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June 23, 2015August 28, 2017

The Matter of Sister Opaline

When the Sun-glint from her brace caught my eye that Summer day I wondered. About Opaline and her story.

When yet a toddler her body was attacked by the same disabling illness that redirected my own world. For Opaline, however, the impact was evident; dramatically so. Not for months, but years.

In short-order polio wrenched strength and mobility from her lower limbs. Rigid braces received her feet and legs, more or less imprisoning them there. And – like a prisoner whose parole date is postponed – the waiting lengthened. Then lengthened further.

The shiny hip-to-heel fixtures lent support through one elementary school year. Then another, and yet another.

Every morning she rose and called up the ritual – maneuvering each foot into a special shoe. She fitted the cold steel and leather padding about her dormant limbs. At nightfall young Opaline reversed the process. Detaching the braces, she leaned further forward. Then she manually lifted her legs onto the bed.

Lying motionless Opaline sometimes wondered. What would normal movement be like? Running? Dancing?

But this girl was unusual. She carried something within. Resolve. And a zest for living. Ironically, like a distance runner, Opaline entered the Marathon of Life.

Nothing, it seemed, could sideline her. The theme song of her journey could be, “Life’s an adventure. Bring it on.” She matured, completed high school, then college. Friends in our church community regarded her warmly. Smiles typically greeted her when she approached. Neither the crutches nor the braces mattered to anyone. She was Sister Opaline.

Sister Opaline, Sunday School teacher .

Sister Opaline, Vacation Bible School director.

Sister Opaline – High School teacher (her “handicap-fitted” car carrying her to waiting students in another town a distance away).

Sister Opaline, Christmas Play director. . .

Delightful Opaline.

She owned her personal imperfections. Opaline looked to encourage others – especially the younger others. Parading either gossip or whining into Sister Opaline’s presence proved mostly futile. Her knack for winsomely shifting subjects was magic. She mined for the best in people. Her naiveté about human nature was flagrant (though no-one accused her of being naïve).

Wherever she seated herself, Opaline’s crutches lay at the floor or leaned at a wall nearby. Her underarm muscles suffered from bearing much of her body weight over the years. Still, her face easily sprang into smile. The smile seemed visually fragrant like a rose coaxing a passerby to inhale.

Sister Opaline – Spouse. In a marriage with challenges and hardships of its own.

Our church minister and the common people who worshipped together strove to trust the Bible and its message of God’s big love. And of his available power to bring healings, even miracle-healings. As a nine-year-old, with the aid of crutches, I walked from a hospital. This was weeks after being gravely ill – and after a doctor predicted I would not walk again. And after prayer. By all accounts, through simple trust in a loving healer, continued believing prayer played its role in my astonishing recovery. Was this triumphant faith? To the church family there seemed no doubt. God touched me. Radically so.

And yet there was the matter of Sister Opaline. Would she soon have her miracle?

At a particular church service one Sunday evening I watched keenly, hopefully.

The gangly movements of my Angel-lady comrade entered the center aisle. And moved toward the altar. She was a little over five feet tall. Her smartly-groomed auburn hair fell an inch or two above her shoulders. Beneath the shoulders, the ever-present crutches. They bore her along, steadying the balance of a lady hardly a hundred pounds in weight.

Opaline positioned herself in the prayer line.

July 2, 2015August 28, 2017

‘Arch enemy.

klip-Thump – klip-Thump – klip-Thump.

My shoes mocked me. I never thought a set of footwear could mock. Or embarrass. Or harass. But in the world of a self-conscious adolescent they could. And did – with an impish tinge of spite.

The worst places by far were school hallways.

The polio virus had sent me to the hospital after I started Fourth Grade. Released months later I resumed my schoolboy life.

I’ll never forget my first day back to school. How awkward it felt, keenly aware no one but me was bumbling down the hallway with a pair of accessories called crutches. When time came to retire the crutches I was overjoyed. I felt like skipping, and on the inside I did.

I was probably the most self-conscious kid in the history of Wilson Elementary – and afterwards of Preston Junior High. The crutches were long gone but not my limp. Nor the reason for my limp, and that aggravating klip-Thump mantra.

The culprit was the arch of my left foot – rather the absence of an arch.

My first polio bout left me with this keepsake – a left foot with a diving-board-flat arch, and non-functioning tendons. I had nothing to give the foot lift. So the left shoe didn’t know how to step – only to flop or Thump to the floor. My right foot, by contrast, was arched especially high, like a startled cat. So the contradicting sounds my shoes made when crossing any surface was striking. Efforts at treading softly were futile. To my anxious introvert-ears the klutzy sounds of my cadence still sounded – with embarrassing annoyance.

It strikes me as humorous sometimes now – my shoes and me. Our perpetual, private shouting match of those years.

KLIP-THUMP!, KLIP-THUMP! – “shouting” upward from the hallway floor at me. Me scowling downward with a silent retort, Just SHUT UP!

My high school graduation ended all the years of limping self-consciously through school corridors. It was then I started seeing it. I was surprised. And more than a little embarrassed.

I had wasted a lot of time looking down.

Today I try to remind myself (when my lazy left foot catches and sends me into a clumsy stumble or the like). Obsessing over my deficiencies serves a purpose. But not a noble one. It shifts my attention from the All Sufficient One to my pitiful, inadequate self-sufficiency. It leads me to choose anxiety over peace. A really bad tradeoff.

It seems our most paralyzing afflictions aren’t necessarily the physical ones. Indeed, a lot of my limping – my unbelief-limping – issues out of paying attention to concerns that are really of no concern at all.

The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. – Psalm 23

June 30, 2015August 28, 2017

Post-polio. Carried to Wholeness

(conclusion of three-part piece – the Matter of Sister Opaline)

We’ll carry you. Like we did in the winter times, Mrs. Opaline. Please stay. Keep teaching here.

Her students adored her, the auburn-haired teacher of Geometry, Shorthand and English.

At times during the winter, icy patches lined a critical high school passageway. It was a short outdoor walk linking classroom areas to the school restrooms. With unassuming gallantry senior boys of Opaline’s class physically lifted and carried her to the Ladies Room door. Her crutches, they feared, didn’t give enough stability to get her safely there and back. Teenage Nobles-in-disguise – they couldn’t imagine letting her risk a fall.

But now it was time. Opaline accepted that she could no longer teach. Her failing health dictated it.

Traces of gray marked her temples and lines of aging graced her forehead. But it was a diagnosis of cancer that provoked the decision. Opaline loved to teach. She always had. We’ll carry you up and down the stairs to your classes. Anywhere you need, if you’ll stay, Mrs. Opaline.

We lame people – all of us – need carrying at times. A childhood friend recently called up a scene from my polio journey. She watched on a Sunday as my father carried me into our place of worship. He settled me onto a pillow, cushioning my bony frame. And Opaline – when still a child – was carried to school and back on a gentle horse. Her siblings easily accompanied her on foot.

Facing her condition now, it was Opaline’s faith that underscored an important truth. Mortality itself cripples. Not just accidents or illnesses and the like. She needed carrying in this life. And when such a time came, she would need carrying into the next. The thought didn’t alarm but reassured her. The attractive squint in her eyes, the familiar movement at outer edges of her mouth, testified still to joy. Her Lord carried her now. He would carry her going forward. Regardless.

Opaline passed her church duties to others she had long mentored. She came less and less for the worship gatherings. At last she was moved to Tulsa’s St. Francis Hospital.

I was living outside the country when we received news of Opaline’s death. The message from Oklahoma was simple, Sister Opaline is now home. I learned shortly afterward, however, that her home-going experience was far from ordinary.

My minister friend, Melvin, sat not far from the hospital bed. He observed Opaline’s responses to what she seemed to witness of the other side before passing away. Melvin spoke of the wonder of her descriptions.

Nearing the end, Opaline rallied. Her eyes opened wide – then wider yet, as though waking up in another setting. It seemed that she was.

Suddenly her face beamed a radiant Opaline-smile. She was in another place, taking in vivid sounds and scenes.

Oh! The colors, the beautiful colors. . . like none I’ve ever seen, like none I could imagine! Oh! And the flowers, such beautiful gardens. . . beautiful, so beautiful!

Her voice trailed. Her eyes closed. Moments later with revived energy and her freshly wakened smile, Opaline resumed the adventure. Now it was sounds capturing her attention.

What glorious music! The singing and the music is so beautiful. I can’t imagine. How lovely and beautiful. Oh! Lovely, glorious!” Again her voice faded. Her eyes closed.

Not long after there was quiet. She was gone.

I have thought a lot on our lives, Sister Opaline’s and mine. The polio battle. Our similar and differing journeys. I’ve wondered of prayer. Of God’s will. Wondered about a curious mystery – of the miraculous. I am confident that in the experiences of each of us both, the miraculous was in play. Throughout. The supernatural of God entered our worlds and executed his purposes. Undeniably.

At the age of nine – aided by crutches to be soon laid aside – I limped from a hospital. Amazingly I soon ran. Freely and in the strength of renewed limbs. All the evidence of the experience virtually shouted, Supernatural. The works of a wonderful, powerful God.

And the miracle of Sister Opaline.

Courage, stamina, her giving-switch ever at the ON position. They are marks not of a merely good person – tough, resilient, resolute. Years of rich, contagious smiles in the face of adversity, pain and surely some disappointment. Opaline’s life itself radiated the supernatural. Messages of grace and of joy and love sounded out most clearly from the platform of her limpings.

I occasionally sit back and entertain a visual. While imaginative, to me the imagery seems realistic. And quite possible.

The scene is a court room.

A shabby personage identified as Mortality is presenting his argument. Its a case for fatalism. For futility, for death and decay.

It is the end of the line for her. No rescue, Mortality declares. No miracle. No hope. It is over for her, this Opaline mortal.

And Mortality drivels on.

A deafening thunder-clap stirs the room. The court’s great doors heave open. And Immortality steps through. Vital. Brilliant. Life-pulsing. He then heralds the entering King.

The King’s presence overtakes the environment. A great bouquet of flowers – alive with color and fragrance – is in his hand. A grand orchestra sounds music seldom heard on earth. His eyes survey the courtroom-turned-Ballroom.

She comes into view. Her eyes are adoring, worshipful. Her delight is Him. Her Savior. Redeemer. Friend.

Broadly smiling, the King laughs. He extends a hand.

Opaline runs to him. They dance.

I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death. – Philippians, new testament

June 25, 2015August 28, 2017

Opaline. Interior Design

The visiting minister opened his Bible. Taking it up he preached on believing faith. And on healing. He then invited any person desiring God’s healing touch to come forward for prayer.

Several people with varied ailments entered the center aisle. They started toward the front. It was like a mini-pilgrimage for the hopeful. The regulars of the church turned to see their friend Opaline – the elegant woman inelegantly rising and joining with others. Her friends were moved for her. Her Christ-like example constantly inspired. Most uplifting was her simple and her certain love for Jesus. Her shoulders elevated slightly from the rigid crutches supporting them, Opaline inched forward in the line.

She had lingered at other times, trusting that a miracle of healing might one day come. She could linger again now. She held strongly to a certain knowing. A healing grace from her Lord would come. Still, she conceded that the when was not hers to dictate. She rested in the trustworthiness of a now-and-not-yet principle often at play in God’s mysterious but all-wise workings. His ways are perfect, Opaline reminded herself.

For Opaline there was no question whether Jesus healed, nor whether she or her circumstances mattered to him. She knew that she mattered. He confirmed his love and presence often. In many ways. She felt it, knew it inside. And she responded by loving in return. Loving him. Loving people. Now here in the healing line, as in other settings, she was just ready; open for whatever he may have for her. It was Opaline’s way.

The Church Family looked on, and prayed. They were hopeful, almost straining to believe. Indeed if a miracle could be willed into being (faith aside) her friends would have already seen to it.

With a kind smile the minister greeted her. He spoke words of Scripture and then prayed.

Nothing. Some moments of hopeful waiting followed. Nothing. A gradual swivel and Opaline retraced the pathway to her seat. She drew her Bible to its familiar resting place on her lap. Clasping her hands on it she lifted her heart in petition – for those up front receiving prayer.

Years lumbered by. Indeed the years themselves seemed to even limp at times. Variations of the healing-line scene replayed occasionally. A preaching message. The invitation for healing. Opaline at times joining the others. With crutches, braces and her distinct angular limp navigating the center aisle. And again, returning to her seat – her hardware companions carrying forward their duties into another day, and week, and year.

If Opaline was disheartened, evidence escaped notice. No sorrowing looks of disappointment; no clues of sadness.

Maybe her mindset became, Perhaps next time. No one likely knew. Regardless. If her spirit did need rallying – it surely rallied.

Opaline was a deep well. Interior graces like contentment and peace and endurance – in the middle of whatever suffering – deepened her, flavored her. Prayer and solitude and worship. These cultivated the graces. She chose – aware of her frailties both inner and outer – a kind of lifestyle she felt most natural to Jesus. Her inner deepening was traced to her frequent times with him; Worship of Jesus was central to Opaline. No time for wearying whys or for self-pity snivelings. ‘Life’s an adventure. Bring it on.

Decembers came and went. The Christmas Plays didn’t flounder. Summer Vacation Bible School was Clock-work On.

Opaline’s Sunday School children bounced and giggled when she entered their brightly decorated room. They showed off coloring work and clay figures; it didn’t matter the quality. It was meaning that mattered. What message from God was each child here to catch today? The view separated the treasured from the trite. Her high school students moaned on a rare day she might be absent. They loved the engaging, gifted instructor. And her smile. Always the smile.

Opaline lived. Limping toward her miracle.

Long ago at a wedding festival the host cheerily exclaimed to Jesus, You saved the best for last.

For Opaline he did the same.

June 16, 2015August 28, 2017

Standing already. Why Not?

You did what? My body, settled in the wheelchair, jumped a little. The doctor’s tone was sharp. He was not pleased.

Who told you to stand up?

It was Monday in what would become my final month at Hillcrest Hospital.

I had been at our Okmulgee home for a rare weekend visit. Sunday afternoon I rested on a living room sofa while mom busied herself in the kitchen.

A thought from nowhere suddenly stirred me.

Try your legs. Stand up. For a few seconds I gazed at my limbs. They hadn’t supported my body for months. What if. . ?

Why not?

I wobbled upward, drawing support from the sofa arm. Once fully upright I leaned against the nearest wall. Steadying myself I called out, Mother. Mother! She released her dish towel and it landed on the floor. Some quick steps from the kitchen and she was with me. She steadied me a little. Then we stood together. Just standing without movement. Upright. My mom and I looked down and took in my spindly legs. Astonished.

Not accustomed to bearing weight, my legs quivered and Mother lowered me again to the sofa. It was then I smiled. Eager to tell the nurses – and the doctor. And Monday came.

Being a youngster, I had been scolded over a generous number of misdeeds before. But never rebuked for trying to walk. Scolded for using my limbs – by a person whose job it was to restore their use? The thought bewildered me.

I saw later that recovery usually requires process. To put weight on my limbs too soon and without proper oversight could hurt – even ruin – any hope for recovery. Inside though, I couldn’t quiet the rush of emotion. I would soon walk. Walk.

Running with Meaning

In the first blog post of this series, Running with Meaning, I spoke of my dad having a limp of sorts – disadvantages in life. Then the idea of California, notions of work there, a place for beginning a family; these possessed his thoughts. Some why not dreams stirred in Clyde Baxter.

Perhaps you are meeting with hardship, illness or work troubles. Relational pain; maybe a personal struggle.

I think it can serve us well to look about (in my instance a new look at a pair of nine-year-old inactive legs). And to look up. Hope comes from a place beyond ourselves. Up.

We revisit Opaline – the angel of a shared affliction – and her narrative soon. Faith marked her journey – differently in some ways than mine. Still with wonder. And surprise.

Why not?

June 9, 2015August 28, 2017

Terriers – Friends – Wheelchairs – Smiles

Nurse Deborah discovered me. How, I’m not sure. She wasn’t assigned to my care. I’m glad she appeared.

One night, finishing her shift, Nurse Deborah dropped by. The visit launched a routine that I kept a lookout for. Her short pop-ins at the door consoled me. And I probably had a crush for her. The door edged open. Her nursing-capped-head tilted into view. We hear the saying – a smile that could light up a room. Nurse Deborah owned that smile. But what made her pop-by-visits priceless was her greeting.

I’m going now, Jerry. Have a good sleep, I’m praying for you! And her smile.

Life wasn’t dull in the hospital. Not always. I wakened in mid-flight late one night careening to the floor. Next morning I studied their work as staff installed bed railings.

A coal-black Terrier I called Jack comforted me in ways stuffed animals do. Jack couldn’t wish me well or promise prayers like Nurse Deborah. But the stuffed puppy gave me what she could not – continued tangible nearness inside institutional walls. Hospital or not my quarters remained a not-at-home place occupied mostly by strangers. Jack was hardly ever out of reach, often nuzzled at my neck between chin and one ear. It didn’t matter which ear.

Mother moved in with her Tulsa niece and family at times. From there she jostled along on her daily bus rides to see me. Her prayer vigil pilgrimages, simply her presence there, calmed me.

Daddy’s visits, when he could make them, lifted me in a different way. Striding to my bedside he’d align two of his working-man fingers. This formed his strength-test instrument. Extending the fingers before me he smiled. OK, squeeze hard, buddy. By this he checked my strength, hoping to see progress from one visit to his next. I looked forward to the drill, each time giving it my best.

But I weakened more. My breathing muscles strained. Doctors consulted about next steps including the Iron Lung. The frequency of Dad’s strength-tests trailed off as my squeezing pressure faltered. Reduced to a limp hand encircling Dad’s fingers. The limp word again.

The Bible gives an invitation for people who are sick. It’s in the Book of James.

Is there any sick among you? Let him call for the elders of the church; let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer of faith shall save the sick and the Lord shall raise him up. .

Elders of our church came to my bedside. These dear people had already been praying. They rested their hands on me. . .

Through your dear Son Jesus – Lord, heal Jerry. For a God whose descriptive name is Father, childlike praying seems fitting.

And a change began. My paralyzing slide ended. Placing the Iron Lung option on hold, medical staff watched my breathing rally. Strength increased. Wonderfully my sleeping limbs began stirring – as waking from hibernation. In a short period I advanced from bedridden-patient to wheelchair-jockey.

Then, remarkably, to standing upright. Within the month I left Hillcrest Hospital walking. Aided by crutches – but walking.

Kindness displays. Anywhere kindness is present it can’t do otherwise. God’s kindness. Exhibited through nurses – through mother-visits – papa-rendered ‘strength tests – doctor’s care – stuffed animals – healing-prayers. In the form of many faces he comes. He came in all these and more.

I was – and am – immensely thankful.

A question tugged at me in coming years. . What about Opaline? For now, thanksgiving reigned.

In what ways have you received comfort, kindnesses? Think about them a little. Comment if you wish. Thanks a lot for coming by.

June 2, 2015August 28, 2017

Prescription – Pain. Somber Prediction

Mom’s fly swatter instruction of past times over my use of bad words met with failure in Hillcrest Hospital’s therapy room.

Hold his hip firm against the table. Steady now. Here we go – Up with the right leg.

Two people in white – a spindly man and a large-boned woman – stood opposite each another at the therapy bench. I lay face-up between them. They applied stretch treatments to paralysis-affected limbs. The therapy helped arrest stiffening of the muscles.

I took in their words. The stretching maneuver was underway. The leg in motion, kept straight as a board by pressure of a hand on my kneecap, rose upward. The stiffer the muscles the greater the strain. And the pain. Up, up until a searing sharpness passed through my leg, prompting me – their child-patient – to bark *%#$! Though not loudly.

The therapists shared knowing but not unkind smiles. Neither spoke. Their tasks – these disguised angels – inflicting pain on helpless children. Surely this brought pain their way.

An Australian nurse, Sister Elizabeth Kenny, had devised an effective treatment to limber up the muscle tissue of paralyzed limbs. Nurses at Hillcrest wrapped me, along with my polio peeps, in confining, steaming hot packs (I close my eyes today and smell the heavy, moist odor of sweltering chamois-like blankets). Mercifully the blankets held my body in their constricting grip for only short periods.

I never swore about the hot packs. As I grew older I extended myself grace over the therapy-table profanity lapse. Though not justified, cursing can slip through a set of teeth in a moment of sharp pain.

Remedial pain. Our world is rich with special Wisdom Sayings when we pause to listen. Some of these coach us about preventing needless pain; others on the actual usefulness of it.

Our limpings – whether of a physical or of a nonphysical nature – can meet with useful pain at times. Yet, we have to pay attention to detect the usefulness.

He who will not be taught by his elders will be taught by the world, African seniors counsel their youth.

No discipline is enjoyable. . it’s painful! But afterward there will be a peaceful harvest of right living for those who are trained in this way. the Bible’s ‘Book of Hebrews’.

My father and mother didn’t discipline me perfectly. Nor have I my own children. Yet, we do our children no favor by withholding loving – and yes unpleasant – correction when needed. Emphasis – Loving. Just as failing to administer pain-inducing treatments to better a patient would, in fact, be unkind.

Still, my condition worsened. From waistline to feet my limbs went useless. My upper body declined, my respiratory muscles weakened. An attending doctor informed my parents I would not walk again. Regardless.

A stuffed black Terrier Pup consoled me – along with one particular nurse. While specialists discussed my case – and the Iron Lung.

Question. What caught your interest most in this post? I’m very interested in thoughts, feelings of any readers. Thanks again for following! Alert! In part due to reader requests, Soon we’ll post Running Life’s Race Twice weekly instead of one per week – doubling the episodes. 🙂

*hot pack photo.nurse: OHSU Historical Collections & Archives

May 26, 2015August 28, 2017

Falling

My brother Tim and I fought. Not excessively but – as with many close siblings – enough.

By my second year in elementary school I learned more than counting and reciting the alphabet. To my communication skills I added profanity. Never mind my ignorance of definitions, my enlarged vocabulary was picked up mostly on school playgrounds.

I practiced cursing on my brother at least once. Angry with Tim over nothing noteworthy I unleashed a stream of language at a far higher volume than was wise. My mother overheard the rants and seized an educational opportunity. About two things. (1) Resourcefulness. The wire-handle end of her fly swatter-turned-switch. (2) Awareness. Of a zero-tolerance policy for profanity in our home. From that day if I wasn’t fully cured I was clearly more discreet.

Mother was also compassionate. Back of our house the ground sloped gently downward, to a simple red barn where we boys often played. Beyond this was a pasture. I had recently turned nine. From a window mother saw my struggle.

I ambled from the barn toward the house. In mid-step my leg gave way. I fell. Lifting myself up I walked a short distance, then went down again. By the third or fourth tumble my mom was hurrying my way. She helped me to the house. My dad responded to her call and we were soon en route to the local doctor’s office.

Learning of my earlier polio bout the physician assumed this was not likely the same affliction. By now both legs entirely failed to work. I was admitted, limbs weakened and stiffening, into our local hospital. My condition worsened. Another physician was called in. He ran tests and soon conveyed his findings.

Poliomyelitis.

Hillcrest Hospital occupies a spot near downtown Tulsa on historic Route 66. The virus spread rapidly across the country. Hillcrest administrators concisely labelled one of its wings the polio ward. The patients – mostly children – were confined to beds positioned at varied elevated angles. Specific treatment of the patient seemed to dictate the bed’s positioning. A freer flow of air was critical for those with strained breathing muscles.

Through an open doorway I glimpsed a daunting, one-occupant contraption (a word my dad used for any curious object). It reminded me at first of a greatly-enlarged tin can lying sideways. Several patients lay each in their own iron lung – their exposed head wresting on a pillow atop a small extended platform. In most cases the iron lung was critical for staying alive.

We entered a multi-patient room. With the help of my mom, a nurse settled me into a designated bed. A sudden cramp assaulted my limbs. I grimaced. After a time the pain lessened.

I relaxed a little. And guessed I would be here awhile.

Note: In ‘Comments’ I’d love to hear from anyone who’s experienced polio or perhaps a family member? Be free to share a little insight/experience if you wish.

May 19, 2015August 28, 2017

Commonality

The Plymouth sedan rolled to a stop in the parking lot of our little house of worship. The left door opened and a metallic glitter caught my eye as the driver began the process of exiting her car. It was a process. She swiveled slowly so both her legs, framed in stainless steel braces, dangled to the outside.

What caught my eye next was her face. Angelic? The adjective wasn’t in my word-store then but, yes. A quality beamed from the young woman’s face. Almost like a glow. Opaline’s smile overtook me. It has never left.

Falling in love with Opaline was more enchantment than romance. An unlikely combination of hardware and disposition fueled the attraction. Full limb braces on both legs combined with her smile. My meeting her at roughly age five spawned a long journey of regard. And affection. How can full-length leg braces and this kind of smile converge? My gaze dropped. I surveyed my malformed shoe fashioned so by pressure from an equally malformed foot. I smiled just as the reason for the smile caught up with the action itself. I shared a common affliction. . with an angel!

What could a flooded pasture and a paralyzing disease have in common? Perhaps nothing.

My father, Clyde Lout, was a living testament to a rural adage. Dust bowl issues succeeded in taking the boy out of the country and on to California urban centers. Nothing prevailed however at taking the country out of the boy. Oklahoma soil, long recovered from the droughts of the 1930’s, beckoned.

We moved to a small acreage outside town. Twin pear trees in the pasture – limbs heavy with their treasures most summers – supplied Tim and me with climbing and feasting pleasures. Don’t eat them when they’re green! was our mother’s (sometimes-heeded) admonition.

Our sister Betty exercised more wisdom than her young siblings. Tim and I first learned to swim near the same pear trees in the pasture. Not in a pond or in a stream running through the pasture. We set in motion our first-ever strokes in the pasture itself.

A red-brown waterway called the Deep Fork River snaked through the countryside west of our place. During a late spring season in the mid-1950s continued rains flooded the Deep Fork. Ongoing downpours overflowed every creek and stream.

Rising waters flooded lowlands, submerging much of our five acres. Once the rain stopped my brother and I splashed about in the chest-deep mix of water and floating debris. Discovering buoyancy we propelled our way through tree bark, sticks and limbs, assorted leaves and hollowed pecan shells. And here and there – given it was the habitat of farm animals – other matter as well.

My second bout with the polio virus far exceeded the first in its severity. Whether my pastureland swim factored into the soon approaching paralysis is unresolved.

I was nine years old. My legs simply stopped working.

May 12, 2015August 28, 2017

Tents and Braces

In the Summer of 1949 sounds of homespun music, clapping hands and shouts of Amen ascended into the night at the north end of our town. A tent meeting was underway.

Things about tents fascinate me. My mother-in-law’s Danish mom – Grandma Sadie – called up memories as a settlers’ daughter. People from Denmark are evidently tough. The family spent their first winter in Montana living in a tent. Sadie’s beguiling reflection, “but it was a pretty mild winter” prompted a reflection of my own; ‘there can be no such thing as a mild winter in Montana – in a tent.’

In my adult years, while living in a tropical region, I bought a weathered six-man camping tent. A patch in the roof presumably marked the spot where the tusk of an elephant punctured the dwelling. The agitated mammal, I was told, raised the edge of the tent off the ground before moving on.

In the ‘1940s and ‘50s open tents seated fifty to a hundred people and served the purposes of transient American preachers. Our visiting preacher, a lady minister oversaw with the aid of her husband, the tent’s inauguration on a vacant lot. A sawdust floor, wooden folding chairs, worn hymnals and a guitar or perhaps accordion completed the setting. The tent’s older visitors kept hand-held fans in easy reach. The preaching was Bible-centered, the messages vigorously delivered, the singing pulsing with strength.

Clyde and Thelma began attending the meetings with my sister, brother and me in tow. The music, preaching and testimonials seemed to usher in the Presence. The family never tired of experiencing the nearness of God in the company of other Jesus followers.

After a few weeks of conducting meetings the minister and her husband felt drawn to remain in our Northeastern Oklahoma town. They rented a vacant building. The Living Way Tabernacle became our church home.

After the polio experience my left leg was fitted with a knee to shoe brace. In my fifth year the brace came off for good. I was active without it and, lacking the benefit of therapy coaches in that era, my folks simply retired the brace. My limp became a little more pronounced from that time.

Support structures and supportive people. Good things to have in our lives. They are wonderfully provided (some would say from above) to help meet real needs, to make up the lack. It’s true that personal betterment can sometimes actually be hindered through over-support. That is, when a kind of assistance or a certain level of it is no longer appropriate.

Still, help is needed by all of us, through all of life. Different types of help and in differing amounts, for different seasons. Prematurely withdrawing support (as with braces) may damage or hinder progress along a road to wellness. Or, at least, better mobility.

I fell in love at age five. Her name was Opaline. She was beautiful. Even in braces. . Especially in braces.