Revived

He’s a Norwegian man’s man.

In his eighties now, Merland’s handshake transmits power – and tenderness, a rare combination.  Minnesotans boast, with good cause, their ten thousand lakes. Many choose fishing over the comfort of a fireplace from a hard week’s work.  For others, it’s simply that. A happy way to rest. Wintertime fishing demands stamina common to a working man. Famous for thriving in hard winters, anglers navigate the cold like NASCAR drivers do curves. . . It’s there. Make the most of it.

Let’s go do some ice fishing, Merland.

The friend had been standing near a window, studying the sky. By now he was already moving toward a side room where tackle was kept.

Merland responded without coaxing.

En route to the lake, visions of Northern Pike, Jumbo Perch and Blue Gill swam in his imagination. His large hands rubbed together. Part anticipation. Part to warm them.

A light breeze across the frozen lake chilled his flesh – even buried as it was beneath layers of clothing.  Today was extra cold. Beyond frigid.

He hardly lowered his fishing line beyond the just-drilled eight inch hole. Bam, a nice hit. Merland’s reflexes were as sharp as the bursts of cold from newly forming wind gusts.  Detaching the hook he tossed the catch a safe distance away from the hole, its single escape route. He dropped the line again. Bam.

He turned to his friend, Cold day, yes. . . but fine for hauling in dinner. His chuckle attended a smile that broadened with each new catch. The air was so harsh, the temperature so low, that each fish flopped three or four times on the lake’s surface before stiffening rigidly like curved planks.

In minutes the two men’s lines had hoisted a decent mess from the waters.

Merland’s friend turned to him, his teeth chattering.

This has been the best day in a while, yeah.  A good thing, too. Let’s get to the house!

Once home Merland half-filled a large tub with water.

Ultra cold fish are something like people. We can grow so cold, so unpliable, to seem fully beyond recovery. Then a warmhearted person comes along – someone like Merland. An ancient Scripture is shared. A warm handshake given. Compassionate Norway eyes – or those of others – touch the heart.

Fresh warmth – long forgotten – finds entry and a thaw begins. We feel revived.

Merland slipped each fish into the water one by one. He stood watching. In seconds they limbered, then swam again, lively as ever.

I would love to hear from someone who, like myself, has experienced cooling times in life? Passion faded. Joy moved out as cold set in. Then followed a wonderfully welcome thaw. Usually through a big-hearted person who simply cared.  Springtime displacing winter in the soul. I am thankful it happens. And can happen again.

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

Angel Walk

I walked my youngest daughter down the aisle last Saturday.

Amy-Father Wedding Walk

Her waiting groom beamed, taking in her beautiful smile. I looked to her eyes again. Gorgeous. Memories stirred, some from distant places. . .

Branch out, guys. She can’t be far. . . but Heathrow’s a big place!

The airport lies 23 kilometers west of London.  Heathrow buzzes each day with 200,000 arriving and departing travelers. A sea of strangers were likely sweeping our four-year-old Amy along and we had no idea where.

Amy had been standing beside me at an airport kiosk during our family’s wait for a connecting flight. I bought something in U.S. currency. My change came in British sterling.  In the seconds it took to interpret the coins my little girl was gone.

Catching my urgent tone Amy’s older siblings, Julie and Scott, hurried into the stream of humanity – its patchwork of luggage trailing, emitting a low rumble throughout the terminal. My wife had fractured a toe shortly before our Kenya departure. From her wheelchair Ann did what she could do. She prayed. Five minutes into our search, the public address mic crackled. The voice was male – distinctly English.

All passengers, may I have your attention, please. A young girl by the name  Amy Bethlout is looking for her parents.

I didn’t worry at his blending her middle and last names. Relief washed through me. The voice continued, Please make your way to airport security. . .

I learned that Amy – attracted by the buzz of airport activity – had stepped into the sea of travellers and wandered off. In time, discovering her isolation in the crowd, she tugged at an elderly man’s coat. He stopped and looked down.

Do you know my daddy?

When we left the area – Amy’s hand securely in mine – we moved again toward the kiosk. A father-daughter visit lay ahead. I knew my assignment and hoped for understanding.

Hey sweetheart, let’s get a donut.

Settling into a dining booth I surveyed her pre-kindergarten face. Amy lifted her milk glass. Two gulps chased a bite of pastry down and her eyebrows lifted approvingly. A slight donut remnant shared a spot on her upper lip with a newly-fashioned milk mustache. Charming innocence, I thought. I was moved freshly by the care a father can feel for his children. My smile faded. How vulnerable children are. I stifled a shudder and began.

Amy sweetheart, Daddy needs you to understand something about airports. . . really about any places where there are people – you know, strangers – around. I held her gaze a few seconds before the not-yet-finished donut, resting at her eye-level, won out.  I waited till the pastry was further reduced. My pet name for her was Angel. She again looked my way. Being a parent means limping toward wisdom and often finding it illusive. Fifteen years parenting children left me still feeling a novice at times. I felt that way now.

Amy Bethlout sat patiently as I painted one scenario, then another – making my best effort to instill caution and not paranoia. Inhaling slowly, I barely introduced my final case on the importance of sticking close to daddy and mommy.  Amy issued a soft sigh. Daddy.

In a poised, self-assured tone she continued.  Daddy, I already heard you the first time.

Instinctively I knew my drill was over – while thinking, Oh baby, I hope you have. I sure do.

Now here we stood. Before the minister under a sunny and crisp November sky. David, her handsome groom nearby. Amy’s mom moved to my side.

Thank you Father for bringing her safely, wonderfully to this place. Thank you.

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”  The minister’s voice was clear, strong.

 “Her mother and I do”, I announced – hoping my manner was poised – my tone self-assured.

©2015 Jerry Lout

Thanksgiving remembered

“Thanksgiving? Tomorrow?” Taken off guard I blurted out my discovery.

The exclamation caught my wife’s attention. Really? Are you sure?

Ann and I had arrived in East Africa in May. Six weeks later we welcomed our first child, Julie. This was the land we would call home. We were to help train leaders in a growing Kenyan church. I ventured into language studies. By November my Swahili classes were in full swing.

That Wednesday, after a usual day of class I returned to our apartment. I casually glanced at a calendar we brought with us on our move from America.

The arrival of our traditional holiday was so unexpected.  I grew mildly indignant – an irrational feeling but  happening just the same.

Tomorrow. And Swahili classes are still on? Well. . .

The contest inside my head was brief.

“Honey,” I announced, “tomorrow I’m cutting class. How about a holiday picnic!”

Thanksgiving of 1972 was gorgeous.  Ann bundled Julie in a colorful blanket. Earlier the same year KFC had launched their finger-lickin’ enterprise in Nairobi.

The aroma of fried chicken filled our Volkswagen Beetle as we set out for City Park.

A garden of jacaranda and bougainvillea received us under sunny skies. A light breeze stirred as I laid out the blanket. Perfect.

We sat cross-legged – nearly motionless on our picnic lawn. And reviewed Thanksgivings of our past. Gratitude rose in Ann and me for many things – finding ourselves especially thankful for Thanksgiving itself. Our infant princess gurgled. We bowed and I voiced our gratefulness.

Turning to Ann, I framed my request precisely and in the polite form, “Kuku tafadhali?” (Some chicken please?)  We chuckled. My language exercise for the day. It would have to do.

“Let us come before him with thanksgiving.”    Psalm 95

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

Attentive

It wasn’t Bill’s fault. They decided and that was that. They deprived him any say – no decision-making leverage – no voicing an opinion. Not that it would have mattered. They were the farmers. Bill was the horse.

To him it probably seemed unfair. Bill didn’t sign up to entertain adolescent boys, have their spurs gouge his ribs at will, yank the bridle this way and that till the bit bruised his mouth. Who turns teenage boys loose to traumatize a stallion – not to mention a fifteen-year-old gelding?

Such injustice may have prompted the biting assault to my side one Fall day.

Neither my brother Tim nor I – nor our Dad for that matter – were schooled in proper horse care. Still, we weren’t mean to Bill. Not on purpose.

Added to other abuses, the reckless cinching of a saddle strap can be especially annoying evidently, to a horse.

He was a tall animal and at first stood passive as I brought the saddle upward along his left side. Landing it atop the protective wool blanket I reached beneath and across Bill’s mid-section for the strap. Bringing it my way I threaded it through the cinch ring. I then undertook the most demanding task in preparing for an afternoon ride. Apart from catching the horse in the first place.

Tugging the girth strap I scolded Bill under my breath. Stop bloating your belly, horse! Horses will often distend their belly when the saddle is tightened, likely to reduce discomfort. However, a loosened saddle is the result once an animal relaxes their breathing again. In the worse instance this can endanger a rider. Putting my hundred twenty pounds into it I yanked the strap upward. That is when Bill’s head swung around. And his great teeth struck a fierce bite.

DANG, Bill! Dang it!

 I leapt, swung at him and grabbed my side all at once. DUMB Bill. Bad horse!

The shock and sting let up after a minute. I lifted my shirt. An orange-red hue marked the area along his teeth marks. Thankfully the skin didn’t break.  Dumb Bill.

Drawing a parallel on human behavior in some relationships seems natural.  As in child-raising.

Parents will, at times, apply excessive pressure on a child to conform.  Discerning what helps both the child and their parents needs time and consideration. Patience and wisdom. Often, prayer.

In time I learned how to reduce excessive pressure to a horse – and teeth marks to my side.  Spacing the cinch-tightenings with short walks between can relieve tensions and settle the matter agreeably for both horse and rider.

And being attentive. Not so hard a thing to do, but being attentive must be done on purpose. Noting body language, feelings, considering the persons point of view.

After the barnyard misunderstanding I always saddled Bill attentively. One eye toward the girth strap, the other toward his head. I found that, with practice, it can be done.

©2015 Jerry Lout.