. I was replaced by the silky-smooth voice of a small-time radio host.

I only found out about the switcheroo because the radio host called to apologize. The televangelist had not liked the way I spoke the King’s English with such passion or dramatic intent. I guess Jesus used his silky-smooth voice when kicking the merchants out of the Temple, or sweating blood in Gethsemane as he prayed, or crying out to God while dying on the cross. So silky-smooth radio host beat out the classically trained actor.

Not long after that the big-time televangelist got his show canceled because of inappropriate behavior outside of his marriage bed. “The Money” had to pull the product and eat the capital outlay. Was there gloating? Was there a happy dance at this downfall? I hate to admit that I did take pleasure in seeing the mighty fall, but it quickly became a bitter pleasure. There was no vindication for me. There was no winner. We had all fallen victim to the age-old evil of overweening pride. Ouch.

This is the time of year when the formation of our nation is remembered, the courage of those men and women who gave their “lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor,” for the democracy we enjoy today. Rightly so. But there are also real gems in our history that are noteworthy and reveal the depth of upright character.

Charles Asgill was a nineteen-year-old captain in the British army who had been captured and held in a prisoner of war camp in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Some months before British Loyalists had executed a captain in the Continental Army in retaliation for the death of a Loyalist soldier. The game of tit-for-tat had begun, and pressure mounted on Washington to hang a prisoner of the equal rank of captain. Washington gave the order for execution in November of 1782.

Asgill was one of twelve captains held in captivity at that camp in Lancaster. No captain stood out as particularly heinous, which would have made the selection process much easier. So twelve slips of paper were tossed into a hat and passed around the group. The “casting of the lots” seems to never go out of style.

When Asgill withdrew his slip, it read “unfortunate.” Unfortunate indeed. An intense letter writing campaign ensued to spare the captain, led by Asgill’s mother, which inspired the French Foreign Minister to solicit on the captain’s behalf. Washington certainly felt the pressure from those howling for blood revenge, but the General was looking for any reason to stay Asgill’s execution and these letters of a mother moved him to persuade Congress to spare the young man’s life.

This incident inspired a French artist and playwright to write a play based on Washington’s intercession. Jean Louis Le Barbier sent a copy of his play to Washington with this note, “I hope, Sir, you will not disapprove of my zeal in publishing your sublime virtues in my performance.”

What a beautiful example of art imitating life, and while we are all flawed humans with “feet of clay,” there is much to be said for remembering the “subline virtues” in the character of a general who became our first president.

I have often written of my hiking adventures. Taking journeys on my own two legs is a preferred choice of travel. Themes from Walt Whitman’s “Song of the Open Road” always fuel the wanderlust in my bloodstream.

I love the company of other trekkers, but also enjoy the solitary walk. There are those trails that are favorites that I go back to time and again just to be among the familiar: the landscape, the water falls, the rock formations, the twists and turns of the path through thick forests, but mainly I return to remember. To remember and process the circumstances, thoughts, and feelings that might have driven me to this trail. To remember the companions who walked with me, our conversations, our laughter.

There is always an extra thrill of finding a trail that is new to me, every step taken into the unknown, every view is new, every smell and sound is fresh and different to my senses. I imagine myself as the first to trod this path, the first to behold these wonders of nature.

There is heightened expectation and marveling with each new trail taken, coming upon some scenic wonder that would take my breath away by its splendor or the surprise of something that might do me harm. To be awed by the sight of an avalanche tumbling down the snow-capped mountains as I experienced on the Rob Roy trail in New Zealand, or to freeze in fear at the rattlesnake stretched across the path on the Virgin Falls trail. I am blessed with wonderful, collected memories of trekking adventures in God’s creation.

A cherished memory of hiking my favorite trail is with my two brothers and our father. It was a few years before he died, and he struggled to make the final ascent at the end of the trail. We had to stop more often than usual for Dad to catch his breath. In one of those restful moments, Dad said, “Boys, this may be the last time I can do this trail with you.” It was, and since then every time I make that final ascent on that trail, I think of my dad and brothers. Yes, I think of Dad every time I don his old hat and set my foot on the path.

“Camerado, I give you my hand!

I give you my love more precious than money,

I give you myself before preaching or law;

Will you give me yourself? Will you come travel with me?

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?”

“Song of the Open Road” by Walt Whitman

At the not-so-tender age of twenty, I had my first professional opportunity on stage with my father in the musical Man of la Mancha. He played Don Quixote and I was Paco, muleteer #5. It was thrilling. I got to watch my father transform himself into someone else, a fully human, fully truthful, fully believable character all in service to a great story. The truth is what all artists seek and wish to tell.

Being part of this production was an invitation to enter an unusual life, one that if accepted, would require much. The experience had awakened within me an interest in artistic expression. I was offered an opportunity to think creatively, and to look at life and the world through a creative lens. It also affirmed that I was good at something. It was a match between talent and interest. But was it a calling?

A calling on your life is often thought of in religious terms. I was blessed to be reared by godly parents, and though I spent time wandering in the proverbial wilderness, when I did embrace my faith, I realized I could not separate what I did professionally from my belief in God. By surrendering my life to God, it meant my talents were also surrendered. And my relationships. When my wife, Kay, and I were married forty-five years ago, everything became intertwined in a sacred intimacy.

There have been many lean and hungry times in the life of my calling as an actor and author. Long periods of discouragement were borne out of famines of employment and constant rejections. This sacred intimacy has endured deep woundings: the pain of God’s long silences when pleas and prayers have failed to move; the look of sorrow and bewilderment when I have failed to love Kay as Christ loves His bride; the misery of always being told “no” by publishers and directors. It is easy to doubt and even become fearful. Why had God’s calling led me into the desert of multiple failures? Had I taken a wrong turn? Should seek another path?

A calling is a way of life that takes over body, soul, and spirit. I equate it to the great commandment to love God with all your heart, mind, and soul. This way of life requires one to accept and embrace at least three realities: you must have perseverance. You must be willing to sacrifice—what are you willing to give up? What are you willing to risk? And you must accept failure. The line “failure is not an option” only works in the movies. Don’t be discouraged by the scars of personal failures. Wear them with humble dignity.

The essence of a calling is commitment. To be fully human, to be fully present in this world, and to fully realize what you have been called and created to do, one must be committed to the way of life required by the calling. No matter where the path might lead.

On a visit to the village of Murren, Switzerland, accessible only by foot or gondola, Kay and I arrived as the sun descended behind the Alps. After dinner in the village, we were walking back to our lodging and kept hearing these bells. Kay immediately said these were cow bells. The terrain was so steep, so I concluded, it was too treacherous for cows. Goats maybe, not cows. I spoke with usual confidence (personal motto: often wrong but never in doubt), and Kay kept her own counsel. Our personalities were on full display.

The next morning when we began our hike into the mountains, what should be coming toward us on the trail but a small herd of cows each one with a personalized bell around its neck. We laughed, of course, after my apology, of course. And to add to my shame, as we kept hiking, more and more cows appeared.

Murren was full of cows. Not a goat in sight. Cow bells decorated the entryways and front doors of chalets and private residences, some big enough for cathedral towers. Once again fissures in my certainty had appeared, opened up, and swallowed me whole.

Swiss aeronaut Bertrand Piccard said of his adventures as a balloonist, “An adventure is a crisis that you accept. A crisis is a possible adventure that you refuse, for fear of losing control.” After forty-five years of the adventure of our marriage, Kay and I have learned, often through disconcerting experiences, that we need not fear losing control.

Control is an illusion in the first place. Accepting the daily messes and enjoying the unpredictable qualities of our life together has been the slow and steady process of transforming us into a sculpture of nearly perfect soulmates.

Falling in love is easy. Making a good marriage is hard work. Soul mates are not discovered, they are created; they are fashioned and made through persevering together because you love each other. When asked how we have stayed together, my answer is simple, “enjoy the cowbell moments.”

Like the Timex watch, our marriage keeps on ticking; a miracle, Kay likes to point out. Not only can God fashion two human beings and create the majestic Swiss Alps that awed us, but He can also drop in a “more cowbell” moment to remind me that all of this life is an adventure. This trek with my life companion is one of flourishing beauty.

The Sunday night before she died was the night of the Oscars. I intended to watch the first hour then go to bed because of an early rehearsal call the next day. When J.K. Simmons won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor in “Whiplash,” and gave his wonderful acceptance speech praising his wife, kids, and then his parents, I was moved.

I am fortunate enough to have been parented well, to have married well (above my station, most would say), and to have participated in the rearing of two wonderful daughters. As Mr. Simmons expressed thankfulness that his children possessed more of the admirable qualities of their mother than of him, I too acknowledged my gratitude to Kay sitting on the sofa beside me that the deep gene pool of her virtues had dominated in creating the DNA of our girls.

Mr. Simmons expressed his humble gratitude to the most important people in his life ending with his parents. But it was his last words that brought my personal conviction: “…Go call your Mom and your Dad and thank them. Don’t text or e-mail them but call them and listen to them for as long as they want to talk to you.” That was enough. I rose from the sofa and told Kay I was going to call Mom.

When Mom answered the phone in her bright, cheery voice, I naturally thought she was watching the Oscars and was anticipating this call from one of her children. However, she informed me that she had just come in from having dinner with my brother and his wife, thus the vibrant “hello” when answering the phone.

I explained how Mr. Simmons had inspired me, then said, “Mom, I wanted you to know how thankful I am for your love and encouragement over the years. You and Dad always cared for me and supported me, and I’m eternally grateful for all you and Dad have done.”

As I was about to settle in to “…listen to [her] for as long as [she] wanted to talk to [me],” she responded with: “Oh Sweetie that is so nice of you. I love you too and am so proud of you and appreciate what you’ve just said, but “Downtown Abby” is about to start and I need to go to the bathroom, so can we wrap this up?”

It was a perfect Mom moment. There would be other opportunities for a mutual-admiration-society chat so we said goodbye and hung up. Some time that night, I assume after watching the latest episode of “Downtown Abby,” she went to sleep and her body released her spirit. I’m sure no amount of praise from her son could compare to the joy she experienced when entering her heavenly home.

For humiliation to work there must be witnesses. The act must have an audience. Humiliation in private doesn’t count. In my middle-school days (peak years for prize-winning humiliations), a group of us went to the State Fair. While we had to depend on the parents for transportation, I did not have to ask them for the money to pay the admission fee and incidentals. I was a paperboy at that time and could impress my girlfriend with my economic independence, money earned by the sweat of my brow.

As we strolled the Midway, my girlfriend and I indulged in a Cumulus cloud of pink cotton-candy, followed by the deep-fried goodness of a funnel cake. When the group spied the Rocko Ride, the girlfriend’s excitement was tangible. I approached the monster bravely concealing my trepidation. The steel cages were shaped like the old manual pencil sharpeners each one attached to a metal spoke similar to that of a Ferris Wheel. The cages were designed to flip end-over-end in mid-rotation.

My brave façade melted when the carney closed the top over our heads and gave a sinister chuckle. The first few revolutions were slow paced and I was lulled into thinking that I might be able to survive this experience. But then the carney kicked the machine into high gear and the cage suddenly flipped on its head. Gravity had failed and the axis on which our planet spins snapped in two.

“Please stop! Please stop! Let me get off! Please,” I begged, but with each lap the carney’s sinister grin widened further revealing a handful of stained teeth lodged inside the black hole of his mouth. This was the torturer’s glee during the Inquisition. He kept us inside the chamber for an eternity. During the long wait to be set free, I could not conceal the tremors in my body or the tears streaming from my eyes while my screeching pleas to stop the torture echoed inside the steel cage.

Once released from our confinement, I staggered past the line of people waiting their turn for medieval torment and lurched into the Midway just as the pink-colored and deep-fried barf spewed out of my mouth. The ride home in the car was long and quiet and the dissolution of the girlfriend/boyfriend relationship came within days; the message delivered by a snickering courier.

In the great scheme of things, my Rocko Ride was a low-profile mortification. By collecting the stories of my humiliations, I have discovered a meaningful link between living a well-rounded joyful life and the absurdity found in all of us. I can say with certainty that my absurd life moments provide entertaining stories at dinner parties.