Blog

Posted on

Gain

“I hustled”.

The strong declaration sprang from my father’s lips. Clyde Baxter Lout was near seventy and I near forty as we chatted. Morning coffee had brewed and I was offering up questions about his early years as a working man.

“Hustle” is an old word. It comes with several different meanings. My father used it for just one.

He applied the term the way Collins English Dictionary does – “If someone hustles, they try hard to earn money or to gain an advantage from a situation.”

Counted among my closer friends are several engineers who came to America’s shores as students from far away places. . . Asia, the Middle East, elsewhere.  They hustled.

Getting schooled in Oklahoma, most had arrived at Tulsa University after finishing undergraduate work in their own homelands. Making their way to my state from places few Oklahomans ever see – Bangalore, Beijing, Chenai, Tehran, these friends had grown up in cultures separated by long miles and diverse languages. But they carried this thing in common.

In their daily hustle, the bright young men labored energetically, sacrificing sleep, going after carefully-defined goals.

They apprenticed.

In time job fairs came along. Industries took notice. Meanwhile, for several of the internationals, another kind of shift had come. Discovering the Christian faith through friends in Tulsa, a number trusted their lives to Jesus. So life in another dimension began. A bigger life, one in Jesus’ kingdom.

On the other hand Clyde Baxter had started off as an orphan.

Though lacking formal schooling beyond tenth grade (cotton fields calling him to scratch out a living in the great depression years), he hustled. Fleeing Oklahoma poverty on rumbling freight trains, he moved westward, and landed his first California job as a ditch digger. When a “plumber’s helper” ad caught his attention, the young Okie went for an interview.

“Young man, if you will give energy and attention to it, we will make you an apprentice.”

“What is an apprentice?”

©2018 Jerry Lout

Posted on

A Hungering

Jesus of Nazareth invited two apprentices to walk and work with him. Then came a third. . . then another and another. Since those early days, the increase of his trainees-in-Christlikeness has carried forward until their number now spans the globe.

Jesus knew well the need of passing along insights and wisdom. But also, of modelling his rare kind of power – the power of love – brought here to earth by him from another world. He did this kind of thing at every step, this modelling and training.

As for insights and wisdom, what this master-trainer brought into view went deeper. It went past the understanding and good sense already found among people through centuries of human experience. Further, the compassion he showed left other forms of human caring shallow by comparison.

Many historians measure this Middle-eastern figure, whose name is more commonly spoken than any other in history, as the most gifted, the most brilliant human ever to live. Yet he didn’t hold his understanding to himself, wasn’t stingy with his gems. Rather, Jesus offered up to any who would take him seriously, his own qualities – wisdom and truth – which any sensible person might eagerly receive.

So, this carpenter-turned-rabbi – as a feature of his mission – recruited to himself a company of students, of learners who might grow to live as he lived. Might even, to a surprising measure, become as he was.  Many of Jesus’ apprentices arrived on the scene from ordinary backgrounds. Some were well-educated, others not, some well to do, others not so much.

They would travel with him in climates both calm or stormy. They tasted samplings of popularity and favor and weathered seasons of scorn and rejection.

These disciple-apprentices dined in community. They wrapped up countless action-filled days reflecting together before an open flame at a makeshift fire pit, often at places a good way from their homes. Their minds and hearts took in what they were able of their coach’s actions and sayings. Time in each another’s presence stretched them. They quibbled. They fussed. They were in training.

When one or two of the group asked him for advice on how to pray, Jesus answered in sensible language, “Pray this way. . .”

He also modeled praying. His apprenticing meant that he  would (in a manner unlike others of his day) shift readily into a conversation with the invisible God whom he knew to be among them. This would occur easily, naturally when a time or circumstance called for it, which tended to be often.

When their food supply got small, Jesus talked to them about carefree living, then, on occasion would completely surprise them, bringing forth a meal. Such actions would leave them in wonder and deeply curious as to this man’s other-worldly nature.

Never one who seemed rushed or fidgety, he chuckled easily with his apprentice-friends. And, like any skillful mentor, he corrected them without timidity, apology or fanfare.

On a given day Jesus’ corrective counsel might be directed to one or two of the apprentices or he may address a thing meant for the wider community.  Regardless, corrective action was each time offered in the interest of serving both his highest good and theirs. The trainees grew to own this.

The longer they walked with him, the less they wished for the former life, their old ways of being. It began to feel as though the rabbi was growing them, little by little, to become very much like himself. This seemed a good thing. They hungered for more.

©2018 Jerry Lout

 

Posted on

A New Coach

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         ©2018 Jerry Lout

Posted on

Making It Happen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you.

©2018 Jerry Lout

Posted on

Tired Pain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why did I have to get in such a hurry?

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

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

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

Lessons on limping followed.

©2018 Jerry Lout

Posted on

Seed

Alright everybody. It’s that time!

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

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

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

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

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

The contagious smile, strong as ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if?

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

©2015 Jerry Lout

Posted on

Heart condition

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello.

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

May I speak with Sue?

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

Hello.

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

Yes.

Are you with him?

Yes.

Does this mean things are over now?

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

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

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

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

Father. Father.

I am so sorry.  Tears again.

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

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

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

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

Dad?

Yes.

I’d like to come home.

Your mother and I are here, son.

It was my best Oklahoma Christmas.

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

 and the heart of the children to their fathers

                                                                                                               – Malachi 4, the Bible

©2015 Jerry Lout

Posted on

Tension

 

Clyde and Thelma Lout

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

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

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

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

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

My games were short-lived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some things call for preventive medicine – extra strength.

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

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

Where will this take me? This time in Denver.

 Hear, my son, your father’s instruction,

                       And forsake not your mother’s teaching

For they are a graceful garland for your head

    And pendants for your neck.

                                                                                                                                                              –  Proverbs 1, the Bible.

©2015 Jerry Lout

Posted on

Freed

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

Yeah, these oughta smoke well.

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

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

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

While breaking up a field of sod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Kenny limped. Though not physically.

Alcohol cheated him of youth. In a measure.

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

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

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

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

But he did know scarcity.

It’s been said, alcohol impoverishes the brain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kenny’s here today. With the book.

Today is a good day.

http://kennymundsministry.org/

©2015 Jerry Lout

Posted on

The Creason Effect

The people who influence you are

The people who believe in you

                                                     – Henry Drummond

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

The Creason brothers. Common men of uncommon influence.

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

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

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

Melvin (farmer, welder)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would get this knot tied. I knew it.

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

I heard this piece of wisdom years ago.

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

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

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

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

Would he notice the knot?

——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——

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

                                                                                                                                                                                                                        *Genesis 12.2 Bible. Old Testament

©2015 Jerry Lout