Running Life’s Race With A Limp – Page 14 – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

February 22, 2018February 22, 2018

The Swarm

Wheeling the car onto the dusty grounds of Kehancha Clinic with my latest patient on board I took in a distressing sight. A little girl not yet two, crying pitifully as the mother on whose lap she sat, labored in vain to console her.

These and others made up a gathering line of ill and injured awaiting their turn to be seen. The group, most strangers to one another, sat on a shallow wooden bench butted against the clinic’s outside wall. Bare spots in the building’s whitewashed veneer marked areas where chunks of plaster had at some point released their hold.

My attention kept returning to the small child, her eyes clamped as if glued shut, her face ballooned out, a tormented ball of puff.

I never learned the child’s fate, just the tale of what brought her to the clinic – a swarm of bees descending without warning from upper branches of a tree. Her older siblings, seconds earlier happily playing beneath the tree’s limbs, had fled in a panic, leaving the little one the bee’s lone target.

Killer Bees. A term suited to theatre marquees promoting the latest horror film. Some years after the distressing scene at the village clinic, a ferocious swarm nearly cost a friend of mine his life.

“Ray, what’s going on with the dogs. . . sounds like they’ve gone crazy.” The missionary couple moved to a window to see their two beloved German Shepherds taken in a wild frenzy, crying, barking. Without pausing, Ray rushed outside. Margaret watched as he raced across the big open farm yard. Then looked on in horror as she witnessed the stinging bees blanket her husband as well.

As Ray flailed at the dive-bombing attackers with one hand he worked frantically to free the dogs of their long running-leashes. “Come Princess!”

But the beautiful animal lay motionless, heavy against Ray’s hard tugging, already a casualty to the angry swarm.

The battle had only begun.

February 28, 2018

Unrelenting

Ray was nonstop shouting as he rushed back in to the sanctuary of his house, “Marge, grab cushions, a pillow! Beat me. Knock the bees off me!” Ray was a tall man, athletic with a strong competitive streak. The Africa bees had attacked his six-foot, seven-inch frame with a frenzy exceeding his best moves against his fiercest opponent on the local Squash Court.

Slamming shut the front door behind her husband, Margaret pounded a pillow against him again and again. Buzzing attackers dropped to the floor while others clung to his arms, his neck and face. The Kenya climate called for dressing extra light during one’s leisure time at home. Ray wore cut-offs and scores of bees now darkened his bared legs. Still others moved about his hair and clothing.

Ray had been carrying a yelping bundle of fur when he raced through the doorway – their third canine, small and lovable. The missionary had snatched her up on his desperate rescue dash about the yard. Water had been drawn into a tub by Margaret and the insect-covered pup was thrown into it. Bees fell away and the poor, drenched animal – though crying, whimpering – seemed likely to have been saved.

With a strange wooziness now overtaking her husband, Margaret labored to get him past a second outer doorway and into their dusty-white Peugeot station wagon.

Ray sat half-slumped in the passenger seat as the car raced along the winding driveway and onto the Nakuru highway, anxious and prayerful Margaret at the wheel. They were ten kilometers from the nearest reliable clinic and, even with her gas pedal a bare inch off the floorboard, the racecourse speed of the station wagon felt slow-motion.

At last.

Gravel flew and the Peugeot halted amid a swirl of dust.

“We’re here, Ray.” Margaret had braked the car to a hard stop not far from the clinic’s entrance.

Ray was weakening with each passing second. Deadly toxins mingled in his bloodstream and Margaret knew he was fading. Laboring to escort him toward the clinic door, she whispered,

Jesus, let there be time. Please Jesus.

March 7, 2018

Thin Places

“Stung! . . Bee stings! . . Stings! . .Stung by bees!”

The words tripped over each other, spilling from Margaret as she broke through the clinic’s entryway and called to a nurse – steadying her woozy husband as best she could. Desperation turned to near-panic when she took in the sympathetic nurse’s response – her East Africa English clear, crisp.

“I am sorry, ma’am. The doctor has gone out. He should be back soon. . .”

A moment’s pause, Margaret wheeled about. “Ray, we can’t wait. We have to get help now.”

Outside they moved only a few steps when the resident doctor rounded the clinic’s corner, meeting face-to-face with the disheveled couple. A rush of relief swept over Margaret. Taking in a short breath she gave voice to their crisis. The doctor’s action was swift, decisive. He whisked Ray back inside.

“Come, quickly, into this room.” Dr. Mwangi’s orders came clipped, strong, no less commanding than if barked by a military officer.

“We’ll get you up on this table, Mr. Ray.” A glance toward Margaret, “Let’s help him onto his back please.” Margaret aided the good physician, noting gratefully the urgency and professionalism of the man. Soon a syringe was in his palm. He held it up, eyes and hand in synchronized union. “Mr. Ray this antivenom should help once it’s in.” But Ray had gone quiet.

Margaret caught a troubled look clouding the doctor’s face on seeing his patient go unconscious.

Agonizing moments lingered, snailing by, second-on-second as Margaret gazed tensely at her husband’s still form. The syringe found its mark. Antibodies flowed. Suddenly Ray’s chest lifted. He’s taking in air.

The big man’s eyes fluttered.

***

Christian writers of long ago referred to a curious but inviting place – elusive but in their understandings a very real place – a zone, so to speak.

Where the immediate presence of the spirit world, seldom detected by mortals, could seem for some moments anyway, very close by. So nearby that hardly a distinction is made – a crossing over back and forth, an intermingling of the physical world we’re used to and the mystical or invisible world – beyond and yet at hand. The old writers spoke of it as the thin place.

“Jerry, you’ve heard of something they call an ‘out of body experience’, right?” Ray posed the question next time we met.

“Yeah,” I lifted an eyebrow.

“That was me, bro.”

He had my attention.

“Yeah, really. It happened. . . Lying there on my back before the doc’s syringe went in I sensed myself rising. Yes, I was rising. But my body was not. My body just lay there, still. I know because I saw it. Soon I was up somewhere near the room’s ceiling, man. . . looking down on the scene.

“The thing only lasted seconds, though. When the needle went in my body and the the dawa took hold I was instantly back,” Ray exclaimed, clapping his hands in a brisk pop.

“Before that though, for a few seconds I guess, I was watching all from there.” His head cocked upward.

“. . Watching the doc. . . seeing Marge. . . seeing me – my body – yeah, me. Just lying there.”

By the time my friend left the clinic for his return home, some 130 stingers had been extracted from his body.

The mission family was more than grateful. Prayers were heard.

Ray came back.

March 21, 2018March 21, 2018

Drag Race

When I look back, it wasn’t really wise or fair of me to put him at the wheel. I don’t think he was quite ready. . .

“Anybody here know how to drive?”

There is something that brings a smile to the face hearing Swahili uttered in New York City accent.

The blond-haired, high-energy young missionary raised an eyebrow when Chacha – weed-slasher in hand – stepped forward. Chacha’s grin was wide. . proud, his eyes shining.

“Ndiyo. Mimi naweza, Bwana!” (indeed I can, sir!)

The day laborer straightened his shoulders, Perhaps today I will be again at the driver seat!

“OK, Chaca. So, tell me. Who taught you to drive?”

“Ah, Bwana. . . it was Mzee Dodzi” (the German ‘Dodzweit’ spilled abbreviated off his tribal tongue). Mr. Dodzweit, a past missionary, had apparently coached the grounds-keeper at the wheel of an old mission truck. Where to sit, how to grip a steering wheel, shift gears. . .

The attentive missionary toyed with a long grass stem plucked from the soil at his feet, his eyebrow furrowed. Then he smiled.

“Well, Chaca, let’s see how we do then. This Volkswagen here has stopped working. I need it moved to Suna where another fella and I can work on it. It has to be towed. . . you know, pulled by a rope behind the gari over there”, he explained, pointing with raised chin to an aging Jeep nearby.

In a few minutes the two stepped from a windowless storage building. They squinted, their eyes suddenly confronted by the high-noon rays of an equatorial sun.

“So, here’s what we’ll do”. Paul held forth a rope, fished from a place in the shed. “We’ll tie an end of this to the Jeep. I will drive the Jeep. The other end we attach to the car. All you need to do is steer the little VW and – now and then – just touch the brake when we need to slow.” He paused a few seconds, the energetic man of the Big Apple.

Ten minutes past and the two vehicles moved away slowly, entering the murraim road out front of the mission compound – linked as by an umbilical cord fashioned of hemp. The first few kilometers passed with little concern.

Now they navigated a long, downhill stretch of road.

Abruptly everything changed.

Paul stiffened, taken by the sudden drag to his Jeep. Something was very wrong.

Swinging his head about it took a moment to grasp the image beyond the Jeep’s rear bumper. Really?!

Leaping from the Jeep the second it stopped he raced to the Volkswagen. . . His eyes hadn’t lied. The helpless Bug lay flat on its side there at the road’s edge, left-overs of churned dust wafting upward.

Rushing forward, he called, “Chacha! Chacha, are you OK?!”

Discovering an unharmed Weed-slasher-turned-roadservice-driver, he drew a long breath. “What happened? Tell me what happened, Chacha. . .”

The shaken but unscathed man crawled from the car – dusted himself. The missionary allowed space for him to gather himself. The Volkswagen escort fixed his gaze on his homemade sandals. They were common to the area, fashioned of car-tire remnants.

“Eh, ehh. . ” The gent gathered his thoughts to give answer. “Ehh, Bwana. . . truthfully. . .” His voice trailed a little and resumed. “Truthfully. . . when I saw my gari was gaining speed as we came down that long slope there, I thought – um, I thought, ehh I am moving faster than the Jeep now. . . I will go around the Jeep.

“And so. . .I tried.”

Adding, as if by afterthought,

“Nilisahau kamba (I forgot about the rope)”.

March 28, 2018

The Door Please

“I need to what?”

“No, Jer, you need to get proactive. You must tell him. It’s what you do.”

Moving from Bukuria to Suna brought new discoveries, new challenges. Tensions. A lot of things differed between these two tribes, the Kuria and Luo. Traditions. Customs. Worldview.

Rally the courage, Jerry. . . and just do it.

Our colleagues, the Harmans, were off to Canada for a time and it fell to Ann and me to oversee Suna Mission Station in their absence. The Mission sat a stone’s throw from Tanzania, 45 kilometers east of Lake Victoria.

My disquiet was prompted by a visit to our home by a nearby pastor to discuss church affairs. . . Nothing weighty – a simple interchange to do with common matters of mission work.

By the time our second and then third visits rolled around I struggled with a dilemma. Four simple words could sum it up. . . how to part ways. I was stumped over how and when a visitor simply leaves for home once a visit is finished.

I had noted a pattern. . .

***

“Welcome, Brother Tom,” I smiled, “Come in.” We settled into a pair of living room chairs. Ann appeared, greeted the visitor, then moved toward the kitchen. Soon a kettle was whistling. Mugs of hot chai would soon rest on a serving tray before us. So far so good.

The pastor brought up a point. I introduced another. We covered one item, then a second. Cup of chai number two had arrived and gotten drained. Nothing odd here. . . the Locals like their tea.

By the time our third mug of spicy-sweet chai was drained, our discussion matters had wrapped up. The pastor’s visit was finished.

So I thought.

Tom didn’t move. Nor did I.

The pastor glanced at his watch about the time I snuck a peek at a wall clock. Snatches of small talk came and went, broken by moments of awkward silence.

Ann’s tea pot weighed considerably lighter since the first servings. Finally, in a series of awkward back-and-forths, my visitor arose. I did the same. Tom was gone.

***

“Here’s the thing, Jerry”, my Luo-savvy friend privately responded when asked about the dilemma.

“The thing is – once you’re done with business or whatever, the visit is done. It’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to tell him to go home.”

My eyebrows crinkled. “Say that again, please.”

“Sure, it’s like this. In this culture, see, it’s really rude of a visitor just to get up and – like us westerners would – just head for the door. We’re used to the, ‘Gotta go now, see ya later’ thing. No, where you live now you must invite your guest to leave.”

“Hmm.”

April 4, 2018April 4, 2018

Culture Leap

It wasn’t long and an opportunity to dismiss a house guest came my way.

Another visit to our home by Pastor Tom. Again, discussing church matters.

Twenty minutes or so into our chat – the second round of our respective tea cups nearing empty – we each knew our time to wrap up the visit had arrived.

Though I had it on good counsel my next move was called for, this would be my first time to tell a visitor to leave my house. Taking in a slow breath I rose from the chair, and smiling broadly, took a couple steps toward him, extending my hand.

“Pastor Tom. . . it’s been good seeing you.”

Before the phrase had left my lips, I caught a look in his eyes that signaled all would be well – that sending my visitor to the door was not an act of rudeness, rejection or idiocy.

Tom’s smile flashed warmly, his gleaming eyes conveying pleasure – and likely, I gathered – relief. I felt I could almost read his thoughts: Ah, the missionary from America finally gets it!

Taking up residence in another culture, whether across town or across the globe, brings with it mystery. Hurdles. Discomfort. Yet. . . Once sincere attempts are made to adapt, occasional doors to astonishing surprises fling open.

***

“Pastor Jerry, please may we welcome you and Sister Ann. Our new child has come! Meet us at our home for tea.”

Ten months earlier the South Nyanza woman had stepped forward for prayer in our little Migori church. She and her husband wanted to grow a family but were unable to conceive. Her eyes were pleading.

“Please pray.”

We bowed. Petition went heavenward in Jesus’s name. Time moved on. Months passed, and I had all but forgotten the moment.

We got to the home mid-afternoon. The new parents, overtaken with joy, brought out folding chairs to the modest courtyard, receiving us in celebration of their newborn.

We and our hosts sipped sweet chai, helping ourselves to servings of toasty, deep-fried mandazis.

Then came the introduction – their “miracle baby” – a boy. Special expressions of honor are sometimes assigned a person deemed helpful on the occasion of a child being born. A namesake.

Common surnames among the Luo people begin with the letter ‘O’.

“Thank you, Pastor Jerry, for praying that day.” The mother paused. She and her husband smiled,

“Meet Jerry Lout Okech.”

On any marathon journey of a missionary, special moments emerge unlike any other. Humbling. Sacred. Joyous. The mid-1970’s tea visit in Luo-land marked such a time.

April 14, 2018

Missing Hymn

The faded blue hymn books lay beneath the baby-grand piano at the sanctuary front, heaped up in two stacks. Their pages were left unopened most of the year – melodies resting muted inside the hard-bound covers – like eager choir members, mouths duct-taped shut. The images linger with me now, as though only five years – not fifty-five – have stolen past.

During my adolescent days I mused now and then over the peculiar ritual of the song books. I’m glad they’re around, but why do they most of the time just sit there, stacked up, hardly ever touched?

“Today, let’s use the song books”. The pastor’s voice was wistful.

Thus, on a random Sunday morning twice or so a year, out the faded books would come. A pair of youngsters were beckoned and the hymnals would get passed along church rows. Shortly the piano’s intro to the tune, “In the Garden“ sounded, followed by “Rock of Ages” or “I’ll Fly Away”. A song penned by a beloved sightless composer named Fanny Crosby, often made the list.

A film of dust had collected on the topmost volumes, as a number of months had passed since the pages last saw daylight.

In those days of the 50’s I hadn’t yet surmised that the faded blue books had become a kind of sentimental relic in our church. The stack of these aged and more formal kind of songs – hymns – remained too near the heart of older believers to see the church completely part with them. Yet, by some undefined standard, it seemed the music in the old blue books lacked a revivalist flavor – of the sort which had recently captured imaginations and vocal chords. The spiritual songs. These were freshly-composed choruses, gaining increased use among independent Pentecostals identified with something called the Latter Rain Movement.

With a musical heritage marked by informal gospel choruses, I grew fond of many of the tunes. Finding myself at times, along with others, immersed in a rich, palpable presence – God’s presence – where sustained, worshipful singing found deep-hearted expression. Such gatherings often left many worshippers reluctant to leave, well after the final dismissal prayer.

Still, as years moved on, an undefined something in the realm of lyric and melody seemed missing. Like an absent-without-leave musical expression specially-tailored to the heart of God-seekers. Then my wife and I moved to Lima, New York in our missionary-candidate season. We stepped into a chapel service at Elim Bible Institute – in the I. Q. Spencer Tabernacle, named for the institute’s founder. That was where it happened.

My soul getting highjacked by the Redemption Hymnal.

April 20, 2018April 20, 2018

Sing Oh Sing

“Good morning everyone. Let’s stand, shall we? There now, please open to. . .”

David Edward’s Welsh accent met the ear of Southerners like a tugboat whistle would a native Inlander. We took up our hymn books – Redemption Songs.

Easy to spot – nearly impossible in fact, to miss – the treasured little hardback, was drawn from clever book pouches fitted to the backside of sanctuary pews across the Tabernacle.

Hymns spanning centuries – their greater numbers sung by European worshippers rather than North American Yanks were enclosed in sturdy little, deep red hard-backs. They featured no musical notes, only hymn lyrics – some inspired this century, many earlier on – numbering near a thousand in all. Of this grand host of songs I had heard just a tiny fraction. Distinguished, endearing Professor Edwards continued.

“We want to lay aside the morning’s cares, and those of the evening to come. The Lord is here, meeting with us”, he stated with believable conviction. “Such a good and great and worthy Father.”

It was David Edwards himself who had introduced Redemption Songs to the Elim campus.

“His Spirit meets with us gathered now”, Edwards concluded. “Let’s worship him.”

The very first stanzas in a growing parade of lyrics – winsome and wise, deep and lofty – drew me in.

From O for a Thousand Tongues to O Worship the King, to Love Divine All Love Excelling. . .

Penned by past-slave-trader to fine-art composer, their enduring melodies rallied anew. The humble artists proved themselves masters of prose. And cadence. And holiness. Havergal, Spafford and Newton, Cowper, Scriven and Wesley – opening to us their seasoned wines.

Stepping afterwards from the hillside chapel in the modest New York hamlet, I sensed an inner beckoning. An invitation to drink deeply, richly, joyfully. From sacred, deeper-than-deep fountains of ancient truth. Set to music.

I somehow, in the moment, had the presence of mind to respond to the welcome, and not look back.

If a person had no access to the Bible throughout all his lifetime – but owned the collection of Charles Wesley’s Hymns alone, he would have all that is needed for salvation’s offer, the way of living fully in Christ and the eternal hope of heaven. – Geoffrey Hawksley, Missionary. British Assembly of God

April 26, 2018April 26, 2018

A Time To Laugh

“Autumn! Get those pants back up, right this minute!”

When eight pre-school children of four young missionary couples (two M.K.s per household) suddenly go quiet in their outdoor play, the concern of parents increases by degree. First, an observation by a mom whose voice barely masks a growing angst.

“Anyone notice the kids aren’t making any noise?”

From here all the earlier conversation, random banter, interchanges of whatever among the parents, trails off. Anxious thoughts roll in, We’re in Black Mamba country. . . What if they’ve wandered off down by the trees and. . .

In this instance, as it turned out, we didn’t need to worry of strayed children.

Little Autumn’s father had stepped across the living room in which we adults had all been relaxing. Peering out an elevated window, he spotted the little ones. Our children stood in a circle beneath a Frangipani tree at the house’s edge, surveying from a distance curiosities of the human anatomy.

Parents, especially the moms, sprang for the outside doors. They had, just prior to the alarming shout, entered into a quietly reverent prayer time. So much for that. . .

In days following, the mommies and daddies regaled one another with their reactions and those of their urchins.

“Mark, did you lower your pants out there before the others?”

“No mommy”, he moaned. “I tried, but I couldn’t get them to unbutton.”

Sarah, one of the other mom’s present, shared on another occasion a special nugget of wisdom. Noting the useful role humor carries in the sometimes overburdening work of international missions.

“He who laughs lasts.”

May 5, 2018May 7, 2018

Bovine Bargaining

“Thirty-eight”, the young man replied.

“Really, thirty-eight?”

“Yes”. My new friend’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Thirty-eight cows”.

How does an Oklahoma boy take in – not to mention, digest – rural Africa’s matrimony language?

“But, suppose the young man can’t come up with that many? What happens?”

“Oh, sometimes the girl’s father negotiates. . . you know, back and forth.”

“And, if they still can’t agree on a number that works?”

“Well, the young man goes away, with hopes the mzee will somehow lower the dowery. The girl’s father also hopes. . . that a more well-off suitor comes by.”

***

Among the many settings international workers encounter in their new culture is the world of matrimony.

What’s the delay?

I had grown a little impatient over the past half hour. It was wedding day. I had gotten volunteered to drive the bride and attendant from her family home – a simple dwelling well off the beaten path – to the church. A decked-out choral group waited there, watching for our arrival. The groom likewise waited. And waited.

“Brother Jerry, it seems the old man wants more cows or more money. . . or something. . . an added dowry, a sum not discussed earlier, to close the arrangement.”

As the fussing went on – a bridegroom rep laboring to cajole, allure, persuade the old man – I noticed a diesel-belching 2-ton lorry enter property. Twenty or so adults, mostly women in colorful dress. . . several men formally garmented. . . jostled about within, trying to stay upright as the truck half-circled to a stop. Because of the last-minute dowry challenge the festive mood had subsided. All appeared resigned to wait things out. Apparently the tactical game playing out wasn’t so new to the tribe. They got the picture. . . Give the old man time. He likely won’t risk losing face before the clan leaders by sticking in his heels much longer. Not for adding a mere one or two more skinny cows.

My curiosity grew. How will this turn out?