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July 28, 2015August 28, 2017

Tractors. Dangers. Interventions

Unaware of the mini-cliff lying just ahead I drove the tractor right for it. Squeezing the jostling steering wheel, I moved at a good clip. And was clueless to any danger. The Farmall I steered was a large machine – even to a grown man. And I felt very grown today. It was my first solo drive on a tractor. I was thirteen.

Satisfied of his tutoring session with me of minutes before, Dad had directed me to slow the tractor. He stepped off the vehicle’s draw-bar and followed by foot, leaving me to it. I had accelerated, stretching the distance between us. Tall grass obscured the ditch up ahead, which I failed to consider was even there. The tractor was headed straight for the ditch. With me aboard.

Suddenly a breeze caught my dad’s whistles and shouts. The sounds were faint, fighting their way as they did above the competing noise of a tractor motor.

Muddled, I half-swiveled on the seat and looked back. Dad was a blur of action – like a physical trainer and Olympic sprinter morphed. Arms swinging wildly, he ran with everything. All the while shouting, Stop. Stop! Clearly this was urgent.

My right shoe found the brake pedal and pushed vigorously. Dust swirled near the big tires. I killed the noisy engine and a deep quiet took over. It was only then I actually surveyed the scene, taking in the cause of my father’s alarm. My eyes widened. The Farmall stopped only feet from the bank’s edge – barely short of me tumbling headlong into the creek bed. A chill shuddered through me. Then a compelling thought began overtaking my brain, and my emotions.

I think my dad just saved my life!

A friend and his wife raised eight children. He collected pithy statements on the way. Some I believe he coined himself. One of his sayings, The foolishness of youth that only age cures.

Our farm tractor collection numbered three. Always frugal, Dad bought a tractor only after it gathered a lot of miles. In plowing fields. Hay meadows. Or working wheat harvests.

We kept one squatty Allis Chalmers and two sizable Farmall H’s.

One of our Farmall’s, perhaps that same one, featured in another life-threatening incident.

Following a Sunday dinner another young fellow visiting our home joined me for a squirrel hunt. We dismounted the tractor near a wooded area. .22 rifle in hand we scouted nesting spots but without success. The day was warm and we shuffled back to the tractor. Climbing aboard, I settled into the driver’s seat and my new friend sat atop one of the big tires. Facing me, his feet rested on an axle. The rifle lay across his lap. After a quarter hour of killing time I started the engine.

Absentmindedly, I shifted into forward gear and released the clutch – forgetting that the boy still sat atop the big tire.

Memory retention is heightened when crises happen. I remember visual details of the elevator into which I stepped when hearing of the shooting of President Kennedy. An image no less vivid imbedded itself in my mind that Summer afternoon on the farm.

Thrown forward to the ground, the boy was on his back. His body – in the path of the advancing tire – faced upward toward me. In a fetal position. The sole of his shoe was inches from the hovering tire tread. He held the rifle crosswise, extended before him, as though it might restrain the thousand pounds of tire and axle coming down on him. It can be unsettling even now – revisiting the what if questions that nagged me more than fifty years ago. What if my reflexes had been too slow?, What if the brake hadn’t engaged ?. . .

Again – supernaturally it seemed – a shoe finding the brake pedal; a vigorous push. Once again, stillness. And pondering.

When spared the horror of toppling a tractor and myself over an embankment I pondered with some emotion, My dad just saved my life.

In this later near-miss, I consider another Dad. The ultimate one – intervening. Often with us unaware. In our challenges, our heartaches and mess-ups. The Intervention Dad. God. Abba. Father.

Pondering, ‘Dad saved my friend’s life being taken – and saved me from taking it.

For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name. – New Testament. Ephesians 3

Thank you for reading. It would be great to hear from you. Is there a good ‘intervention from your life? Something meaningful that this or another story has prompted for you? Comments welcome.

July 14, 2015August 28, 2017

Sharp Road Surprise

“I’d be okay if you’d get your shoe out of my mouth.”

The Studebaker pickup lay on its right side – the two uppermost tires slowly spinning.

The poor headlights had failed to alert the inexperienced driver (me) in time. The sharp bend in the gravel curve took me by surprise (the road was named Sharp Road for a reason). I braked hard, swinging the steering wheel leftward. In the time it could take to say mishap I capsized my dad’s hay truck. It lay there immobile, like a roped calf waiting for the cowboy to bind its legs.

My heart and head churned. I slowly exhaled. His saucy tone aside, my friends’ response comforted me. David was okay. I wriggled up and out the driver-side window. David followed.

Without comment we scanned the shadowed form. Crouching beside the vehicle we grabbed hold, unthinking. Adrenaline took over and power beyond that of our boy-man bodies kicked in. In a moment it was over. The tires bounced once. Shaking still, I wondered about any telltale damage along her faded blue side. But the pickup sat erect under the night sky and that was the main thing. I turned the ignition. It fired and we drove away. With our latest experience. And our secret.

Next evening at supper I scrambled for a response to dad’s offhand question. I’d been dreading such a moment. He directed the question casually to my brother Tim and me.

Would you boys have an idea about the sun-visor on the Studebaker? The visor was metallic, fitted to the outside, above the windshield. Since the previous night on Sharp Road the sun-visor featured an obvious new dip along the passenger side.

Tim – able to honestly plea ignorance – looked puzzled.

Following a pause I attempted a detached tone that I hoped would convince.

Maybe a bale dropped onto it when we were loading hay from the barn loft.

The answer seemed to satisfy my unwary dad. He would learn of his overturned truck when I broached the topic years later – when the risk of forfeiting my driving license was long past.

Deception (Merriam-Webster) – the act of making someone believe something that is not true; the act of deceiving someone.

Character flaws display themselves in different ways. Generally – thanks to values my parents and other responsible adults drove home – I was a fairly honest kid growing up. But my deception limp surfaced periodically, no question.

A missing soda, an unapproved relationship, a shotgun episode.

Other demonstrations of a flawed character.

I needed help.

July 23, 2015August 28, 2017

Shepherd Find

George’s old sedan churned dust as it entered the meadow. Dad’s hay-baling equipment broke down occasionally and he called on the hired fix-it man to lend aid. These and many other details converged in the haying enterprise – centering on one aim. Feeding our small herd of cattle through the winter months.

To my knowledge, nothing of the sheep family ever grazed on our property. Perhaps the nearest to that happening was my purchase of a goat years later. I fattened it up on the old property in advance of my son and his bride’s wedding. Their rehearsal dinner featured nyama choma (Swahili for ‘roasted meat’).

The terms sheep and shepherd found their way into our thoughts, however. And often. Even into our prayers. My family’s church culture introduced intriguing words and images like this. Stories to do with sheep and their shepherds drew our family to fondly consider attributes of God. We learned of his nature and of his disposition to us his children. In view of these things, our dad reflected on the blessings that came his way, his good fortune.

A principled man, Clyde Baxter labored for the well-being of his family. The dream of securing employment drove him to ride the freight cars westward. Clyde married Thelma only after establishing himself as a steady wage earner with a stable future. Life carried uncertainties as in every generation. He understood this and stayed focused.

Linking his work ethic to his modest ten grades of schooling, Clyde excelled in the plumbing craft. In the late 50’s he launched a business in Okmulgee. City Plumbing.

His love for rural life stirred. What if? So dad moved his shop to our eighty acre place a mile from town.

Get up, boys. Time for Sunday School and Church. Throughout the busy years Dad did the best he knew to do in affording us a moral and spiritual footing.

Doing so he sensed that his abilities to labor, to plan and to provide rose out of a greater influence. He knew he was not a self-made man. He entered into and drew from a source far greater than his human ingenuity could supply.

The grown-up orphan was humbled. He knew he was fathered. And shepherded.

Dad was reserved. His prayers were private. In my growing-up years it was sounds of my mother’s intercessions that drifted from their room. Mother petitioned the shepherd. When we gathered at mealtime, it was always mother praying our food.

My child imagination resonated with images of a good shepherd. I saw Jesus as shepherd. But more. Jesus was good shepherd – giving his life for the sheep. From my earliest years exploits of a giant-slaying, lion-crippling shepherd boy grabbed me. Then each October Sister Opaline selected Christmas Play characters. I thrilled at arriving for practice one or two seasons cast as a shepherd. A long crook staff in hand I saw myself as a kind but commanding presence. Protector of the defenseless.

Shepherds watching their sheep by night. Wow.

Through vivid Bible scenes I saw Jesus walking away from a gathering of safely-kept lambs and ewes. In the dark it was me the good shepherd went looking for. I was the strayed sheep. I saw myself lying helpless in a distant ravine, wolves prowling nearby.

One Sunday morning in a Bible story time I was invited to welcome the good shepherd into my life. He laid down his life for me, a helpless sheep. Guided into a simple prayer by my teacher I eagerly opened my heart’s door.

Jesus came. His Spirit entered me in his mysterious way. Through simple faith. God was my shepherd. The good shepherd.

Today I know him in a wider range of wonderful titles – Savior. Friend. Teacher. Brother. Comforter. King. Father. Naming a few.

As a limping, sometimes straying sheep, I cherish him still as I first came to know him.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want Psalm 23

July 21, 2015August 28, 2017

Greenwood Lake. Rescue

My father and mother lost their first son to drowning.* Given such trauma I am thankful for the courage they showed later on. When their next two boys reached swimming age.

Tim and I loved water. If it were roomy enough to swim in we weren’t picky about the spot. Mom and dad freed us to that pleasure. . .

Farm ponds and rivers – summertime could find us and our friends reveling in them. The deep blue of rain-filled rock quarries called us. Their depths were bracing, invigorating. At the bottom of one quarry rested a long-abandoned dump truck.

Years before, it somehow descended from the quarry ridge. It rested submerged there now – still upright. What fun, inhaling deeply, diving, navigating the cab interior. Taking turns we mock-drove the old truck until straining lungs obliged us aloft to draw in new oxygen. Then back again, chasing one another through one open window and out the other.

Our favorite swimming hole by far was a pond-turned-commercial pool. A few years earlier, a visionary gentleman at the edge of town added diving boards, changing rooms and a snack canteen to his large pond. A brilliant revenue source, his family’s Greenwood Lake opened for business. It seemed every kid in Okmulgee County frolicked in Greenwood at some point before reaching their late teens.

A lifeguard pulled me from the Lake unconscious early one season. My headfirst dive might have fractured my neck. Thankfully not. The accident sprang from a miscalculation.

Swimming season was freshly opened. The winter months and springtime yielded little rainfall and the shoreline revealed it. Not factoring this, I assumed the lake owners had extended the shoreline – providing a new beach area.

I trotted onto a platform leading to diving areas further out. Stopping short of the diving boards I turned and faced the water.

In previous summers the water here was several feet deep. Being a pond, the cloudy waters kept me from seeing bottom . . . from judging its depth. There wasn’t a new beach. Greenwood was simply low. I dived into water that was inches deep.

I woke up on the grass. The lifeguard was at my shoulder. An onlooker remarked, That kid was lucky, looks like he’ll make it. Minutes later I swam from the shallows to join my brother and our cousin. Aunt Dovie’s son, Paul, was visiting us from Phoenix.

Our life’s trailways hold curious mysteries for us. At times they may link us to something – someone – beyond ourselves. I like to think a benevolent God ensured that an on-duty lifeguard was attentive – ready and alert to rescue this inattentive youngster at Greenwood Lake. I believe the same Creator gently prompted my Aunt Dovie to be attentive – on-duty in Phoenix years ago after the death of Bobby. Dovie intervening for my mother and father with words of rescue. Of life.

July 9, 2015August 28, 2017

A closer Friend

The young woman beamed. Stepping to the podium she almost sang the announcement.

Ladies, listen up. You are all invited to Friday night’s baby shower for, Jerry Lout!

My brother’s wife Geri – pronounced ‘Jerry’ – would soon be giving birth to their first child, Todd Benjamin Lout. Excited female voices rippled through the Chapel while the elbow of a buddy seated next to me found it’s target. My ribcage flinched as he teased, I hadn’t heard the news, Jerry. . . and you’re not even showing!

After high school and a stint of vocational training Tim had begun work as a draftsman in southwestern Oklahoma. He met Geri there. She became the love of his life.

The Lout brothers moved with our brides to San Antonio within the year of our respective weddings – that occurred just two weeks apart. Each of us felt God’s call to service – not sure what that really meant. Our first stint at training came at International Bible College.

Though my brother modeled gentleness and goodness, Tim saw early on that his heart wasn’t at home in God – a form of limping common to all at some point. He needed rescuing, needed what the Bible calls training in righteousness.

Clinging to news of a real Savior coming for him at great personal cost, he yielded his life over to Jesus Christ.

A draftsman concerns himself with two things – construction and its detail. Tim’s draftsman-to-minister shift was logical. Wherever he served as pastor, as counselor or friend, he brought his heart. Each person counted, and their unique concerns (detail). He also built people, aiding their progress in spiritual formation (construction). Leaning into Christ he entered broken lives of others patiently. In faith. With compassion. Among those was Karena, who attests with tender frankness, He saved my life. Karena – the bride of Todd Benjamin Lout.

Once when he was little Tim swallowed a roofing nail. Almost. An image of this is branded in my memory.

Six-year-old Timmy suspended head-downward, his ankles secure in our daddy’s grasp. Shake. Shake. Third shake. The nail bounced twice on the living room floor. Breathing resumed – for Tim and the rest of us.

Memories from childhood can rekindle pain or con prompt feelings of remorse. But some memories, thankfully, evoke humor, warmth, smiles.

Seeing young Tim recklessly bounce along, approximately straddling a runaway Shetland Pony.
Witnessing his just-opened, warm Dr. Pepper explode upward – redecorating our kitchen ceiling. Followed by his self-conscious chuckle. . . (Tim never outgrew his chuckle).
Regaling his mimics of Inspector Clouseau . . .
Teaching himself, then me, guitar. And singing. Lots of Singing – carrying actually through all his lifetime.

The abdomen pain started in his sixth decade near a birthday. Tests followed. Procedures were scheduled, pancreas surgery undergone. And chemotherapy. The regimen blurred the calendar. Praying people prayed. Cards and calls came in.

The decline advanced. His wife summoned Hospice Care. Geri primarily attended him, at times with the aid of my RN wife, Ann and me.

The end drew near, his promotion looked close at hand and the family was conflicted over a likely parting. Family members hurt seeing family members hurt.

An early afternoon I brought a stool to his bedside and took his hand once more. He seldom spoke now. But with eyes still closed, his lips formed the half-sentence and he sounded the words clearly,

There is a friend who sticks closer. . . Just that. A partial sentence.

Yes, Tim.

I completed the verse from Proverbs he began. It would be the final exchange between us.

Yes. . Closer than a brother, Tim. And he is here for you and he’s here for me.

He had asked if I would officiate a service should it be needed.

I would be honored. Meanwhile we keep looking to the Father.

I rose early Saturday, July 10, 2010. Heaven had received my brother home four days earlier. This morning we would worship God and celebrate Tim’s life.

I made my way to the coffee maker in the kitchen. Reentering my sleeping quarters I reviewed some notes. The room was still. I was reflective.

Consulting the ancient scripture for solace or wisdom never disappointed, I thought. Opening my One Year Bible I had brought from Oklahoma I turned to this day’s reading. July 10.

My breath caught slightly. Familiar words – especially of recent days – tenderly seized me from the page. They embraced my heart. Of all the Scripture verses – tailored by a random editor of a random Bible-reading program. I double-checked the reference and the date. Yes, this is for today:

There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother Proverbs 18.24

I savored its special message a moment longer. For myself. For all who would take it in. And looked upward.

Thank you, Father. Thank you for Jesus. Thank you for my brother. Tim.

To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord 2 Corinthians 5

July 8, 2015August 28, 2017

Fight to the Finish

Mother, Mother! Tim’s getting clobbered!

Sprinting through the front door I blurted the report. My mom’s face conveyed both alarm and puzzlement.

Tim? Fighting?

My brother survived the fracas. But the image itself seemed crazy. A Samurai Wrestler in a delicate ballet twirl would be more probable. Today’s incident was a thuggish brute who happened to spot a random kid – who happened to be my brother. And pouncing.

Actually Tim did fight. Not in this way. He fought throughout most his lifetime, and with valor.

Tim’s actual fighting was about goodness. Indeed, Tim fought to be a good person. To those near him, though, his struggle toward goodness appeared to be hardly a struggle at all. He breathed goodness. So it often seemed. For me, his kid brother who more typically breathed mischief, this was disconcerting. Once our dad suspected us of cigarette smoking and approached me about it.

Do you boys sometimes smoke?

Mm, well, I think Tim might. Mischief.

But I idolized my big brother. We were little when I overheard mother say to a friend, Tim doesn’t eat tomotos. . . He also dislikes coconut and, Oh yes, pineapple. This was intel enough for me. If Tim shuns these things there is good reason for it. Mom could mark them off her grocery list.

I did acquire a taste for all three foods later in life. Once I sampled them.

To whatever measure they may have troubled him, Tim went to war against impoliteness. Rudeness and discourtesy. Years after our childhood days I heard him say to his Bible class, A practice in our home is to reserve the phrase ‘Shut up’, for only addressing the dog.

I admired him. I envied him. And I was ticked with him. Why did my brother need to be so stinking pleasant? And compliant?

Detecting goodness in him was fairly easy. Not stuffiness, though. He wasn’t Goody-two-shoes but was loads of fun. With a year and a month and a day separating our ages we did a lot together.

One of the things we did, we climbed things.

We climbed trees. Pear trees, Pecan trees, Willow trees. I watched Tim fall from one.

He fractured a wrist and his reconfigured forearm held me hypnotized the whole way to the hospital. Though clearly hurting, he handled the ordeal well. In the 1950s a bone fracture was a big deal. To set his arm the nurse put him under with ether-soaked cotton. It set in motion a bout of serious vomiting. He was miserable and didn’t make a fuss. No whining. Not a complaint really. I was impressed. Wow.

In our teen years Dad introduced useful outlets for our climbing zeal. He referred us to the steering wheel of a farm tractor. We climbed aboard. And many times thereafter.

Hay season found Tim steering the big red Farmall. He towed a mowing piece to the meadows. Once cut, the grass lay under the July sun to cure. My squatty orange Allis Chalmers required bailing wire to keep the shift controls in second gear. A multi-pronged hay rake followed behind the Allis. Once I raked the long grass into windrows, Dad wrapped up the process. He drew the grassy aroma into his lungs. Then guided his equipment to finish the baling operation for that meadow. Winter feed for his small cattle herd.

Tim and I kept climbing. Livestock chutes at the rodeo grounds across from our farm. Perched above the bull pens, we adjusted our straw hats and rested our chins on the heels of our open hands. Like the ranch-men did at the animal auctions. What fun – up here with my big brother. Adjusting our position, we surveyed the grown-up wranglers practicing their calf-roping.

We didn’t tire of climbing. The two of us climbed onto the back of Old Bill. Riding horseback meant free entrance to our annual Rodeo events – even if riding double.

The most thrilling climbing was to the top of Greenwood Lake’s High Platform. Well above the water surface the platform reigned. It overlooked the diving boards further down. Greenwood – beloved pond-turned-swimming hole at the edge of town. And the platform. Stationed behind my brother I looked down and shivered. Tim was standard-bearer. If Tim was gutsy enough to fling himself out over the waters from way up there, well. . .

My brother Tim and my sister, Betty – each influenced me toward good. They conveyed wisdom. Unconsciously at times. Each brought significant insights my way at some crucial times. One of the harshest – and most helpful – statements I took in as a kid came at me through clenched teeth. Tim’s.

During an especially obnoxious stage of my teenage years Tim shocked me to sanity. Or at least to consider it. Annoyed again by my asinine antics he abruptly turned my way. He had it with me this time. His voice levelled.

You know, Jerry, you’re a punk. That’s what you are. Nothing but a punk!

His words seared. Like a hay hook going in. Tim had rebuked me with good cause at other times. But this is the time I remember. Following the correction I assessed, as well as I might, the words, nothing but a Punk. I resolved to work hard. At changing. First, I realized punk-behavior mode when I saw it. Until that rebuke, I hadn’t seen it – really seen it – in myself. Years later I reminded him of the strong medicine he dispensed that day. Tim didn’t seem to recall it. We laughed.

Faithful are the wounds of a friend*

He was the best of brothers, the best of friends.

*Proverbs 27

Timothy Arthur Lout August 28, 1944 – July 6, 2010

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.