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August 14, 2015August 28, 2017

Medical Interlude. My bride.

To all who follow or check in on the Jerry Lout memoir narratives. ‘Running Life’s Race with a Limp’. A momentary break in the flow of postings. Thank you for taking in the following explanation.

An overseas follower and great friend writes, ‘Your blog seems to be limping the past several days’.

My short-version of the week’s happenings.

What is your pain level on a scale of one to ten?

Ann didn’t hesitate.

Ten

Stomach pains sent my dear wife to Emergency care this week. Following a CAT scan a surgical team went to work.

The surgeon had plenty to do. Navigating, dealing with hernia and scar tissue from earlier times*. Locating and clearing a long-constricted intestine. Serious business.

I shelved my blogging pen.

The surgeon – aided we know by the ‘Great physician – prevailed. An outpouring of love-fueled prayer went far.

Ann remains in hospital – likely a few more days. But is on recovery road. Our family is grateful. Very much so.

Blog Readers, I haven’t left – just to St. Francis Hospital, Tulsa OK.

Hanging with the best woman who’s lived.

I’ll blog-post shortly. Stay tuned.

Thanks to all who pray for the good lady. . . and her limping scribe.

*A malformed esophagus at birth gave rise to emergency surgery in her second day of life. Scar tissue from six-plus decades compounded the week’s crisis. Again, Grateful.

July 17, 2015August 28, 2017

Shotguns and Soda. Delayed candor

To my regret when I deceived I deceived on purpose. But I didn’t usually scheme much in advance. Not always. Things would simply happen and it was then I schemed. And deceived. Typically to avoid consequences over some foolishness.

Richard Nixon’s after-the-fact scheming made the term Cover-up famous. But I appreciated the concept well before Watergate days. My dad’s sun-visor question provoked for me a scheming diversion on the spot – Maybe a bale dropped. . . A shotgun blast gave rise to a cover-up that required less scheming.

16 Gauge Buckshot (2)

Let’s go chase down a rabbit.

Our mother cooked the best fried rabbit dinner; her green beans, mashed potatoes and gravy perfected the meal.

Tim gave the summons. Bearing the shotgun with care, he led the way. Passing through knee-level pastureland, he and I scanned the bermuda before us. Soon a Cotton Tail leapt from the grass. Taking speedy hops before Tim could aim and fire she bounded into a sanctuary – a pile of discarded lumber and tree branches. We devised a plan. I slipped around to the other side of the tall heap of rubbish to flush out our prey. I was out of Tim’s view. Our excitement over a great rabbit dinner may have clouded our judgment.

Balancing on my better foot I attacked a tree branch with the other and shouted, Out of here Rabbit. Out! The rabbit darted into Tim’s view.

I heard the gun-blast, felt a burning pain above my left knee and heard my own scream, all in one alarming moment. I seized the injured leg with both hands and went to my knees. The pain lessened and when no blood appeared my panic eased.

My poor brother came into view, bounding over a log. His face was colorless. Tim gawked at my hands, still in their tourniquet pose. I unfastened my blue jeans and inspected the area above my knee.

Two bluish-red welts.

A few buckshot from the blast had ricocheted – only two of them finding me. They resembled BBs and lacked the speed to break the skin.

The rabbit escaped.

Tim and I suspended our hunting for a later date – taking care to consider the matter of gun safety. And we schemed. That afternoon, in a simple collusion of silence. Nothing concerning this particular hunt – nothing – would be shared with anyone. No one.

After a few years we volunteered the account to dad. Meanwhile we killed, dressed and – trusting to our mother’s kitchen graces – ate our share of rabbit and squirrel.

Confessing is best made earlier than later. That said, confessing is good. Period.

When I was fifteen I stole and drank an orange soda from another school’s canteen. Three or four of us guys slipped into the quiet room off a deserted hallway. Un-chilled soft drinks sat in crates stacked from the floor. We each opened a bottle and downed its lukewarm contents. Yuk.

No one spotted us.

The infraction haunted me. After several days of misery I found a pen and paper.

I am writing to apologize for taking an orange soda without paying from your school’s canteen recently. I am sorry. Enclosed is payment for the drink.

The stamped envelope bearing no return address left with our postman that morning carrying a ten cent coin and my unsigned note. Sodas cost a dime in 1962, and I lacked the courage to identify myself.

Confessing is best done when the offender has a name. That said, confessing remains good.

My conscience was quieted and my dishonesty limp was lessened. I felt I walked a little straighter on the inside. It was a good feeling.

Still, character-growth school for me remained in session. I had a good way to go.

Make this your common practice: Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you can live together whole and healed. The prayer of a person living right with God is something powerful to be reckoned with. – the Bible. Book of James, Chapter 5

August 6, 2015August 28, 2017

Baptized

And now we welcome two brothers – the Lout boys – to the waters of baptism. Our lady minister, dressed in white and smiling, beckoned my older brother and me. Sister A was standing in a cattle pond fifteen feet from shore.

The foreman of the ranch attended our church. In summer months he supplied this venue for those ready to be baptized.

Sister A adjusted her position, steadying her bare feet on the pond’s floor. She stood waist deep, was poised, looking elegant. She noted our approach while pondering the dignity of her office. Considering her bearing Sister A might just as well be performing the sacrament in a cathedral.

Tim and I waded forward. Our understanding of baptism’s actual significance – at least my understanding – was limited, shallow as the waters hugging the pond bank. Our church didn’t always articulate clear reasons for certain practices. To comply. This was seen as the purpose of doctrine. Love God and do what he says:

Jesus was baptized by John.

Followers of Jesus get baptized.

You go under water and come up again. Like Jesus in the Jordan River.

This, for the most part, summed up our tutoring. And, given we were Pentecostal, I vaguely caught that some people experience the Holy Ghost at the moment of water baptism. Without irreverence I wondered. Will I to talk in tongues when I come up?

Nearby, a mama cow bawled.

OK, Tim. Now squeeze your nose shut. Tim complied. Facing him, Sister A placed her palm at his back, the other on his chest. She shut her eyes.

Now, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, I baptize you. She invoked the divine titles while lowering Tim beneath the water and returning him upward. The small gathering of witnesses, our parents included, smiled their approval. The minister caught my eye and nodded. I stepped forward. The ritual was repeated.

I remember thinking this was a good thing that had been done to us. I also remember wishing we could remain longer – make further good use of the pond, swim around awhile.

Being baptized under the open sky in a setting familiar to a farm boy left me with a pleasant memory. My joy over the occasion, however, came years later. Wise and caring believers opened Scriptures to me on the rich theme of water baptism. The beauty of identifying with Jesus. It was belated joy but still joy.

Tim and I brought our dripping bodies to shore. Our parents received us. Mother extended a towel. We got into dad’s ‘51 Ford.

Our thoughts shifted from pasture and pond to mother’s kitchen. The roast in her oven would be ready now.

We were therefore buried with him through baptism. . in order that,

just as Christ was raised from the dead. . we too may live a new life

– Romans 6. Bible

August 4, 2015August 28, 2017

Dancing with snakes. fear and beyond

My only real dance with a snake happened at our farm when I was around twelve. Our horse, Bill featured in the opening act.

Aside from the dance affair, I knew other serpent encounters growing up . . .

I was ten and enjoying one of our family’s rare outings. We cabined at a clearing along the Neosho River.

I was fishing with a simple cane pole and line when a small frog risked hopping into view. I snatched it and threaded it to my hook. I cast the line and waited for a fish to take in my new bait. Nothing.

Pulling back on the cane pole, I brought in the line and lay everything on the shore. The frog continued stirring. I left for a potty break.

Returning, I took up the pole but something was strange. My head cocked a little. The sun was bright and I squinted. Where’s the hook and sinker? Where’s the frog?

I saw the far end of the fishing line was no longer above ground. It had disappeared into a hole some yards away. I raised the cane pole and felt resistance. I lifted higher. Out of the hole in the ground came the sinker – and, to my astonishment, a snake – swallowing my frog.

It was a bad day to be a frog. It labored to free itself from both a fish hook and a highly focused snake. While the frog didn’t survive, its attacker the snake didn’t fare very well, either. My brother Tim and I saw to it.

The dance was roughly two years later. A sultry summer afternoon I trudged through high Bermuda in our west pasture. Catching and riding the horse was my goal. I loved riding Old Bill. I loved less the necessary work for me to catch him. Clever Bill knew when I carried the bit and bridle. He liked his freedom and shrank from coming near it. Often Bill swung his long head away and out of reach just as I clutched to seize his dark mane. And away he loped.

Sweaty and agitated after several attempts to lure him, I wound my arm back and flung the bit and bridle (horse tack) toward Bill. A puff of dust lifted as the gear landed far short of the horse.

I wiped my forehead and shifted my straw hat. Doggone Bill. The horse had tested my resolve and had won. Today anyway.

I trotted forward to retrieve the tack.

Suddenly a coiled snake lying silent in my path flew upward and around my right ankle. It spiraled instantly up my blue jeans like a spirited corkscrew, circling around and around. It clung to my leg, it’s head now above my knee.

I shuddered and lurched. And danced. Wildly. I had never been so panicked. With my left leg I leapt and leapt, kicking the right leg down and outward and back again the whole time. The fact I was leaping with my lame foot didn’t matter for a second. I must shake that thing free.

At last the snake released, dropped into the high grass and disappeared. I bolted several yards the opposite direction. I stopped to gather my breath. And composure.

In a sudden, embarrassing moment I realized that seconds ago I had lost it. Instinctively I surveyed my surroundings. Nothing but prairie grass and distant trees any direction. A short way off – grazing and disinterested – stood Bill. I was thankful. And sheepish.

I retrieved the hardware and offered a silent pledge in the horse’s direction. Bill, you’ll be in these next time.

I started toward the barns, and to our house beyond.

I’ll change out of the moistened blue jeans; get tidied up. Mom will have lunch ready soon.

I relaxed. Altered my gait.

And almost smiled.

For the Lord will be at your side and will keep your foot from being snared.

– Proverbs 3. Bible

Have you experienced sudden fear? Maybe troubled by anxieties today? Take courage. Help is near.

July 30, 2015August 28, 2017

Head over Hooves. Counting

Dad was plowing a fifteen-acre piece of land. He signaled me to his tractor. My horse responded to the bump of my boot heels and started a gallop. Dad assigned me a small errand back at the house.

In TV Westerns famous cowboys labeled their horses imaginative names like Trigger and Silver and Scout. Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger and Tonto mounted their amazing steeds and went after the bad guys. When Dad brought our fifteen-year-old gelding to the farm, we had little choice but to stick with the horse’s original name. Bill.

Minutes after leaving my dad I lay writhing, half-delirious in our barnyard lot. I called out, distress in my voice. And pain. My leg felt it was on fire.

Bill had gathered himself from the fall and stood wide-eyed nearby. He was perhaps reviewing in some horse-like way the scary experience of moments ago. A momentary quiet settled over me – my fourteen-year-old mind barely in touch with my surroundings.

In a way that seemed somehow comforting, my nose took in the sharp, raw smell of cow manure. Another burning pain shot through the leg. My shouts broke the calm. Moments later I was hauled into a pair of rescuing arms.

My brother-in-law, ten years my senior, was at our farm. He ran toward the sound of my screams. Inspecting me and ruling out any broken bones, he gathered me up. Soon my grubby frame, smelling of horse sweat and trampled hay, lay on the green couch in our living room. I had survived. I never learned whether the length of rope my dad sent me to fetch made it to him. I accepted that simply surviving could, on this day, count for something.

Counting for something. The phrase speaks to a peculiar drive inside us – regardless our limp. Counting for something seems to run in the life blood of people everywhere, like a part of a spinal cord that has to be in place for the thing to work.

When I review my life to the present it’s a patchwork. I’ve passed through bare survivals and radical recoveries. I’ve let curiosity lead me into places both delightful and dreadful. I have been overtaken by joys and overwhelmed by sadness.

On the day at the farm I had been on a mission, though not a spectacular one. I hadn’t suited up in space gear to be launched toward the moon. Neither had I donned wet suit and fins to conquer the English Channel. Still the task given me was one that needed to be acted on. By doing so – faithfully – I could enjoy something of actual worth. Beyond mere usefulness, something with meaning.

Being present for the benefit of another human being – in this instance, my dad – this held meaning. It counted.

Thankfully not all of life’s happenings are grave, or profound. Some are, in fact, profoundly funny. I am thankful for this. Still, most lives are visited by scraps of drama and snippets of mystery. An assortment of insights and even some hints at wisdom are in such places. For the finding. Sometimes all that’s required is some reflection.

It is wonderfully true after all. Everyone counts for something.

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