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December 4, 2018

A New Coach

The apprentices did not tire of their hardships in the company of the carpenter-turned-rabbi. Roughing it with Jesus deepened them somehow. And, while his parables and assignments at times perplexed them, they were never at risk of getting bored.

As he labored at offering up truth and clarifying it where needed, Jesus remained always-present to them. His favorite moments seemed to be found engaging these clearly flawed but hungering men. The rabbi taught with warmth and wit and they would catch the occasional upturned smile in the flicker of a crackling night fire. At other times his voice was marked by a distressful tone. This would not often pass unnoticed, their searching eyes exploring his troubled features. Clearly he knew things – deep, disturbing, wonderful things – not yet ripe for sharing.

While they at times tracked his sayings with clear-eyed understanding, the recruited apprentices weren’t always the keenest of trainees.

He could leave them feeling uneasy by his prescriptions for living life. Sometimes they were utterly baffled over a point he seemed bent on making. In these times, to his credit, he never demeaned them. Rather, the rabbi gently drew them in. . . to reflecting, to pondering, in ways the best educators through history have commonly done.

Jesus’s first team of trainees numbered just twelve. The wildly-diverse company of personalities with their contrasted backgrounds walked with Jesus, under his tutelage a good three years and more.

Partly because of his awful and glorious final acts – yielding up himself as a young man in his prime to a voluntary death, then shockingly emerging fully alive three days later from his garden tomb – the rabbi’s handful of followers came to embrace him fully. And, considering their remarkable Holy Spirit-empowering afterward, how could his company of trainee-disciples possibly remain few!

Being fully divine, Jesus remained entirely man. Human, subject to weariness, to pain, pleasure, hope. Yet he stayed blameless, flawless-of-character, good.

While Jesus was surely qualified to mentor craftsmen in the skills of carpentry and construction, he knew well that his mission lay elsewhere. It was a mission spanning eternity and with all tribes of the human family in view. It was a call of cosmic dimension, an assignment in transforming communities out of all earth’s cultures and languages, into persons remarkably like himself.

While the word apprentice hasn’t always sprung readily to mind when reaching for a label to tag a “Jesus-follower”, it may come as close as any to best portray this mentor-mentee relationship.

Jesus was a master teacher. Beyond this, Jesus supplies not only knowledge for learning but the power needed to effectively apply life-altering truths to raw, in-the-trenches daily living. Bringing his disciples forward into a life as his own, he leads as friend.

A few years back I happened onto the writings of a gentleman in whom the term “apprentice to Jesus” had found a welcome home. He referenced it often. The apprentice word fits Dallas Willard like a favorite pair of gym shoes fits an athlete.

We can likely learn some things from a seasoned Christ-follower apprentice – who, on entering the process, found an entirely new life emerge.

“Follow me as I follow Christ” – Paul, the apostle

December 10, 2018December 10, 2018

Making It Happen

The grand company of heroes in foreign missionary work features a long list of people who never walked the church aisle surrendering to God’s work abroad. They never enrolled in a college Missions course, never boarded a plane or ship venturing off to lands and to peoples hungrily awaiting their arrival and the good news they bear.

These are the child-rearing, husband-supporting homemakers.They’re the carpenters, accountants, physicians and farmers, high-schooler babysitters, retirees making it on fixed incomes. And a trainload of other skilled and not-so-skilled, educated and hardly-literate folks, all of a common stripe. They make up the interceding, resource-sharing, passion-fueled army known simply as missions supporters.

Many are anonymous, praying and giving – passing their support on through the coffers of a partnering church. Faithful, continued, selfless giving, without which the missionary enterprise would cease to carry forward.

“It’s not as much as I wish it could be.”

How often throughout our Africa years did we take in this and similar tender expressions, sincerely offered.

For years Sister S regularly mailed to our East Africa PO Box a one-dollar bill. Her monthly “widow’s mite” meant as much to us as any amount from any additional source, an outflow of a big generous heart.

Africa’s enormous land mass lies a good long way from America’s shores and visitors flying out to see us through those years were few. The lone pastoral visit we received from the U.S. in our two decades on the field happened in 1989.

Billy Shoffner’s southern drawl – which usually rolled out in easy, unhurried tones – betrayed a faint trace of urgency at one point during a game park visit. We had taken a break from church ministry for a day or two of sight-seeing.

I eased the diesel pickup toward a slow-moving herd of elephants. . . a little too near for Bro Billy’s liking.

The company of mammals had moved our direction. One especially large beast now lumbered within nearly arm’s reach to the pastor’s rolled-up window. The elephant paused there. A second or two passed. My old friend stirred in his seat before speaking.

“Ya know, Brother Jerry. . . you think it might be time now we kindly moved on past our friends here?”

Through all our years in the Lord’s service, there remain a handful of memories which when recalled, very specially warm our hearts. The faithful prayers and giving of supporting friends and family are included. Numbered among them, two shepherds paying a visit from from East Texas – half the world away – Billy Shoffner and James Walker.

Thank you.

December 21, 2018February 6, 2019

Tired Pain

I nudged the clinic door. Inside I inched toward a desk. The dark-haired receptionist looked up just as another sharp pain shot across my back at the waist line. Knees buckling, I caught myself, barely dodging a crash to the hardwood floor.

“Óh, sir!” the lady quickly called out while indicating a chair. “Here, right over here. That’s right, slowly there. . .” Contorting my limbs and back in a couple odd maneuvers my bottom found a resting place.

“The doctor will see you in just a minute. Here, I’ll get your paperwork”

Another slow turn in the chair and fresh beads of sweat sprang to my forehead. I nodded a silent thank you and took the ‘first-time-visit’ patient form and ballpoint the receptionist offered. After a couple entriesI paused a moment and recounted the happenings of past hours and the tire-shop mishap that brought me here.

If Francis could see me now. I managed a twisted grin.

Before our Texas move, my co-worker at the Tulsa Aviation plant had pressed me about the job he figured surely awaited me on arrival to the Alamo City. Between winces now, I could almost hear his “I-told-you-so” if Francis should see me today, here in this bone-cruncher clinic. . .

“Well, Francis, it’s like this, I landed a job down at the corner of Caldera and Bandera, at this Phillips 66 station. . .”

Why did I have to get in such a hurry?

Twenty hours ago I had grabbed two car tires still encircling their heavy rims. Swiveling around while taking a step another direction was a move that shot a serious stab through my lower back. I reflected further.

Well, I started out lame – a polio baby, back in California. Then the limping picked up again when the same virus came to our Oklahoma hills. I should probably, here in Texas, be used to these kinds of hobblings by now. . .

“Alright, sir, the doctor can see you now. Just this way. Careful there, move slowly.”

Lessons on limping followed.

September 8, 2015August 28, 2017

Seed

Alright everybody. It’s that time!

Though the sanctuary lighting was nothing exceptional it highlighted the richest shock of blond hair I had ever seen. On anyone – male or female. The occasion – our youth rally, where teens showed up at that monthly gathering’s host church – wherever it happened to be.

Oddly, for a clergy simply receiving an offering Pastor John’s enthusiasm seemed tangible. Contagious. The glint in his blue eyes conveyed his pleasure. And warmth. This was near his heart – this offering – for missions.

Songs had already been sung. Hands had clapped. Youthful energy released into guitar strings, accordion keys and the occasional tambourine. It was the way with our youth rallies. Kids with musical talent – whether well developed or barely evolving – united in praise. John affirmed at every level. No spectator himself, his own electric guitar drooped comfortably at his midsection. It responded easily to his familiar touch.

Two empty collection baskets sat at the church’s altar up front.

OK, here’s our chance to join the Lord in sending his Good News of Jesus throughout the world.

The contagious smile, strong as ever.

Our Rally Offerings help Nigerian evangelists share Jesus way over there in Africa. But now first, young people (his voice softened), let’s quiet ourselves. Let’s pray for our dear brothers laboring in hard places far from here. These servants need our prayers as much as our quarters, dimes and dollars.

By the prayer’s ending most of us guys and girls fished what currency we could from our blue-jean pockets or pink-and-silver purses.

Filing from our seats, weaving forward, we dropped our modest offerings in. Dispatching salvation to the ends of the earth.

Pastor John laid aside a guitar pick. He took up his microphone, then his Bible. And soon found a reference.

Young people, listen up. I want you to hear this. Tonight we are helping dear African brothers to go among their own – taking God’s precious message of hope and life.

Listen. The slight pastor with his planet-size heart paused reverently. The room grew still.

God calls every one of us to the mission field in one way or the other. All of us to the world’s unreached nations. Now. I want you to do something. Turn your eyes toward your shoes. Just do this would you. Look at your shoes now, your feet. Keep your eyes to them.

Our focus shifted from hair-dos, from after-meeting burgers and fries. And from wherever our minds may have been carried by a random daydream.

Pastor John read slowly – his tone deliberate – from the book of Romans in the New Testament. We young people each one remained still. Eyes fixed – throughout the sanctuary – on our respective pairs of feet.

“How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!”

I stared at the pair of shoes nearest me. My own. The shoe at the end of my shorter leg – that limped, sometimes tripped. My mind went to descriptive mode. Shoes housing the weirdest, most pitiful-looking feet in the county. Maybe the state? I let myself try to imagine.

What if, though, in God’s eyes somehow – What if he sees beauty. Even in this pair of feet?

I smiled slightly. In the continued quietness supplied by Pastor John the question surfaced again. From within. More forcefully, but sweetly. What if.

What if?

I felt my eyes moisten. As if to water a seed.

September 5, 2015August 28, 2017

Heart condition

Thirty years after my mother’s California journey I took the same bus line toward Colorado’s Rockies. Past giant grain elevators of Enid where nearly half of Oklahoma’s harvested wheat is kept. We passed towns with romantic, historic, sometimes fanciful, names. Stillwater. Fort Supply. Slapout. At seventeen I had never travelled alone nor with strangers beyond about six miles of my home.

Melancholy. Adventure. Tension. The feelings mingled with others. Back home at Preston High my twenty-or-so classmates navigated two modest hallways. I, meanwhile, moved with each passing fence-post, toward a high school larger than I’d ever seen. Greater Denver’s population numbered more than half my state. What’s a big school like anyway? For an outsider entering twelfth grade?

I suspect my father’s stringent measure in sending me here rose largely from fear. Tensions, frustrations, awareness of his own short fuse. He couldn’t risk distancing me more. Ironically, this distance may be a safer, more promising, choice. He could take comfort, too, that I’d be in good hands with his daughter, my sister. Betty. One he knew to be responsible. Neither dad nor the rest of us knew of her struggles in a tough marriage. She and her four little ones – even as I approached Englewood, Colorado. She met me at the arrival depot. We were en route home.

In 1962 fewer than 500 McDonalds restaurants dotted our nation. I entered school right away and took a weekend job at the Golden Arches. I served up fifteen-cent burgers and fifteen-cent fries. Colorado introduced me to stock car racing, pepperoni pizza, moisture-starved nasal passages from the mile-high climate’s dry air. And, to the Cuban Missile Crisis. T.V. anchors drilled viewers with contingency plans. Looping announcements to run through each day. All traffic lanes will become one-way. Taking commuters outward – away from the metro area should evacuation sirens sound.

Somewhere in the mix, my dear sis was there for me. Supplying perspective in nonthreatening ways to her kid brother. Cutting through, patiently, confused tangles of my unsound thinking.

Months in, I somehow received word that my dream-girl had left Oklahoma. I traced a number to Sue and, through an operator, dialed it.

Hello.

A flat male voice answered. I was standing – my back grazing Betty’s kitchen wall. For a moment I was quiet. I found my voice.

May I speak with Sue?

The male voice went silent. After some seconds she took up the phone.

Hello.

Sue have you gone back to your home – in your own state?

Yes.

Are you with him?

Yes.

Does this mean things are over now?

Yes. (a pause). I need to go now. Goodbye.

Concise. Surgical. Indeed, the raw announcement severed. As with a swift amputation. And minus anesthetic.

I began unraveling. I was, to a degree, unaware of surroundings. Not caring to mask emotion, what followed likely seemed melodrama. Still, I was a wreck – a heap of pre-twenties hormones and misapplied affections. Undone. The wreck slid down the wall. Not having really sorrowed for a good while – mark of my callousing heart – I let flow a torrent. After minutes, when the sobs waned, I was spent. I breathed a long sigh. I took in my surroundings and was relieved that I was still alone.

A clearness of thinking emerged. Slowly at first. The fog of misplaced affections, of contrivances, faded. Giving way to clarity. Tears resumed. But washing tears this time. Truth – deep and rich – seemed to find its footing inside me. Truth – like a homesick reject returning after a long absence. Unresisted. What irony. I softened further and my eyes lifted.

Father. Father.

I am so sorry. Tears again.

Added words didn’t seem needed, or expected. I sensed that God wasn’t after a homily, a prayer as such. Just my heart. Responding to grace. To Him.

A deep quiet followed. I savored it a while. Thankfully. So thankful.

Home. The word came as a silent whisper inside. Then repeating itself.

My lame foot had gone to sleep from my position on the floor. I rotated it a little. It stirred. I drew myself up and reached again for the wall-mounted green phone. Yes operator. I need to make a call. Soon a familiar voice was on the line.

Dad?

Yes.

I’d like to come home.

Your mother and I are here, son.

It was my best Oklahoma Christmas.

And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children,

and the heart of the children to their fathers

– Malachi 4, the Bible

September 1, 2015August 28, 2017

Tension

My friend Dan and his wife raised eight kids. Dan speaks of the foolishness of youth that only age cures. I qualified, and hope a lasting cure finds me soon.

I fell hard for a girl. I’ll call her Sue.

I was too young for such a relationship. Too naïve. Too much a romantic. And too head-strong. Sue was nineteen. And I only sixteen. Just out of eleventh grade. Other factors, not noted here, compounded the issue.

To her credit, Sue did not initiate the romance – nor encourage it. Not strongly. Still, our affections for each other grew. My parents were concerned and advised against the increased times together.

I was headstrong, but didn’t think so. I was ‘in love’ – and knew so. Not helpful this – in view of mom and dad’s objections. They tried reasoning. I spurned reason. They warned. I dug in. Short of direct surveillance Mom and Dad paid more attention to my movements. So I schemed. I’ll just walk the two miles to her place after lights out. Visit with her awhile and walk back.

My games were short-lived.

Poets say love is blind. I proved them true. By forgetting how visible a horse is.

Jerry, I have one question. It was late afternoon – several weeks into my ruse. My father’s tone was ominous.

I saw Bill tethered today in front of Sue’s grandmother’s place.

I knew I was in for it. How could I have been so dumb? I had secured Bill by his bridle reins to a tree in front of the grandma’s house. Along a route my dad regularly travelled.

You were there, weren’t you? With Sue? By this time I’d become obstinate.

The accusing edge in his tone angered me. I didn’t reply. Rather (though knowing better) I returned his glare. My brand of love was moving from blind to idiotic. Dad’s fingers slid along his leather belt. My thoughts went to earlier years. I was ticked off once about mowing the lawn. Though I was outside, dad read my lips through a window of the house as I kicked the grass and silently formed the D*!% word. Memories evoked by his fingering the leather weren’t pleasant.

My seventeenth birthday came and went with little, if any, flourish.

After the latest confrontation my good parents felt more grief than indignation. They prayed. They deliberated. Adults – especially parents – can envision things their strong-willed children if left to themselves, cannot. Unnecessary pain. Needless grief.

Some things call for preventive medicine – extra strength.

The hard decision was made. I was actually thankful to go away. From here – even Sue for awhile. My mom and dad and I had reached an accord.

I boarded the bus. I’d soon leave for another state. My sister’s home. I glimpsed out toward my mother and father. They both looked glum. Tired. I felt pity. Sadness.

Where will this take me? This time in Denver.

Hear, my son, your father’s instruction,

And forsake not your mother’s teaching

For they are a graceful garland for your head

And pendants for your neck.

– Proverbs 1, the Bible.

August 28, 2015August 28, 2017

Freed

In battered tennis shoes we shuffled through leaves of gold and red. A wooded area on his family’s land. Kenny pointed to a brown clump of dead vines gracing a tree stump. End-of-Summer rains hadn’t arrived and we easily crossed the creek bed to reach them. I grinned.

Yeah, these oughta smoke well.

A few pocket knife maneuvers and we were set. I touched a lighted match to our smokes. We inhaled. And instantly discerned. How overrated the vine-smoking thrill was. Tears blocked our vision. We gagged on the acrid smoke. My coughing trailed off in time.

Kenny and I did what country kids did in the 1950s. Some things – inhaling fiery toxins – could have injured us. Badly. Surviving childhood itself, was indeed, a notable feat.

When a speeding semi-truck spooked my horse Bill and he, in turn, hurled his passenger (Kenny) to the grass embankment.

While breaking up a field of sod.

Look out, Jerry. It’s coming down on us.

Towing a farming implement called a harrow, I had steered a corner too sharply. The harrow swung upward, then slammed downward. It penned Kenny’s tennis shoe to the tractor’s axle casing where he stood. He withdrew his foot. Prying the shoe free I handed it over – thankful for unbroken bones.

Dodging BBs while firing on each other with Daisy rifles. Years later we realized we each had won – We ended all the shootouts with our eyesight intact.

My friend Kenny and I jumped from roof sheds. We swam in snake-colonized ponds, ‘fished for crawdads with bacon bits. And lit up discarded Marlboros we happened upon. This only barely edged out – pleasure-wise – the vine-smoking venture.

With my brother, Tim’s help we mastered the basics of guitar – devoting hour-on-hour to the happy cause. We formed a musical group, Tim, Kenny and I. A a trio with three-part harmony. Even naming ourselves – Sons of Faith. What fun. Singing at the Living Way and a few other churches.

Kenny. The funnest guy I knew. Quick wit. Contagious smile. Musical.

He soaked up kindness – where it was found. Like a sponge.

And Kenny limped. Though not physically.

Alcohol cheated him of youth. In a measure.

Misuse of liquor. Not his own. Not yet. And not entirely.

In several ways, though, Kenny displayed not poverty – but richness.

Rich in personal charm. A law court could have introduced Kenny, People-person. Exhibit A

Wealthy in big-heartedness. Opening himself to a big-hearted God brought him there.

But he did know scarcity.

It’s been said, alcohol impoverishes the brain.

We might add – And people. At least the abuse of it.

Kenny’s family suffered lack through an absentee parent. Yes, a limping parent. Absent emotionally; often physically. The family dependents struggled to get by while resources of the household wage-earner fed an addiction.

Kenny’s music then took him to California. To a music label. And Into a measure of fame. For a time.

Kenny was offered a drink. This by a religious leader. The drink led to another. He spiraled.

Years afterward – adrift – on a California freeway, my awesome and hurting childhood friend met with fear. Then something else. Kenny:

I tried to navigate the freeway in my beat-up Volkswagen. Empty beer cans covered the floor all around. I leaned to the center mirror. My eyes met their own gaze. And fear hit me full force.

Who is that person? I didn’t recognize myself. I was so frightened. And I knew. It’s time.

Taking an exit I drove to the home of an almost-forgotten friend. A believer in Jesus.

Kenny’s freeway exit became his entry ramp. To his old acquaintance. Then to hope. To a twelve step group. To sobriety. Then on – astonishingly to him – to service.

Visit prison quarters today. From Arizona to California, to Oklahoma to Florida. And beyond.

Kenny’s name is known there. He’s welcome there. Every time. Among the lame ones. Ones overly-acquainted with their limps.

He speaks to their heart. Not as outsider but as peer. They warm to Kenny. His quick wit. His contagious smile. His songs and his story. He is their friend – this apprentice of Jesus. Their fellow-traveler. Limping. Some of these he’s led to recovery steps. Some to counselling sessions. Others to confession. All to Jesus. That is his desire anyway.

Kenny passes into the prison. A guard unlocks and relocks gates. They enter the meeting area. Confined men glimpse him. Some with recognition. These men smile.

For Kenny, he’s warmed to the gathering before arriving.

He takes up his instrument and breaks out in a fun impersonation of Johnny Cash. Hands clap in rhythm. Smiles flash his way.

Those who’ve seen and heard him before are happy for the ice-breaking music. But their eyes are trained on the small podium before Kenny. They’ve spotted what their eyes sought. The worn book. Kenny’s Bible.

He’ll shift to ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ and other hymns soon. A prisoner leans back; inhales slowly. Like welcoming an aroma. He hums to the music – and looks again to the podium.

Kenny’s here today. With the book.

Today is a good day.

http://kennymundsministry.org/

August 25, 2015August 28, 2017

The Creason Effect

The people who influence you are

The people who believe in you

– Henry Drummond

Three brothers of the same household believed in me. Each played an influencing role. Each introduced me to something or someone – marking me for life. For good. I’m in their debt.

The Creason brothers. Common men of uncommon influence.

Troy (small business-owner, cattle-tender) sat with eleven and twelve-year-old boys in a tight, window-less room. Seated on straight-back chairs and short benches we boys formed a square – most of our backs touching a wall. Ricky, Larry, Dwight, Tim, James. . .

Brother Troy’s King James Bible lay open before him. With a calloused forefinger he tracked the sentences as he read. His instruction in down-to-earth terms supplied me and the others with building blocks of truth. For life. Though we likely retained only a trace of the Biblical riches dispensed, Troy showed up week by week.

What he shared, he lived. The truths could bring us into and through a meaningful life. He knew this. He introduced us to Christ. His nature and character. Truthfulness, perseverance, responsibility, faith. A life with Jesus was the life to live. Nothing else made sense. I never doubted Troy’s motives, his reasons for showing up. Why would I? The reason was obvious. He believed the book. He believed in us.

Melvin (farmer, welder)

Melvin totally wowed me as a youth leader. He and his gracious auburn-haired wife, Joan, endeared themselves to all the teens.

Melvin was never splashy, sensational. But engaging, sincere. Attentive. If in my teen years I relished anything to do with church it was tied to Melvin.

Brother Melvin, could you teach me to make a necktie knot?

Sure. Just a second, while I adjust this mirror.

The white Ford Mustang breezed along Hwy 75 – Melvin and his wife up front. We were going to a Monday night youth rally. I was squeezed between other students in the back seat – positioning my Adam’s-apple to meet Melvin’s focus through the rearview mirror.

My clumsy fingers fumbled with my tie as Melvin – steering wheel firmly in hand – talked me through.

Ready Jerry? Thread the broad part over, then under and through (pause); now up and out the triangular opening, then. . .

Melvin glanced first to the mirror, then to the road and back again. This two-step rumba continued, alternating between the highway and my knot-tying exercise. He patiently took me through the steps, assuring me along the way. Melvin believed in me.

I would get this knot tied. I knew it.

If you hold rich memories of some person who made a positive influence in your life, be assured. That person was an encourager.

I heard this piece of wisdom years ago.

The neck tie incident – one in a long list of treasured happenings with Melvin – illustrated the truth.

Be a blessing.* This tender mandate of heaven was personified in my youth pastor. He blessed us. By his devotion, by believing in us. Influencing us – well into the future.

When our thirty-fifth anniversary came, Ann and I renewed our marriage vows at the little church. Where my family worshiped. Where the two of us were wed.

As I dressed for the affair I threaded my green and white tie. I snugged the knot securely. Melvin would officiate our milestone renewal. I reviewed my workmanship and smiled.

Would he notice the knot?

—— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— ——

(The third Creason brother – Fred – introduced me to my bride. An account for another day.)

*Genesis 12.2 Bible. Old Testament

August 21, 2015August 28, 2017

A gravel parking lot where two streets met hemmed in our little white church. Inside I scooted my trousered bottom cautiously along an unpolished church bench – taking care to dodge the occasional splinter. I gave in at times to a curious temptation – running my finger-tips along the bench’s underside. A braile-like search yielded my prize. A random trail of chewing gum deposits – discarded and hardened. I don’t recall ever sampling more than perhaps one. Oddly enough, their presence supplied me with a sense of comfort – contentment derived from revisiting a familiar setting. Like being home.

Living Way church was home in certain ways. Clyde and Thelma Lout set the worship-attendance tradition in motion from the start. Sunday morning and Sunday evening; Tuesday and Friday nights. Four services every week. Increased to a fifth – the youth meeting – when my brother and I entered our teens.

The Living Way –

Where with fellow preschoolers I first sang, Jesus loves the little children of the World
Where a bearded prophet parted a Sea; an Inn-keeper denied a couple lodging; an unflustered Messiah calmed a wild storm. Witnessing them all through the marvel of
Where a ponderous Leviticus sermon on ‘types and shadows’ lulled me to sleep
Living way. Where fervent prayer over me against a life-threatening virus prevailed.

Where the mystery of Presence descended on eleven-year-olds one Summer morning.

Isn’t he just wonderful, boys and girls?

The portly gentleman exuded joy. With no pretention. Clearly Brother Addison loved Jesus.

Warmly commanding by nature, Brother Addison was an established businessman in town. A lay minister, he served in a spiritual renewal movement among Christian professionals. He delighted in aiding others toward a vital relationship with his Lord. We children – seated in the Vacation Bible School assembly that morning – knew Brother Addison. We liked him. And trusted him.

How many of you children would like more of him. More of Jesus in your life?

Hands went up speedily. Of course. Who wouldn’t wish for more of the Good Shepherd’s presence?

We were ten to twelve year-olds. It was our third day in VBS. His words conveyed invitation and our expectancy-barometers rose. What’s coming? It seemed something special could be ahead. What does having more of Jesus mean? Some of us wondered.

Addison acknowledged our raised hands.

That’s wonderful. His smile was large and warm.

He summoned us to a pair of benches near the front of the chapel. He directed the girls to one; the boys to the other. Brother Addison passively jingled coins in a pocket, letting us settle in. We knelt along one side of the altars.

Now boys and girls, we are all up here because we simply want more of Jesus. We open the way by speaking to him. Speaking our love to Jesus. He continued.

Begin now thinking of Jesus. What he is like. How good he is. How caring. And Thanking him. Let’s speak our thanks and our love to him.

Yes. He is meeting us here. Just now. In this place. We welcome him. He is good. And he loves us. He comes among us now. Bringing more. More. Speak to him. Let him speak to you in your heart. Let him love you. He’s here.

We offered our voices. Each spoke softly, sincerely. To Jesus.

Without trying, we began sensing him. We were aware. Even as young children. Then, hardly a moment passed and something happened I will never forget. Would never wish to.

Every child – perhaps fifteen or sixteen – was suddenly awash in delight. Rich, bubbling-up delight. It overtook us in a moment’s time.

And tenderness. Our pre-adolescent eyes poured tears. Self-consciousness went out the window. Words rolled from us – some intelligible, some otherwise. We didn’t care. We had yielded over for more of Jesus. And we knew he had come – in wave on wave of tenderness. Love. Delight.

We cried over and over our love of him. Then, as if on cue, we sought one another out. We rushed – bawling, laughing – to embrace another kid. Anyone in reach. Every boy found another boy or two to hug, and to laugh, and to cry on and with. Among the girls the same. Mucus and laughter mingled in the pleasure of affection not one of us had known. Ever.

The phenomenon carried forward a good while. No child took interest in snack time. Cookies and Cool-aid could never match this. This more.

We were loved. And we loved. We couldn’t love enough. Couldn’t cry, thank you! Enough. Simply couldn’t. We knew this was Jesus moving among us – filling us. I hoped the more could just go on and on.

After a time, quiet came – the most serene and pure sort. Purity bathed us. What words capture this? The purest of pure soaked the atmosphere. Today I would employ a companion word. Holiness. Us little non-theologians, immersed in holiness.

Brother Addison was speaking. He shared a simple encouragement. Of letting Jesus fill and refill us as we would afterward go our ways.

I’m reflective today. I relish this richer-than-rich memory – personal, sacred, marvel that it was.

Six decades have passed. While I have, by God’s kindness, savored many cherished times in his presence, I suspect I may never taste a sweeter, richer flavor. When, at age eleven, one summer morning my friends and I said, yes.

To more.

You have made known to me the paths of life;
you will fill me with joy in your presence.

Acts 2. The Bible

August 18, 2015August 28, 2017

Trading Distraction

Distraction. That which divides the attention, diverts or draws away the mind; prevents concentration.

Jerry Lout! What are you looking at out there? You come right up here.

Elementary school.

I limp through my life distracted. Not all the time.

But more of the time than desired. Ask Ann, my wife.

Occasionally my distractions serve a handy purpose. Even therapeutic. A quiet brook in a peaceful setting brings respite to a stressful day. Still, helpful distractions seem rare.

My inattention might have pinned a teenage chum under a tractor tire. I absent-mindedly left a fence-gate lying in my horse’s pathway. Thankfully we cheated disaster. Still, distraction took me there.

You come right up here, Jerry!

My nine-year-old daydreaming mind had transported me outside our Fourth Grade classroom. The playground scene beyond the window had won me over. I surveyed a world beyond the smell of chalk dust and the warble of Mrs. B’s voice.

Whether the punishment fit the crime, Mrs. B’s hard paddle stung. And I quivered – from embarrassment as much as pain. My classmates hadn’t often seen me blush or shed tears. A ringside seat today for both – at the front of the room.

As with most kids, distractions peppered my growing-up years. Sidelined once by teenage infatuation I entered a covert alliance with a girl. And nearly train-wrecked my bond with my parents.

Motor vehicles and distractions don’t do well together.

‘Reckon we ought to move his motor-bike outa the street?

My head throbbed. I lay face-down. Struggled to make sense of the man’s folksy question.

I had been trying out the used motorcycle dad recently helped me buy.

Turning onto Sixth Street from Wood Drive I concentrated on my lame foot.

The bike’s gears didn’t respond well to the efforts of my left heel. Normally the gear is shifted by the shoe toe. But polio left me with no upward lift. So I improvised. I sent my foot over and beyond the gear and lifted the lever with the back of my heel. The tactic hampered the shift. Brought Distraction.

I looked up and a car crossed before me from a side road. It was a safe distance ahead but its image spooked me. I seized the front brake. It locked and I tumbled headlong. I wore no helmet.

My white and black Honda lay on its side. I was transported by strangers and lain face-down in a grassy area at the street’s edge. After some moments I stirred. I lifted my head slightly and surveyed several pairs of shoes. The shoes faced me in a rough semicircle. It was then I heard the man’s matter-of-fact voice.

Gradually someone helped me up.

Thank you. I could at least speak.

Another kind person steered me to a clinic just steps away.

The doctor studied a place on my forehead.

That’s a real goose egg you have, young man.

He shined a light in each eye, shared a cautionary remark and sent me on my way. Days afterward I pondered some questions. Significant ones for me.

What Good Samaritan saw me to the clinic?

Who covered the doctor’s visit (did anyone)?

Who retrieved my bike?

What mercy-givers hauled me out of harm’s way and onto the grass?

What unseen force, presence, or hand kept the goose egg from cracking?

Thanksgiving wells up. Not to impersonal lucky stars.

Rather to one who – in faithfulness – attends to the inattentive. Delivers the distracted. And counsels. With wisdom.

Next time I rode, the helmet went on. And I traded distraction for vigilance. For awhile.

*Medical Interlude update. The hospital released my dear wife three days ago. She mends at home. Is better each day. Thank you, readers. Who’ve expressed care, offered prayers, well-wishes. We limp forward – my wife and me – in the company of really special people. Grateful.