Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

August 25, 2015August 28, 2017

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

August 21, 2015August 28, 2017

A gravel parking lot where two streets met hemmed in our little white church. Inside I scooted my trousered bottom cautiously along an unpolished church bench – taking care to dodge the occasional splinter. I gave in at times to a curious temptation – running my finger-tips along the bench’s underside. A braile-like search yielded my prize. A random trail of chewing gum deposits – discarded and hardened. I don’t recall ever sampling more than perhaps one. Oddly enough, their presence supplied me with a sense of comfort – contentment derived from revisiting a familiar setting. Like being home.

Living Way church was home in certain ways. Clyde and Thelma Lout set the worship-attendance tradition in motion from the start. Sunday morning and Sunday evening; Tuesday and Friday nights. Four services every week. Increased to a fifth – the youth meeting – when my brother and I entered our teens.

The Living Way –

Where with fellow preschoolers I first sang, Jesus loves the little children of the World
Where a bearded prophet parted a Sea; an Inn-keeper denied a couple lodging; an unflustered Messiah calmed a wild storm. Witnessing them all through the marvel of
Where a ponderous Leviticus sermon on ‘types and shadows’ lulled me to sleep
Living way. Where fervent prayer over me against a life-threatening virus prevailed.

Where the mystery of Presence descended on eleven-year-olds one Summer morning.

Isn’t he just wonderful, boys and girls?

The portly gentleman exuded joy. With no pretention. Clearly Brother Addison loved Jesus.

Warmly commanding by nature, Brother Addison was an established businessman in town. A lay minister, he served in a spiritual renewal movement among Christian professionals. He delighted in aiding others toward a vital relationship with his Lord. We children – seated in the Vacation Bible School assembly that morning – knew Brother Addison. We liked him. And trusted him.

How many of you children would like more of him. More of Jesus in your life?

Hands went up speedily. Of course. Who wouldn’t wish for more of the Good Shepherd’s presence?

We were ten to twelve year-olds. It was our third day in VBS. His words conveyed invitation and our expectancy-barometers rose. What’s coming? It seemed something special could be ahead. What does having more of Jesus mean? Some of us wondered.

Addison acknowledged our raised hands.

That’s wonderful. His smile was large and warm.

He summoned us to a pair of benches near the front of the chapel. He directed the girls to one; the boys to the other. Brother Addison passively jingled coins in a pocket, letting us settle in. We knelt along one side of the altars.

Now boys and girls, we are all up here because we simply want more of Jesus. We open the way by speaking to him. Speaking our love to Jesus. He continued.

Begin now thinking of Jesus. What he is like. How good he is. How caring. And Thanking him. Let’s speak our thanks and our love to him.

Yes. He is meeting us here. Just now. In this place. We welcome him. He is good. And he loves us. He comes among us now. Bringing more. More. Speak to him. Let him speak to you in your heart. Let him love you. He’s here.

We offered our voices. Each spoke softly, sincerely. To Jesus.

Without trying, we began sensing him. We were aware. Even as young children. Then, hardly a moment passed and something happened I will never forget. Would never wish to.

Every child – perhaps fifteen or sixteen – was suddenly awash in delight. Rich, bubbling-up delight. It overtook us in a moment’s time.

And tenderness. Our pre-adolescent eyes poured tears. Self-consciousness went out the window. Words rolled from us – some intelligible, some otherwise. We didn’t care. We had yielded over for more of Jesus. And we knew he had come – in wave on wave of tenderness. Love. Delight.

We cried over and over our love of him. Then, as if on cue, we sought one another out. We rushed – bawling, laughing – to embrace another kid. Anyone in reach. Every boy found another boy or two to hug, and to laugh, and to cry on and with. Among the girls the same. Mucus and laughter mingled in the pleasure of affection not one of us had known. Ever.

The phenomenon carried forward a good while. No child took interest in snack time. Cookies and Cool-aid could never match this. This more.

We were loved. And we loved. We couldn’t love enough. Couldn’t cry, thank you! Enough. Simply couldn’t. We knew this was Jesus moving among us – filling us. I hoped the more could just go on and on.

After a time, quiet came – the most serene and pure sort. Purity bathed us. What words capture this? The purest of pure soaked the atmosphere. Today I would employ a companion word. Holiness. Us little non-theologians, immersed in holiness.

Brother Addison was speaking. He shared a simple encouragement. Of letting Jesus fill and refill us as we would afterward go our ways.

I’m reflective today. I relish this richer-than-rich memory – personal, sacred, marvel that it was.

Six decades have passed. While I have, by God’s kindness, savored many cherished times in his presence, I suspect I may never taste a sweeter, richer flavor. When, at age eleven, one summer morning my friends and I said, yes.

To more.

You have made known to me the paths of life;
you will fill me with joy in your presence.

Acts 2. The Bible

August 18, 2015August 28, 2017

Trading Distraction

Distraction. That which divides the attention, diverts or draws away the mind; prevents concentration.

Jerry Lout! What are you looking at out there? You come right up here.

Elementary school.

I limp through my life distracted. Not all the time.

But more of the time than desired. Ask Ann, my wife.

Occasionally my distractions serve a handy purpose. Even therapeutic. A quiet brook in a peaceful setting brings respite to a stressful day. Still, helpful distractions seem rare.

My inattention might have pinned a teenage chum under a tractor tire. I absent-mindedly left a fence-gate lying in my horse’s pathway. Thankfully we cheated disaster. Still, distraction took me there.

You come right up here, Jerry!

My nine-year-old daydreaming mind had transported me outside our Fourth Grade classroom. The playground scene beyond the window had won me over. I surveyed a world beyond the smell of chalk dust and the warble of Mrs. B’s voice.

Whether the punishment fit the crime, Mrs. B’s hard paddle stung. And I quivered – from embarrassment as much as pain. My classmates hadn’t often seen me blush or shed tears. A ringside seat today for both – at the front of the room.

As with most kids, distractions peppered my growing-up years. Sidelined once by teenage infatuation I entered a covert alliance with a girl. And nearly train-wrecked my bond with my parents.

Motor vehicles and distractions don’t do well together.

‘Reckon we ought to move his motor-bike outa the street?

My head throbbed. I lay face-down. Struggled to make sense of the man’s folksy question.

I had been trying out the used motorcycle dad recently helped me buy.

Turning onto Sixth Street from Wood Drive I concentrated on my lame foot.

The bike’s gears didn’t respond well to the efforts of my left heel. Normally the gear is shifted by the shoe toe. But polio left me with no upward lift. So I improvised. I sent my foot over and beyond the gear and lifted the lever with the back of my heel. The tactic hampered the shift. Brought Distraction.

I looked up and a car crossed before me from a side road. It was a safe distance ahead but its image spooked me. I seized the front brake. It locked and I tumbled headlong. I wore no helmet.

My white and black Honda lay on its side. I was transported by strangers and lain face-down in a grassy area at the street’s edge. After some moments I stirred. I lifted my head slightly and surveyed several pairs of shoes. The shoes faced me in a rough semicircle. It was then I heard the man’s matter-of-fact voice.

Gradually someone helped me up.

Thank you. I could at least speak.

Another kind person steered me to a clinic just steps away.

The doctor studied a place on my forehead.

That’s a real goose egg you have, young man.

He shined a light in each eye, shared a cautionary remark and sent me on my way. Days afterward I pondered some questions. Significant ones for me.

What Good Samaritan saw me to the clinic?

Who covered the doctor’s visit (did anyone)?

Who retrieved my bike?

What mercy-givers hauled me out of harm’s way and onto the grass?

What unseen force, presence, or hand kept the goose egg from cracking?

Thanksgiving wells up. Not to impersonal lucky stars.

Rather to one who – in faithfulness – attends to the inattentive. Delivers the distracted. And counsels. With wisdom.

Next time I rode, the helmet went on. And I traded distraction for vigilance. For awhile.

*Medical Interlude update. The hospital released my dear wife three days ago. She mends at home. Is better each day. Thank you, readers. Who’ve expressed care, offered prayers, well-wishes. We limp forward – my wife and me – in the company of really special people. Grateful.

August 14, 2015August 28, 2017

Medical Interlude. My bride.

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

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

My short-version of the week’s happenings.

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

Ann didn’t hesitate.

Ten

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

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

I shelved my blogging pen.

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

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

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

Hanging with the best woman who’s lived.

I’ll blog-post shortly. Stay tuned.

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

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

July 17, 2015August 28, 2017

Shotguns and Soda. Delayed candor

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

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

16 Gauge Buckshot (2)

Let’s go chase down a rabbit.

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

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

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

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

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

Two bluish-red welts.

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

The rabbit escaped.

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

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

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

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

No one spotted us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 6, 2015August 28, 2017

Baptized

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

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

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

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

Jesus was baptized by John.

Followers of Jesus get baptized.

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

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

Nearby, a mama cow bawled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Romans 6. Bible

August 4, 2015August 28, 2017

Dancing with snakes. fear and beyond

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I trotted forward to retrieve the tack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I relaxed. Altered my gait.

And almost smiled.

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

– Proverbs 3. Bible

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

July 30, 2015August 28, 2017

Head over Hooves. Counting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 28, 2015August 28, 2017

Tractors. Dangers. Interventions

Unaware of the mini-cliff lying just ahead I drove the tractor right for it. Squeezing the jostling steering wheel, I moved at a good clip. And was clueless to any danger. The Farmall I steered was a large machine – even to a grown man. And I felt very grown today. It was my first solo drive on a tractor. I was thirteen.

Satisfied of his tutoring session with me of minutes before, Dad had directed me to slow the tractor. He stepped off the vehicle’s draw-bar and followed by foot, leaving me to it. I had accelerated, stretching the distance between us. Tall grass obscured the ditch up ahead, which I failed to consider was even there. The tractor was headed straight for the ditch. With me aboard.

Suddenly a breeze caught my dad’s whistles and shouts. The sounds were faint, fighting their way as they did above the competing noise of a tractor motor.

Muddled, I half-swiveled on the seat and looked back. Dad was a blur of action – like a physical trainer and Olympic sprinter morphed. Arms swinging wildly, he ran with everything. All the while shouting, Stop. Stop! Clearly this was urgent.

My right shoe found the brake pedal and pushed vigorously. Dust swirled near the big tires. I killed the noisy engine and a deep quiet took over. It was only then I actually surveyed the scene, taking in the cause of my father’s alarm. My eyes widened. The Farmall stopped only feet from the bank’s edge – barely short of me tumbling headlong into the creek bed. A chill shuddered through me. Then a compelling thought began overtaking my brain, and my emotions.

I think my dad just saved my life!

A friend and his wife raised eight children. He collected pithy statements on the way. Some I believe he coined himself. One of his sayings, The foolishness of youth that only age cures.

Our farm tractor collection numbered three. Always frugal, Dad bought a tractor only after it gathered a lot of miles. In plowing fields. Hay meadows. Or working wheat harvests.

We kept one squatty Allis Chalmers and two sizable Farmall H’s.

One of our Farmall’s, perhaps that same one, featured in another life-threatening incident.

Following a Sunday dinner another young fellow visiting our home joined me for a squirrel hunt. We dismounted the tractor near a wooded area. .22 rifle in hand we scouted nesting spots but without success. The day was warm and we shuffled back to the tractor. Climbing aboard, I settled into the driver’s seat and my new friend sat atop one of the big tires. Facing me, his feet rested on an axle. The rifle lay across his lap. After a quarter hour of killing time I started the engine.

Absentmindedly, I shifted into forward gear and released the clutch – forgetting that the boy still sat atop the big tire.

Memory retention is heightened when crises happen. I remember visual details of the elevator into which I stepped when hearing of the shooting of President Kennedy. An image no less vivid imbedded itself in my mind that Summer afternoon on the farm.

Thrown forward to the ground, the boy was on his back. His body – in the path of the advancing tire – faced upward toward me. In a fetal position. The sole of his shoe was inches from the hovering tire tread. He held the rifle crosswise, extended before him, as though it might restrain the thousand pounds of tire and axle coming down on him. It can be unsettling even now – revisiting the what if questions that nagged me more than fifty years ago. What if my reflexes had been too slow?, What if the brake hadn’t engaged ?. . .

Again – supernaturally it seemed – a shoe finding the brake pedal; a vigorous push. Once again, stillness. And pondering.

When spared the horror of toppling a tractor and myself over an embankment I pondered with some emotion, My dad just saved my life.

In this later near-miss, I consider another Dad. The ultimate one – intervening. Often with us unaware. In our challenges, our heartaches and mess-ups. The Intervention Dad. God. Abba. Father.

Pondering, ‘Dad saved my friend’s life being taken – and saved me from taking it.

For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name. – New Testament. Ephesians 3

Thank you for reading. It would be great to hear from you. Is there a good ‘intervention from your life? Something meaningful that this or another story has prompted for you? Comments welcome.

July 14, 2015August 28, 2017

Sharp Road Surprise

“I’d be okay if you’d get your shoe out of my mouth.”

The Studebaker pickup lay on its right side – the two uppermost tires slowly spinning.

The poor headlights had failed to alert the inexperienced driver (me) in time. The sharp bend in the gravel curve took me by surprise (the road was named Sharp Road for a reason). I braked hard, swinging the steering wheel leftward. In the time it could take to say mishap I capsized my dad’s hay truck. It lay there immobile, like a roped calf waiting for the cowboy to bind its legs.

My heart and head churned. I slowly exhaled. His saucy tone aside, my friends’ response comforted me. David was okay. I wriggled up and out the driver-side window. David followed.

Without comment we scanned the shadowed form. Crouching beside the vehicle we grabbed hold, unthinking. Adrenaline took over and power beyond that of our boy-man bodies kicked in. In a moment it was over. The tires bounced once. Shaking still, I wondered about any telltale damage along her faded blue side. But the pickup sat erect under the night sky and that was the main thing. I turned the ignition. It fired and we drove away. With our latest experience. And our secret.

Next evening at supper I scrambled for a response to dad’s offhand question. I’d been dreading such a moment. He directed the question casually to my brother Tim and me.

Would you boys have an idea about the sun-visor on the Studebaker? The visor was metallic, fitted to the outside, above the windshield. Since the previous night on Sharp Road the sun-visor featured an obvious new dip along the passenger side.

Tim – able to honestly plea ignorance – looked puzzled.

Following a pause I attempted a detached tone that I hoped would convince.

Maybe a bale dropped onto it when we were loading hay from the barn loft.

The answer seemed to satisfy my unwary dad. He would learn of his overturned truck when I broached the topic years later – when the risk of forfeiting my driving license was long past.

Deception (Merriam-Webster) – the act of making someone believe something that is not true; the act of deceiving someone.

Character flaws display themselves in different ways. Generally – thanks to values my parents and other responsible adults drove home – I was a fairly honest kid growing up. But my deception limp surfaced periodically, no question.

A missing soda, an unapproved relationship, a shotgun episode.

Other demonstrations of a flawed character.

I needed help.