Category: Running Life’s Race With A Limp

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Faces

I see black faces.

Reverend Alta, our lady minister, signaled me with a compassionate but direct look. It was Sunday evening worship time in Okmulgee. I had entered my last semester of high school.

Jerry, there are many of them gathered, she continued. A sea of black faces. You are standing before them. Speaking to them. I’m not sure what it may mean. But I see this.

Her eyes and voice conveyed certainty. Rev. Alta was confident of what had met her vision.

Vision. Rev. Alta saw a vision – at least a mental impression – with me in it?

I thought of the picture’s content – tried imagining the scene. My response was respectful silence.  No goose-bumps or chills. Still I knew from my heritage that these kinds of things can carry meaning. Maybe there is a scent of something here that I’ll connect with further ahead. Maybe not. I shelved the message of the vision, asking the Lord to do his will.

Weeks later green buds started showing on trees. Leaves emerged, flowers revived. With them, spring colors. Senior commencement drew nearer. I fell into a reflective mood – calling to mind people and events intersecting my life up to the present.

A leg brace – pear-tree climbing with Tim – Opaline and VBS – mischief – a polio ward – hayfields, heartbreak, home. . . And. Youth rallies with friends – Billy, Marilyn, James, Pat. . .

Musings continued.

From age five I sang lustily on Lord’s Day. Up front in the sanctuary with my peers. A happy routine each week – us all in a line across the front. Just before dispersing to our Sunday School classes. . .

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine. . . Deep and wide, deep and wide; there’s a fountain flowing deep and wide. . . Zacchaeus was a wee little man, a wee little man was he. . .

I drew a handkerchief from my back left pocket and tooted my nose, telling myself it was seasonal Sinus.

The reflective mood carried me deeper. To feelings beyond simple nostalgia. Shortly, another tune surfaced. I had learned it at youth rally. And we sang it at Robbers Cave Park Camps. Humming it again, the lyrics came easily. I smiled, remembering it’s first try among us. Led by wavy-haired Pastor John.

It may not be on the mountain’s height,
Or over the stormy sea;
It may not be at the battle’s front,
My Lord will have need of me;
But if by a still, small voice He calls,
To paths that I do not know,
I’ll answer, dear Lord, with my hand in Thine,
I’ll go where You want me to go.

I’ll go where You want me to go, dear Lord,
O’er mountain, or plain, or sea;
I’ll say what You want me to say, dear Lord,
I’ll be what You want me to be.

The song stirred memories. Feelings. Of gathered teens at the front of campground chapels or church auditoriums. Singing the prayer and praying the song. Church ministers sometimes label things with short phrases. Our teenage faces were often moistened by the last stanza. . . Tears of Consecration.

Sensing the tender presence I again fished out my handkerchief. I grew thoughtful. An image of some months ago visited my mind.

Of distant lands. Of black faces.

Seth. O

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Musings

Did you hear the president’s been shot?

 During several high school summers – when not bailing hay with him – I helped Dad as senior gopher in his small business. At City Plumbing my duties featured grunts, grime and unmentionable substances. Dodging spiders in under-house crawl-spaces I soaped fitting joints of gas lines. Bubbling up of liquid detergent applied by paintbrush around the galvanized joints revealed any leaks. I, otherwise, threaded galvanized pipe and maneuvered flat steel rods (snakes) along clogged-up restaurant sewer lines. My before-dinner hand scrubbing redefined the term, ferocity.

My Preston High years behind me, a construction firm hired both my father and me in late Summer. As plumber’s apprentice I shadowed my journeyman dad, gaining experience in the trade. We were on a team renovating Okmulgee’s Post Office building. I sniffed the bunker-like quarters. Blended smells of concrete, sawdust and dankness indicated our basement environment. Carpenters, electricians, plumbers, playing their roles in a tradesmen’s symphony.

November 22, 1963

The basement elevator door opened to my dad and me. It was midday. We would surface to first floor and take to our charcoal-black lunch pails. The kind with contoured lids harboring a thermos drinks canister. Dad responded to the terse question about the president.

No, what about it?

I dusted my work cap. Dad waited for a punch line to the man’s unsavory joke. It didn’t come.

It’s not a joke, Clyde.

That Friday our lunch pails lost their appeal as our transport hauled us upward. The elevator scene found permanent residence in a newly-fashioned file in my brain.

Years later the writings of a gifted Oxford professor captured my imagination. I would rate the Irishman – who died the same day as President Kennedy – among my favorite authors. C. S. Lewis.

I believe we all have a limp, perhaps more than one. What manner of crippling could so wreck a person’s mind to make of him a murderer. Of America’s thirty-fifth president?

I worked with dad throughout the post office project. Over time I knew. The plumbing trade isn’t for me. I just wasn’t suited for it. Dad’s work was an honorable vocation. For me, the sensation of typewriter keys clicking under my fingertips felt more at home than the imprint of a pipe wrench on my palm.

Preston High had provided me time in the company of names like Royal and Underwood. I loved the forming of words. . . of thoughts transmitted to paper – loved the clicking beneath my fingertips.

Writing. the Thinker. Image (2)

I wondered. What if words, sentences, communication could lead to something? Excitement stirred – if only mildly.

My simple musings proved momentous. Leading me to broader worlds. Toward adventure.

Even romance.

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

 

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Bronco Country

Accounting. What am I doing in accounting?

 My course choice made no sense. Like a Wall Street trader striding up to mount an unhappy bull at our rodeo.

I had registered at Okmulgee Tech without the benefit of academic counselling – or common sense. I knew nothing of bookkeeping, had no aptitude for it. Better judgment won out before my second class ended. The vocational school – an arm of Oklahoma State University – did offer other tracks. I returned to the catalog.

The printed word interested me and teletype included the word ‘type’. Working for a newspaper means no shortage of words. Nor did the name of my new chosen direction, Teletypesetter Perforator Operator.

The high school from which I recently graduated lacked size and, therefore, course options. I very much wanted to gain two skills – Spanish and typing. But administration said I could only choose one. Learn a second language or learn to type – but not both. My plight was bothersome but promptly resolved. I never learned Spanish.

My instructor sat at the glorified typewriter and introduced its features. A machine that yielded a stream of punctured tape as the typist pecked the keys. Combinations of the circled holes translated into letters, words and symbols. The coded tape fed into a big linotype machine. Molten lead formed imprints, cooled, took on ink, released the creation to the press room. . . Steps in a process ensuring paper boys had a product to deliver – the daily or weekly newspaper.

OK Jerry, give it a try.

Adjusting my chair I rested eight fingertips in their sequence atop familiar symbols. A S D F . . J K L ;   (the right pinky paired itself up, as always, with the semi-colon).  A good feeling settled in. Eight drifters returning to their common home. In pecking order.

Jerry, would you consider taking a job far from here?

The question was my first introduction to the notion my typing fling may spirit me to sights and places beyond. Both geographical and figurative – to kindred-spirits. To surprises. One of them wrecking me – for life. in a very good kind of way.

My training supervisor studied my face for a response. Obviously knowing something I didn’t.

Yes, I’d be happy to consider it, sir.

Well, a weekly newspaper called the Cody Enterprise – it’s in Wyoming – contacted us. I’m prepared to recommend you for the Operator position if you’re interested.

I would be glad for the opportunity. Yes. Thank you.

So, twenty months removed from an earlier Oklahoma departure, I again boarded a Denver-bound bus. Though in a much healthier frame of mind.

A new passenger with a telling weakness for drink stepped aboard in Pueblo, Colorado and seated himself next to me.  Noting the Bible resting open on my lap he slurred an observation.

Oh! You’re readin’ the Bible. Good! His interest rose another level – as did his voice.

Are you a Christian?  More direct.

Yes, sir, I am. I was a kid – sure of my faith but not sure of myself.

Wonderful! I am too. Then he announced it. I’m Pentecostal!

Electing not to fuel the visit by confirming our common faith tradition I offered, That’s nice. He sank contented into his seat and slept. In a moment I glanced his way. I wonder what’s led him to seek comfort, or joy, or escape through a substance in a bottle? A nudge of compassion stirred. I silently prayed God’s care over the random stranger next to me – my fellow-pentecostal.

North of Denver I squinted through a bus window. A passing car sported a red Wyoming license plate. On it I glimpsed a compelling image. A bucking bronco giving his all to dislodge from the saddle an equally-determined cowboy.  Cheyenne boasted her Frontier Days. Laramie, her Jubilee Days – rodeos taking center stage at each.

Indeed, Wyomingites dubbed themselves the Cowboy State. Stretching myself out, I slid my feet beneath the seat ahead and let my chest pillow my chin. I was soon dreaming of my brother Tim and me. Of Bill, our horse clippity-clopping under us – to Okmulgee’s Rodeo Grounds. To the annual PowWow and Rodeo action.

By the time I stirred the bus had entered a land of breezy landscapes. The vehicle jostled under wind gusts as it navigated high desert near Casper. Wind River Canyon enthralled us – its rich blue waters snaking along canyon walls. Past Thermopolis the bus climbed to flatter plains, and finally our destination.

Soon we met with a sign along a city street. I chuckled to myself. Why should I be surprised?

Cody, Wyoming – Rodeo Capital of the World.

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

 

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Tug

Excuse me, sir . . . uh, Pardon me.

The raised yet hesitant voice came from the gravel entry into our farm driveway. The black gentleman’s call turned me to his direction. He was on foot and I looked beyond him to the road. The four-lane highway passing our place linked Tulsa to Dallas and bore the weight of unnumbered vehicles each day.

A long Buick sedan rested on the northbound shoulder, it’s trunk lid open.

On my Tulsa-to-Cody bus ride my mind revisited that day of a year ago. How did I rally the courage to share my faith with that stranger? And how did I then draw back from another stranger – who asked me of my spiritual life – just hours ago?

I’m sorry sir, the Buick-driver offered, but would you have a tire jack I could use? I got a flat just now and my jack is busted.

Drawing a jack from dad’s Oldsmobile I joined the visitor. We moved toward his car.

Where are you headed? I asked. Eyeing the flat tire, we exchanged general comments – about travel. About weather. As if the elements were listening in, a chilly gust delivered a shiver along my spine.

As we loosed lug nuts and cranked the jack I felt a tug from inside.  A sense that I needed to share something of Jesus with the traveller. My pulse picked up as I considered what to say and, as importantly, how to say it. He topped my age by fifteen years at least. And he was – in the language of the day – a negro, a man of another race. My mind went to our town’s Five and Dime Store of only a short while back. Displaying a pair of drinking fountains side-by-side. Twin porcelain fixtures – except for the defining labels above them. One marked COLORED, the other, WHITE.

Could I ask you, sir (my turn to employ the polite term), do you know Jesus Christ?

He studied my face a moment – mining it’s features for sincerity perhaps? Or anything.

Returning to his work, he secured the last lug nut with the tire iron.

I mean, sir. . .  do you know God In a personal way, as your Savior? Jesus gave his life to save you – make you right with God. He did that for me, too.

The lines of his forehead snugged together. He was thoughtful, not resistant or offended as far as I could tell. My relative calm in the moment surprised me. We deposited the wounded tire into the trunk, shut the lid and dusted our hands. I felt the inner tug again.

Have you trusted in him? Are your sins forgiven?

A short pause and his reply.

No, I haven’t, really. Though I know I do need to.

That’s all any of us really need to know. He loves us and just waits for us to turn to him.

Well, He displayed a stirring. I think I’m ready to do that turning.

We waited together. The busy highway seemed miles away.

Would you be O.K. kneeling with me here? We can ask God together.

Without hesitation he knelt to the pavement. I joined him. I felt elated, but tenderly so. Like in a holy place. Of joy. God’s presence meeting us on Highway 75 – and Tulsa-bound traffic breezing by.

Our prayer together was simple – uncluttered. An offering of confession, birthing of new faith.

In Jesus’ name. Amen.

We stayed kneeling a few seconds longer. The car’s bumper served us well – an altar of chrome. We rose from our knees and smiled at one another and embraced. A union of common son-ship conferred by a shared Father. Brothers.

He entered the car and resumed his journey – with an added destination and travelling companion.

Lord, up here in the Northwest now, would you bring my heart close? Near to you. Like on that day? Lead me to a family of believers. A church family in Cody – I’d like to feel at home.

A familiar accent lay in wait, for just the right time.

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Accent

The bustle and charm of Old-West-revived enveloped Sheridan Avenue. I alighted to my destination’s main street in late July, 1964. The summer air was warm – absent Oklahoma’s thick humidity – indicating the mile-high elevation. Tourism thrived, as it would this time of year.

Resting my suitcase at the curb I stretched. The bus moved on, making visible Sheridan Avenue’s attractions across the way. A renowned hotel stood at a corner.

Buffalo Bill Cody – co-founder of the town bearing his name – built the hotel in 1902. He christened the it Irma – after his youngest daughter – praising it as, “just the sweetest hotel that ever was”*. I shifted my weight to my better leg and wondered at the flow of tourists entering and exiting Hotel Irma. To most, their destination lay fifty miles away. For now they were visitors. Of Cody, Wyoming – Eastern Gateway to Yellowstone Park.

Taking up the suitcase I set off for my new quarters four blocks away. Stranger to independent living I settled into a tidy rental room in a private home. No kitchen access.

Would you like coffee, Sir? I’ll take your order when you’re ready.

My first morning in Cody found me in a diner two blocks East of the Irma.

I nodded to the young waitress.

Sure, thanks. And I’ll just have a couple eggs over-easy, with bacon and some toast.

The waitress went silent. Her gaze unnerved me. Uh, Sir. If you don’t mind, could you repeat your order? As I spoke she seemed to dissect each word as it left my mouth.  

Mm, I’m sorry, Sir. She was clearly distracted. And enthused. Please wait just a moment. I’ll be right back!

In seconds she returned, another waitress near her age in tow.

Sir?  If you don’t mind, could I ask you to repeat your order – just once more. For my friend, please?

Both girls leaned forward. Then I caught on. Neither one knew the Oklahoma drawl – much less spoke it. Even in a tourist town – so far from home – my voice was an oddity. An early morning marvel for a café wait staff.

The matter of accent resurfaced.

After two mornings – on my first Wyoming Sunday – I slipped into Cody’s Assembly of God church for worship. In seconds an unmistakable accent seized my attention. I discovered its origin – one of Oklahoma’s seventy-seven counties.

Okmulgee County.

*http://www.irmahotel.com/

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Warmth

I stood at the entry and surveyed the sanctuary as worshippers trickled in, moved past and made their way to their seats.  A gray-haired couple sat ten feet away, near the center aisle to my right. A pianist on the platform up front busied herself with sheet music before taking up a red hymnal.

Hmm, I wonder what songbook the folks do use here? The nearby gray-haired lady held a book of the same reddish tint. My mouth moved as I silently read the title. Cast in gold lettering beneath three delicate crosses it read, Melodies of Praise.   I thought. I like that.  A song book title with feeling.

Spotting a new visitor the pastor left the platform and came my way. His handshake and generous smile reinforced what I already sensed – the church’s warmth.  This may be a place I could get to know the Lord better – and some Rocky Mountain dwellers – all at the same time.

So Jerry, where do you come from? Where would you call home? The pastor’s interest seemed genuine and I warmed to it.

Well, I come from a small place called Okmulgee. It’s in Oklahoma. About thirty miles south of Tulsa.

The mention of Okmulgee struck a chord with the gray-haired lady holding the hymnal. Light refracted on the silver-gray hair as Mom Starbuck swiveled her head abruptly. Her eyes shimmered and her mouth betrayed delight – through the wrinkled face a little-girl smile.  In an accent common to my Oklahoma ears, Mom Starbuck offered her declaration. She was enthralled.

Okmulgee?!  A brief pause. . . and the clincher. I went to high school in Preston!

Astonishment overtook me – even as I smiled at an accent that rendered high school,  haah-skule.

How likely was this? A couple of Okies, she and I. Travelers of a twelve-hundred-mile distance to a common place of worship in the Wyoming Rockies. . .Mom Starbuck and me – united by a common culture – divided  by forty-five years.

Preston.

Where Typing Instructor, Mrs. Smith acquainted me with circular typing keys. With numbers, letters and symbols mounted on metal stems. I learned in her class to vigorously slide (a thousand times) the feed roller – along the machine at each lines end.  Here I entered  the world of black carbon paper.

And now, Wyoming. Mrs. Smith’s Typing I and Typing II inaugurated my passage to Wyoming. To Cody. And her warm-hearted people.  My vision moved generally toward the church ceiling. God, could you be doing something?

Two weeks later found me and my burgundy suitcase at Starbucks front door.

Oklahoma cooking. That will be nice.

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Welcome

Known simply as Mom Starbuck, she took her place behind the lectern. A stickler for faithfulness in Christian duty she let nothing short of pneumonia deny her its privilege. Hugging a Bible to her chest, she closed her eyes. A more sincere opening prayer I never heard. Her eyes opened and met with those of each person in the small gathering.

Beloved, let’s turn to the Book of Luke. We want to hear some things Jesus said. We’ll see him at work and we’ll listen to the counsel he gave some villagers. Timely counsel for us today.

It was the Lord’s Day. And Mom Starbucks Adult Sunday School class – homemakers, technicians, newly-weds, oilfield workers – all paid attention.

By my third Sunday in town I counted the Assembly as my church home. Mom and Pop, each of them aging but spry, approached me following worship, that late-Summer day. Of the pair Pop was the shorter – maybe by two inches. A sustained twinkle highlighted crows-feet about his eyes, giving the impression a frown had never visited his face.  His trademark chuckle – complete with faint shoulder-tremors – endeared Pop to the community. Mom was slightly humpbacked, perhaps from compensating over their height discrepancy. She was the more vocal.  I was both attracted to and unsettled by a conviction-fire  that sometimes visited her eyes.  I had noticed the odd way her closed lips moved about when something important held her thoughts. They moved that way now.

Jerry, Harold and I would like to give you something to consider.

Sure.

We know that where you live doesn’t allow for any home-cooked meals. So we were wondering.

Pop Starbuck nodded.

Harold and I raised three daughters. They’re all grown now and live at their own places. We’d like you to think about moving in with us – try out some of my cooking. Her smile couldn’t have been more inviting.

We can suggest a room-and-board amount and you can decide.  Do you think you’d be interested?

Entering the bedroom with my bit of luggage I took some seconds to adjust my vision. My eyes felt under assault. With pink.

I’ll need no explanation of  this. Mom and Pop raised girls alright. The grin on my face broadened as I inventoried my new living quarters.

Bedspread-Pink

Chest-of-drawers – Pink

Curtains and Drapes – Pink,

Etc.

Organ music filtered from the living room as I unpacked my suitcase. Afterward I paused at the doorway. My weaker leg wasn’t tired. It just felt good to rest against a wall inside a home. Where family dwelled.

The small organ bench supported a contented Pop Starbuck. Clearly at ease in his musician-role. And with himself.

Aromas of pot roast, simmering carrots, potatoes and who knew what else floated from the modest kitchen.  I felt my mouth moisten.

Shortly Mom Starbuck emerged and sent a smile our way.

Are you two gents ready to take in some food?

I entered the kitchen and approached a dining table set for three. And hummed a closing line I was taking in from another room.

Great is thy faithfulness Lord unto me.

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Wheels

With borrowed carpentry tools I dismantled the wooden crate my dad shipped from Oklahoma. Soon I straddled the unpacked merchandise and thrust the kick-starter. I was happy for the right-foot design. With my left foot’s polio history firing up the motorcycle engine would have been tough.

The 150cc Honda came to me a couple days after my bus arrival on Sheridan Avenue. Sitting on my bike felt good. A link with my home state, and memories. A wistful mood took me back.

I was ecstatic over my bike’s achievement one night. On the Honda I had opened the throttle on a long downhill stretch of highway, seeing what she could do.

Returning to the towns’ main street, I spotted a familiar green and white ‘59 Chevrolet – the wheels of a good friend. The Chevy was parked before a diner. Dropping the bike’s kickstand I strode in – primed to brag. At a booth I spotted my brother Tim, his friend Larry and a couple others.

Guys! Guess what. I just got seventy on my Honda.

Gale, the Chevy owner and the wittiest head among us, grinned my direction. Kinda crowded wasn’t it?

Another memory was the goose-egg my skull acquired from a Sixth Street pavement. I smiled again at the remark, Reckon we oughta get his bike off the road?

 Now my same white Honda carried me along the Shoshone River – into and past a canyon. The smell of Shoshone’s Sulphur pestered my nostrils as I leaned into highway curves. The bike hummed loudly through tunnels leading to the Buffalo Bill Reservoir. Cloud-shadows blotched Rattlesnake and Cedar Mountains. Peaks that – like sentries – stood watch over Cody. I ventured between them, then past the lake and up Wapiti Valley.

My motorcycle treks became therapy rides – the perfect answer to hours parked in a chair near an editor’s room. Where my fingers marathon-danced on teletype keys.

Weather attractive to motorcyclists held on till early Fall. Tourism slowed. Intermittent cold snaps knocked at Cody’s door, ready to usher in an approaching winter.

For the Honda and me, a last big trek lay ahead.

Toward the most unexpected, life-altering adventure.

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Big Sky

At sixty miles per hour, cold pummeled my face. The mountain air continued its assault as Cody, Wyoming receded back of me to the south. I had left before Seven a.m.  My destination this Labor Day Sunday was Billings, Montana. To lessen my discomfort I dialed the throttle back a notch with my right hand. I was shivering.

This was ranch-land in the raw. Clusters of sheep – like huddling athletes in white jerseys – congregated in tight groups.  My bike took me past similar groupings of cattle in the open range. An occasional head rose among them, nostrils emitting puffs of steam.

I crossed the state line. Minutes into Big Sky Country I slowed. Surveying the quiet main street of small-town Belfry I hoped for an open diner with hot food.  I must dismount this bike and catch a break from this cold.

Ah. Seems like a cozy cafe. Indeed, and at my journeys’ half-way point – a refuge. I requested my standard. . . two eggs over-easy, bacon, toast – black coffee. I smacked my gloved palms together and circled in short steps before a wood-burning stove. Beyond the effects of frigid conditions common to most people, my polio episodes seemed to hinder blood flow still more. Despite attempts at thawing my fingers, once my food came another two minutes passed before they held a fork with any ease.

It’ll be nice seeing Brother Fred and his family again. My thoughts anticipated Montana’s largest city as I spread strawberry jam on my toast.

Fred. The third man of the Creason brothers intersecting my world. I suppose I should have let them know I would come see them today.

The waitress extended a navy blue coffee pot – steam levitating above its spout. More coffee? I nodded gratefully.

Fred Creason, his German wife Erica and their two young boys, had till recently lived in my home town, Okmulgee. They were part of our church family. Fred, in the insurance business, moved his family to Billings on what could be thought by some, a whim. But a mystery dream, believed to be God-sent,  played a role.

An thought interrupted my reflections – tightening my eyebrows.

Never one to fuss very much over planning ahead, I realized now I lacked some important information. Quite important.

I had no Billings address for the Creason family. Nor a Creason telephone number. Further, I only assumed they knew that I now resided in Cody – a hundred miles near.

Wow. They could be off someplace on vacation for all I know. And, the Creasons are my only reason for visiting Billings. I don’t know another soul in all Montana. Wow. Well – something will work out I guess. . .

Stretching, I pushed back from the breakfast table and reviewed my road map. Then took up my wool coat, thick scarf and rabbit-hair gloves. I glanced at a wall clock. It was just past 8:00 a.m. when I stepped from the diner.

My first breakfast in Montana. Nice, I mused, cinching my helmet strap.  I eyed the northward highway and wondered of the town called Billings. And the Creason family’s whereabouts.

Something lay before me I could have never foreseen. Within hours I would meet someone. From this another journey would spring.  A larger, life-impacting one.

Of callings. Of dreams. Of covenant.

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

 

 

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Eyes

The term reasonable and prudent measured Montana’s legal highway speed for years.  Absent a daytime speed limit, drivers simply focused on the road ahead. Rather than radar-fitted patrol cars – or their own speedometers. Some motorists argue that Big Sky highways were safer in those earlier times – when reasonable and prudent described people themselves – not just speed laws.  My small-engine motorcycle threatened neither Montana nor Wyoming law enforcement of the ‘60s.

Crossing railway tracks at the south edge of Laurel, Montana, brought me within twenty miles of my destination. Funny how our senses usher us to times and locations. And memories. With its oil refinery, Laurel’s sights and smells wakened feelings of another place.  From the highway entering Tulsa we saw refineries layer the atmosphere in smoke plumes. Spreading their billows adrift – like a giant bedcovering flung from a housekeeper’s invisible hands.  Near the highway white storage tanks shadowed a larger-than-life sign. Boldly declaring, Tulsa, Oklahoma – Oil Capital of the World.

Well, it’s Sunday morning in Montana. If the Creason family is around, in a few minutes they’re likely entering a church. Somewhere.  

Downtown Billings was quiet. The abrasive air began to mellow as the sun made its upward climb. Leaving the parked Honda, I entered an upscale hotel and surveyed the lobby. There were two  mahogany phone booths, side by side – neither of them occupied. It wasn’t a telephone I sought. I flipped through the directory to the Yellow Pages.

C-h-u-. .  There it was. Churches. Hmm. Even for a city of sixty thousand, this seemed a lot of churches.

Let’s see. . . Non-denominational. If the Creasons are not away, they’re probably, maybe. Beneath the category the tip of my forefinger glided downward. Plenty of listings here, too.

A ballpoint, attached to a thin chain, lay close at hand. Resting my finger at a random name I copied the church and its address.  It didn’t occur to me to copy any of the others.

Absent the aid of a city map I directed my bike down a side street just beyond the hotel. After two or three turns, within a few blocks I was at the street I sought. Minutes after leaving the phone booth I spotted the church sign, Tabernacle of Faith.  I tipped the open end of my left glove. My watch read nine forty-five.

An outer church stairway led me up to the entrance. The warmth of the sanctuary enveloped me and I paused to take in the room and scan the few early arrivals. Drawing a long breath I smiled broadly.

Erica Creason – Fred ‘s war bride (as the era designated her) – spotted me. Her German accent traversed the sanctuary. Fred! Boys.

Erica remained astonished. Her eyes glistened. Look. It is Jerry Lout!

The foursome descended on me. Exclamations punctuated our laughter as we hugged.

Pretty amazing, I thought. The first place to look. And here they are. The Creasons. Wow.

Our mini-reunion quieted as piano music signaled an opening hymn. Taking up a red song book I fingered the graphic. Three gilded crosses. The corners of my mouth turned upward. Melodies of Praise. Throughout worship I felt closeness. Close to friends, close to others in the room – even the strangers. I felt close in our common purpose to gather in this place. To worship the Lord, to grow in our faith. What church is about, I thought. Following the morning sermon, the Creasons brought me to the preacher.

Brother Barnes, we want to introduce you to Jerry Lout. He’s a friend from Oklahoma, from our church body there.

Pastor Earl Barnes, a gregarious personality, smiled. He welcomed me, then signaled his family. I recognized the approaching woman as the organist. She carried herself with grace. Her smile was full, sincere.

Jerry, this is my wife, Mary, and our three children.

I nodded. He indicated their two boys. Our sons here are Jonathan and David. And this is their sister.

The pretty fifteen-year-old stood relaxed but poised. She held a scarf and woolen cap. Across an arm draped a winter coat that would soon conceal the light blue sweater she wore. Her name was Alice. Her blond hair framed a face as attractive as any I had ever seen and I risked an extra second to study it. Her eyes especially drew me. I forced myself to shift my gaze from their symmetry and beauty. I turned to acknowledge again her mother and father.

The girl’s first name was Alice. But she went by her middle name.

Ann.

©2015 Jerry Lout