Category: Running Life’s Race With A Limp

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Branch

Bring the lamp near.

Gaspar was accustomed to giving commands. Wealthy, of prominent lineage, tutored by notable scholars.

Gaspar, together with his friend – a devotee to the heavenly bodies – studied the star chart until their half-finished tea went cold.

Now. Let’s go have a look.

Straightening themselves they moved outside.

Lighted pinpoints blanketed the sky. The astrologer-scholar tilted his head, directing his chin toward the westward horizon. He signaled his friend. There.

Gaspar’s deep eyes, squinting just moments ago, widened. Ah, yes. Acknowledging further by a lifted hand he whispered, Yes, I see. Then added, Um, yes, this one has never caught my eye before tonight. Indeed I don’t recall ever seeing it. This star.

You have not seen it because it has never been. Not until these weeks.

Well, said Gaspar, We must look into parchments of civilizations past – others as well as our own. And determine.

Determine what, nobel friend?

What, if any, purpose a new star in the heavens may serve. Fortune perhaps?

Months  later, Gaspar riding his beast – rolling slowly with its stride – reviewed that night. He savored occasions when he could – without intrusion – review his past, his station in life, his good fortune.

Keeping to his general disposition he struggled with humility. This, he himself would not deny. Truthfully, he did find himself growing uneasy at his self-congratulatory musings. But only slightly.

Of course it was I who first took serious note of the light in the western sky. And didn’t I, Gaspar, in my research, uncover the mystery-promises?

The promises, he recalled, were oral references of ancient Hebrew parchments – oracles predicting a king’s birth. A child-king promised to the Hebrew peoples. . . perhaps even to the world.  His shoulders lowered and he sighed, reluctant to credit others whose qualities were equally vital to the cause.

Yes, he conceded, Melchoir was he whose dream one night launched a relentless search of the heavens for some guiding star. And, yes, it lay with Belthazar’s talent to coordinate and map the pilgrimage details – a talent unmatched by most skilled trackers across the eastern world.

Still.

Was it not I among the magi – Gaspar swept his billowy-sleeved arm in an arch denoting his companions. Was it not I of whom the elders in my land whispered openly, ‘Of course Gaspar will lead the expedition. Such a venture demands leadership. Who else?’ His slight-turned smile – even in reflection – betrayed smugness. Shouts interrupted his thoughts.

Master, master! The light we have followed all this way. The star. It seems to have ceased its forward advance. It is lowered now. Fixed. In place. And see, now master, to the valley there ahead. The town. Might it be the place of the king-child. Might it be, master? The servant drew back, rejoining his fellows, each of them abuzz with theory.

The fourth watch was half-run when the caravan finished its descent, trimming the distance to the sleeping village. The star’s brightness shone from directly above them. Gaspar squirmed in his saddle, a curious discomfort had been rising inside him for awhile. With no prompting of any kind he knew. The disquiet was in his soul – a deep troubling within. He shuddered – less settled still.

The star’s light – distinct and above him – converged it seemed with another kind of light – invisible, holy, searing. Illumining his whole person, his inner self. Gaspar’s shudder yielded to a muffled cry –   lamenting, confessing, sorrowing. The shift of mood became his. He owned it and it overtook him.

Woe, woe am I. Corrupt. Arrogant. Viewing my brother with contempt. The remorse went on, spilling out. I am brought low, an unworthy being. Seekings – soul-questions – displaced his confessions. But before whose face I am unworthy I know not.  I dare not proceed. . . to the place of the king-child. Who is this one, this child? Is it he who moves upon me so – here, even before I view his face?

He drew his camel back, brought his cape over his face. At his command – oddly meek now to his animal’s ears – the camel knelt. Gaspar dismounted. He went to his knees in the sand. Unworthy. I’ve nothing to give. Even the myrrh I bring. No, I must receive. Must gain mercy. Mercy. Exalted Being. . Governor of constellations. Mercy!

In moments he sensed a thing wholly new to his experience. A presence. Then he felt a word – felt it more than heard it. Bathed. . .  bathed. The term marked more than any the feeling sweeping him – washing through him. A bathing presence. Wave on purifying wave. Cleansing. Marked by joy.

He didn’t know the time he lingered – the cleansing under the star’s light. His smile was wide, free – embracing the world all about him. After some moments he moved to rise.

His right leg, bent beneath him so long, had lost feeling. Reaching upward, he grasped a young tree’s low-hanging branch and raised himself. Steadying himself by the branch, he rolled the useless foot round and round in motion. A picture began forming in Gaspar’s mind as he balanced there on one leg. Yes, yes this is who I am. I am a man not able, of my own reserves, to properly stand. On my own I am out of balance. Needing support. Support such as found in this tree. He strengthened his grip on the branch.

Old fool you’ve been. Wagging his head, Gaspar chided himself. My own arrogance. My haughtiness. Assigning to myself glory not due me. This has left me a cripple. But now.

 A surprise wave of thankfulness overtook him. Further, it stirred in him a resolve. And a pledge.

From this day I shall walk in the company of others. None of us alone – none isolated from the rest. My brothers – Melchior and Balthazar indeed – yes, and my servants as well. Guides they are  – companions all – upon whom I may lean. Friends unto whom I shall render service. Yes, we shall be – each to the other – as a supporting limb.

But yet. The wise man paused. A  worrying line formed. Are we – we humans, equal to this – frail supports that we are? Hardly fit to carry ourselves – even less one another. What of our frailties? Ours each one? Indeed it is we ourselves most needing support. And what support have we? Have we any?

Bustling movements interrupted his thoughts – excited calls sounding from a place just ahead. Ecstatic, adoring calls – calls voiced in varied tongues – Aramaic, Hebrew, Persian, Arabian. All declaring one thing – one person. The child-king.

One voice, with Persian accent, of Jewish descent – sounded above others. Distinct, crisp, jubilant. The call struck Gaspar’s soul. Cupping his ear to seize upon the phrases, he took them in, every word – one by one.

All worship to him, the Christ-child!

Messiah!

King!

Morning star!

the Branch!

The word almost escaped him.

Branch? Gaspar swallowed. A twilight breeze touched his face, stirring  his beard.

Without thinking, he turned again to the tree still in his reach. He peered toward the lighted glow of a simple dwelling on the path ahead. Hope stirred.

I shall deliver the myrrh to my Lord.

He wrapped his fingers about the bough and squeezed, firm and long.

Gaspar mounted his animal. Take me now, camel. See the light of the dwelling there, camel?

We shall meet there a child.

The King-child.

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

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Qualities that Count. ‘Attentiveness

Attentive –  thinking about or watching something carefully : paying careful attention to something.  merriam-webster

  My son, be attentive to my wisdom; incline your ear to my understanding, Proverbs 5:1

 A mark of sensible intelligence is paying attention (attentiveness) to wisdom. Being with wise people, reading wisdom literature, practicing being wise; all these lead toward a good life.  Attentiveness can even make a difference in the animal kingdom. As my friend, Ben, saw in Uganda.

* * *

The house cat, her eyes trained upward to an adjoining room, lowered  her body along the floor.  Assuming a stalking posture, she began her move.

Ben – a young missionary living with his uncle and aunt in Kampala – sat his beverage aside.  This could be interesting.

Seated where he was, Ben could take in the full view. He intertwined his fingers behind his head and watched.

A large circular bird cage hung on a secure hook from the living room ceiling. On a simple roost in the cage sat an African Gray parrot. The house cat licked her lips.

Ben’s uncle and aunt owned a third pet, as well – a dog – which, at the moment, was nowhere in sight.

The cat was viewed by the canine as a bothersome presence – so would find herself at times racing through the house – the dog barking in hot pursuit.

A straight-backed chair had been left directly under the parrot cage – a detail not lost on the cat. She leapt onto the chair and placed her front paws atop its back support. Her leaping advantage established, she eyed the bird a final moment. Before pandemonium struck.

Unknown to the predator house-cat, the Gray was a keen observer. Not only was she taking in her every move, from her perch she had often watched the dog-and-cat-chase through the house.

Suddenly, the bird dropped to the cage floor, raced round and round on it. And vigorously barked – perfectly mimicking the dog’s strong bark.

Throwing his head back, Ben broke into a long, rollicking laugh – as a shrieking bundle of fur bolted through an open door to freedom.

©2016 Jerry Lout

 

 

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Rhythm

I think we all need – really need, this to navigate life.

My friend Roger continued. Bringing less frazzle, more sanity. More life. Roger, was on a roll. Not unlike a drum roll.

When I hear drum rolls or things to do with foot-tappings, knee-slappings, fingertip-rappings, I think, Cody.

Not the Cody, Wyoming of other blog posts here recalling bus rides westward, motorcycle adventure, romance.

Rather the Cody from Southeast Oklahoma – my first grandson. Is he twenty-two now – Really?

For years his hands, wrists, even shoulders have unleashed pulsating energies.

What’s that distant rat-a-tat? More than one head-scratching visitor has posed the question to my daughter – his mother. She smiles, Oh, that’s Cody out in the game room. Drumming.

Distracted family members have implored little drummer boy – Umm, Code-man, could you ease up on the finger tapping. Focusing on our card game ain’t going well.

From eighth grade he began wowing us (grandparent bragging rights are constitutionally-protected.) Ten years beating away on drum heads, cymbals, chests of drawers, kitchen counters, bathroom mirrors, pickup hoods. God be praised he drums in rhythm.

Our lives need rhythm, Roger went on. My wife and I take a ‘couch time’ break most days. Breaking for fifteen minutes from all the action swirling around us. To connect, to catch up. To be in each other’s worlds. On purpose.

Rhythms. On Purpose.

Call them practices. Call them disciplines.

Whatever we call them – practices, disciplines – thoughtful people weave them into their calendar. Stewarding ebbs and flows of on-purpose living. On purpose.

Much like ancient Jesus-followers did, like mothers and fathers of the faith did – century by century.

Like the master Jesus himself did,

“Rising a great while before day he went into a solitary place, and there prayed”.

And Paul,  “as his custom was he entered the synagogue”.  Prayer, Scripture, Church community, Service, Solitude, Rest, Labor.

I ponder such a list and an appetite stirs. I’m homesick to ebb and flow like this, in my own design.

As surely as I am made for God, I’m made for rhythms. He moves in, takes up more space in my affections. Helps me live my design.

Going to Youtube I watched several drummers – really accomplished drummers. Not all were specimens of health. So physically disabled were some they struggled to mount the drum stool. Then magic took over. How?

Their disciplines – repeated practicings – carried them to astonishing mastery. Melodious thumpings and swishings, clangings and tappings easily flow from their wrists and hands. Amazingly they have long stopped thinking their limbs into action. The body takes over. It is trained.

Such is the way of the Jesus-follower. More becoming his, in the ebb and flow of spiritual disciplines. Trusting his help, his ready strength at every step. Entering the easy yoke.

“I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”    -Jesus                                                             

                                                                                                                                               *Matthew 11, Message Bible
© 2016 Jerry Lout

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Race to Space

My index finger entered the circular hole of the rotary disc. I dialed the figures scrawled on the paper before me. A job lead, maybe?

The seconds taking me to dial had me reflecting.

Boy oh boy, just yesterday it seems. I was five-years-old – shedding the leg brace. Then nine – hospitalized by the second polio bout.

My thoughts easily moved to the sweet angel on crutches. What an impact she made. . . Still does, I mused.

 The ringing at the line’s other end stopped. Hello, this is Richard.

Placing Richard’s voice was easy. Ultra-deep bass. Warm, of a kind surely passed to him from an older sister. The angel on crutches – Opaline.

Hi, Richard. This is Jerry returning your call. How are things?

A short exchange then, Jerry I’m calling to let you know the aerospace company I’m with is hiring. If you’re interested in a Tulsa job, I think you might get on here. He was right.

My first day on the job had me trudging through rows of filing shelves – aisle on aisle of engineering data. I thought of my earlier years when I peered at oddly-textured, blue-tinted paper spread across the hood of my father’s pickup. His fingers traced images while his mind tracked their silent messages. Here, taking in rows of files, my senses mingled. Feeling the green, metal pickup hood beneath my palms, smelling the print-room chemicals from the nearby room in this place.  Wow, I never imagined so many blueprints.

The company, its employees in the thousands, processed me for security clearance. Heady stuff for a country boy raised on a farm just south of here.

The United States and Soviet Union race-for-space had launched in earnest. Brilliant American minds developed and crafted a top priority project. Where will all this lead? I wondered. Over coming months my hands felt after, retrieved, refiled blueprints by the hundreds Many bore a name out of Greek mythology.

Apollo.

©2016 Jerry Lout

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Train

Warm the bench.

 The high, red-brick gymnasium overshadowed our school’s single-story classrooms.

Parked on the cold bench with fellow player-wannabees, my gaze dropped to the tennis-shoed polio foot at the end of my left leg.

My rear end’s the best thing this bench ever saw come its way. I’ll keep this wood plank warm all season.

I looked up to the scrimmage happening on court. My melancholy eased. Look at those Petit brothers. Perspiration glistened on their lithe ebony forms. Wow, amazing their fitness. . . and their moves. Effortless.

So it seemed.

* * * * * * * *

A common link binds me presently to four athletes.

Colton, the youngest and his sister, Tara (high school junior) practice lobbing free throws. Every day. They scramble after rebounds for their teams.  Moments later their coach barks, Work it inside, move the ball inside!

After practice the siblings breeze along four miles of dirt road to their Oklahoma farm home – to chores, and homework. To laughs with family at the wood-burning stove.

The third athlete in the quartet – Luke, the ninth-grader – schools in Kenya. Luke keeps fit for what’s up next. . . Rugby, volleyball? Calls made in the game of rugby land strangely on American ears. . . scrum awarded – collapsing ruck. . . Given the sport’s intensity, ‘Rugby-moms’ are known to gasp at certain calls – bleeding wound. . .

Grace rounds out athlete number four. On the Congo playing field rigorous training tunes her ears to soccer calls. Corner kick – yellow card. On it goes.

I thrill taking in games, studying pics of these my grand-athletes. Some nearby, some far.

My mind revisits the Petit brothers of Preston High. And the term so readily voiced before. Effortless.

No. The thing that is going on out there – over the squeaking shoes – the pivots, the fakes, the twirling leaps. Nothing accidental’s going on out there. Not a thing.

My thoughts shift to another dimension. To life. All of life.

Whatever goes on with a person that actually counts. Language acquisition, architecture, athletics  – or that makes for exceptional living – those actions demand something. On-purpose, precise, repetitive action. While dreaming, hoping.

My fabulous four athlete-grandkids practice. They’re keeping fit. They  train..

I’ll never suit up for the NBA. Or charge down a soccer field defying blockers and goalies. I won’t (God forbid) kick shins – or have shins kicked – in a rugby scrum.

Every athlete has an aim.

In the contest of life every follower of Jesus has an aim. Really, an aim beyond the highest aspirations of any physical athlete. The aim is dual in nature, fashioned amazingly God himself.

Being transformed by renewing the mind, the way we think.

Let Christ be formed in you – our becoming like him. In word and action.

Great, we say. So. How’s this done? How?

Good news it is possible. He will help us.

To train, to practice, to be made fit. Till new ways become, not ill-fitting, but natural. Something we call – as Jesus did –  the light burden – the easy yoke.

I lean down. Cold bench, warm bench. . . no matter. Lacing my shoes I cock my ear to the coach’s call,

Time to train.

©2016 Jerry Lout

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Nearness

Really honey, no pain meds? First Aid didn’t send you home with some?

Well, I winced, it didn’t hurt that much after they worked on me so I told them I wouldn’t need any pills. That the anesthetic might wear off hadn’t occurred to me.

Pain – like life – isn’t meant to be handled alone. Just Ann’s presence that night eased the hurt of my traumatized finger. A pain-consoler may not dwell under the same roof. Nearness comes often through a hand-held device in easy reach – the call or text summoning a friends voice – and the pain is hushed. Even when these are not available, we remember the ONE. Jesus – our “present help in trouble” – gets pain. With such friends, the injury’s cause – self-inflicted or other –  doesn’t matter. Mercy makes room. Comfort shows up. I was quite the doofus earlier that day.

Bounding over hardware, Francis reached me in two strides. Seizing my wrist, he squeezed evenly. The blood flow, shooting spurts of red a moment earlier, eased.

Here Jerry, do this. I’ll shut the machine down.

I took over my co-worker’s self-assigned medic role, clasping my right wrist. My work-partner, Francis, returned in seconds. Now, we want to get you to First Aid.

***

Reproductions department had moved me to their shop in the massive aeronautics plant. The square, open room, seasoned with inky aromas, pulsed with print-machine rhythms.  I had come to draw odd comfort from the omnipresent, clickity-clack movements of the press room.

I had wrapped up the final job order on my multilith press for the day, clearing away some stragglers of unspent paper. Standing before the unit, I dialed down the ink roller speed, then took up a rust-red work cloth and cleaning solution bottle.

Safety measures can’t be over-stressed, we’d been told. Always look out for things that might catch on moving parts, a supervisor had once warned. Like  clothing.  One machine choked a fellow when ink rollers swallowed his neck tie all the way up. Nasty.

This day clothing didn’t play a role. Still, carelessness did.

I’ll just wrap the rag around this forefinger, spray some solution, slide the cloth  slowly – forward and backward along the roller, clearing the ink. . .  I hadn’t factored the exposed gear rotating steadily near the ink rollers. Its teeth seized my cleaning rag. My finger-tip followed – yanked into the gear and bringing the cog to a halt. Less than a minute later Francis was hustling me down to First Aid.

I lay face up on a black vinyl table.  Someone positioned a right-angle extension to support my arm. My finger end was a grated mess. Head turned its direction, I caught an ink-scent off my work-shirt. The image of a nurse clicking a needle’s syringe caught my attention. I clenched my teeth. The four injections into my finger drew pain I’ve seldom known. Sweat-beads sprung to my face in the cool room.

This is to deaden the pain while treating your finger, a voice consoled.

Really?

The night at our apartment went by slowly. With some whimpering. But tolerable.

Ann was near.

©2016 Jerry Lout

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Pecan

How do you say it again, Jerry? This word?

I understood the reason prompting it but fielding such a question on my home town’s Main Street felt strange.

With a smile their way I began.

We spell it P-E-C-A-N. Pronouncing it once, then a second time, I continued. Notice the two syllables. We stress the last one – in this part of the country, anyway. Now, I coaxed them,  your turn; let’s hear you say it.

In his Asian accent, one of these our new friends, offered up his version, Pih-Kahn.

Great!, I praised him. Spoken like a true Sooner!

A true what?

***

Our group of twenty – a mix of Tulsa area volunteers and university students from abroad – lined the sidewalk to sample the largest desert-serving they may ever see. Our campus ministry group had planned the June outing. To introduce our bright, young visitors – most engineering students – to a piece of North American culture. And a piece of pie thrown in.

Xiao’s spoon entered the Styrofoam dish for her second bite, Mm, this is a  very new flavor to me!

As we meandered the town square, taking in music, seeing parents laugh as children ran squealing to an amusement-park ride, my thoughts wandered to an acreage north of town. A memory there.

***

Boys, there’s a way to earn yourselves a little spending money. Pretty easy. We turned to our father’s  voice. The idea he offered was straight-forward and – like our dad himself – sensible. Tim’s dark eyebrows lifted, signaling his eagerness to give it a try. As little brother, I was fully in.

Next afternoon we visited a pecan-merchant at the west end of town – Dunhams – our half-filled burlap bag in tow.

Bring your gunny sack over this way, boys. The man moved to a set of scales. Let’s see now, he pondered, weighing our mini-crop. Taking up a pencil he calculated, At twenty-eight cents a pound. . .

Rewarded for our labors, our spirits buoyed, we all but strutted from the store. Pedaling the bicycle  home with me balanced on the handle bar, my brother spoke and I could hear the smile in his voice behind me.  Some of mother’s pecan pie is out on the table. A glass of milk will go good with it, huh. My mouth moistened.

I was still smiling when the student’s voice returned me to Okmulgee’s Pecan Festival.

Jerry, do we visit inside the old building now – where you said there is more about culture?

Sure. First, let’s take a look at the marker over here.

One of the newer-arrived students still navigating American English, studied the plaque. Her words came with some effort, but deliberate, distinct. Mm, I think I can pronounce, ‘Creek. Nation. Council. House.’ I nodded and she went on, Now, how do you say this word,  M-u-s-c-o- – One of our volunteers came to her aid.

Directing our special guests to the city’s venerable landmark, I mused.

By bedtime tonight they’ll have plenty to write home about.

©2016 Jerry Lout

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Evidence of a Resurrected Carpenter

There in the Africa savannah where flat-topped acacia trees dot the landscape, a young cattle-tender was seized by thieving attackers. He tried to seek refuge among his father’s herd, the bounty his assailants were after. The horrifying moments raced like short distance sprinters toward the finish tape until the boy was seized and beaten to death by these neighboring tribal warriors.

When I learned the news, words like heartless and senseless sprang to my young missionary mind.

In the thinking of the tribesmen who had slain the boy merely for his father’s cows, there was nothing senseless about their deed. For generations nomadic lore had dictated that all cattle were created by God as a gift for their people. Any and all means to retrieve what was rightfully ours was deemed justifiable. The retrieving of cattle was in fact, to them, a kind of duty.

Pastor Nathan was alerted of his young brother’s death by the high-pitched wailing of nearby village women.  Afterwards, through the grapevine medium common to rural Africa, word of the tragedy made its’ way to our mission station some miles away.

I mounted my orange and aging Suzuki dirt-bike. With fidgety forefinger and thumb I ran my helmet strap through the cinch ring and secured it beneath my chin. Pastor Nathan needed a friend nearby – even a relatively new friend whose culture and land were much different from his own.  I hoped to somehow be such a friend.

Aware of an involuntary tensing of my eyebrows, I tried to push back my growing sense of lack.  Comforting loved ones who’ve experience the quiet and expected death of, say, an aged family member can be daunting enough. But this defied classification.

What will I say an hour from now once my piki-piki  is brought to a dusty halt and I enter the humble, thatch-roofed hut? How do I myself digest such troubling news. How do I frame words to comfort a grieving young pastor whose brother just lost his life in this brutal way?  

Bwana Ah-see fee-weh.  Nathan, only barely my junior, offered a warm smile – greeting me with the Swahili words, “the Lord be praised”. Though the most common of greetings among believers, the words seemed unusual (maybe less than fitting?). We were near a tree at the elevated ridge of East Africa’s Great Rift Valley. The Lord be praised?

Nathan was a modest and gentle spiritual shepherd, entrusted with the care of a small Christian community. He had labored as pastor just under two years – this with little formal Bible training. But Nathan’s heart was rooted in Christ’s love and in his clear calling to serve.  

We sipped hot chai and spoke in a softer, more subdued manner than usual. Finally I rallied my best voice to offer comfort. This would not be easy.

In unusual irony, Nathan sympathized with me in my struggle. His eyes conveyed compassion. He leaned forward in his simple, primitive-like chair. Its crude design was more suited for one given to half-reclining than to sitting.

Brother Jerry, he began, I want to say something.  

It was my turn to lean in and listen.

I forgive these men who have done this thing. I forgave them actually once I learned of the sad event.

Was I hearing correctly? Not a trace of insincerity belied his calm, low voice. The faint tilting of my head along with some puzzlement in my look provoked him onward.

I know these people do not understand the badness of what they have done. They do not know. They do not understand.  They need Jesus and I have begun praying for them that they should know him and gain his peace.

Listening to this humble shepherd-leader I was perplexed. I felt myself deeply moved. And I was suddenly aware.

I was aware of the presence of God. Here, just beneath the long grass weavings forming the roof of this Kuria home. I was seated in Solomon’s magnificent, newly-dedicated temple of the Living God. I was next to Isaiah, trembling at heaven’s voices crying Holy, Holy in the hallowed sanctuary. And the earthen floor under my feet might have easily dictated with hushed voice that I remove my shoes.

A reversing of roles had occurred.  I, the missional teacher had come to give comfort. I sat voiceless now as the young, ill-educated, near-impoverished pastor had stepped up – so to speak – to his lectern. His non-sermon to me, this audience of one, conveyed with conviction and decisive action the message of an ancient, extravagant grace. Radical forgiveness issuing from one baptized in mercy.

The Lord be praised.  Indeed.

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Spice

Chutzpah. “ho͝otspə”

The Yiddish word even sounds brash. It’s meaning – supreme self-confidence, nerve, gall, audacity, boldness.

While chutzpah doesn’t fully define Claire, some days it seems close. Her fabulous mother – my daughter-in-law who may carry her own chutzpah gene – recounts. . .

     On our way home today in terrible traffic, I was driving like a boss — only centimeters between myself and the many cars around me coming in all directions – maneuvering to make a near-impossible left turn.

Knowing I was doing a great job, I nevertheless voiced to Claire, “Driving in Kinshasa is not my thing”.

Claire responded, THAT’s for sure – Which left mom questioning with a teasing glint,

“What do I have to do to impress this girl?

Such spunk, tempered by her wise parent’s guidance, could well cinch feats in life for Claire the more faint-hearted may only dream of.

***

Relational

Here, grandpa, I’ll take that inside for you. Grandma, let me carry that. The middle child – and indeed his siblings as well – from early childhood volunteered aid to the seniors come to visit.

With daily livestock duties at the family farm, tending to his restaurant job and his full college load, T.J.’s still keenly attentive to relationships. How ya’ll doing? escapes his lips as much as any phrase.

***

Industrious

Saturday – Easter Eve, my wife’s birthday – arrived. While she busied herself in the kitchen with granddaughter and daughters, I sat visiting with my two sons-in-law and grandson, Travis. Our most recently-added son-in-law responded to questions about the small brood of ducklings being nurtured at he and his new bride’s Tulsa home.

Travis, second-born of our grandkids – now married and parenting a fine toddler – ably engaged the discussion,

Hundreds of my baby chicks made it through. The incubator care I gave them made a difference.

Travs’ poultry enterprise began when – in diapers still – he shadowed his mother to the chicken-house, tending to his chirping, feathered buddies. Overseeing the full process fell to him in short order. As did other outdoor tasks, requiring a sharp mind and a ready body.

Three youngsters – Claire, TJ, Travis – all share in the qualities of confidence, warm-heartedness and industry. Yet each one – a one-of-a-kind – in personality and virtues.

As with them, our creator grants us every one, giftings, graces, ways of being. To touch a life, a family, a society – bringing things of good to our needy world.

                                           Variety is the very spice of life, that gives it all its flavor.

                                                                                            – William Cowper (poet)

©2016 Jerry Lout

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We’re BACK. Jerry’s ‘Second-book’ narratives

Hi Reader-friends,

After the release and enthusiastic reception of Living With A Limp, I’ve plunged into the next chapter (pardon the pun) of my memoir narratives.

Enter the journey with me. Read week-by-week posts which I’ll include in the coming book. Simply follow this website blog. Also, it’s easy to catch the unfolding episodes by a simple mouse click. . “+follow”.

First post of the new series is Thursday, March 11, 2017. Comments, Feedback welcome!

P.S. If you’ve not picked up Living With A Limp, it’s now at a reduced rate in paperback and ebook at this Amazon site. http://amzn.to/2jBzKwW

Thankful for your friendship.

See you Thursday!