Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

July 24, 2025July 23, 2025

Beyond Commonplace

Clutching her tan suitcase, Thelma stepped aboard the Greyhound bus. With her free hand she swept a film of dust from an empty seat. Dust. It was like a crazed intruder. “What is it like anyway”, Thelma wondered, “the Golden State?”*

During the writing of Living With A Limp I would periodically pause and immerse myself in scenes of the imagination. The aim was to re-live as best I could a crisis here, an adventure there from true-life happenings of a bygone era. I had been granted through the years the luxury of catching bits and pieces of story as shared and then repeated in various settings by my near and distant kin. So LIMP is personal for me.

Many, if not most, works of memoir call up a collection of narratives featuring among the principal characters any number of close family members.

Thelma Christine Bay, the excited, apprehensive. westward-bound country girl, would traverse seventeen hundred miles by bus. My (future) mother had tasted her share of scarcity through most of her growing-up years. The onset of the Great Depression followed immediately by long years of drought across the Southern Plains (forming the Dust Bowl), made survival itself a burdensome day-by-day task.

My mother’s Schulter – eight miles to the south of Okmulgee – Berkeley, Phoenix, Mohave Desert, (again) Berkeley and finally Okmulgee habitations did find her at certain seasons plodding along through that mundane ordinariness common to most of earth’s pilgrims. Still, hers was clearly no insignificant life.

But then, neither is mine. Nor yours.

There is no such thing as an ordinary life**

July 17, 2025

Say What?

Serving up his African cuisine in his modest Washington apartment, Naphtali launched into questions. Ann and I responded, returning the volley.

“Reconnecting with old friends is like opening a time capsule filled with laughter and love.”*

As we rehearsed memories from our East Africa days of the 1980s, one episode evoked a sudden burst of merriment.

Ann and I had, those years ago, invited the young college student (Naphtali) to our Nyeri home for a meal. After a time of dining, I noticed Naphtali’s plate was ready for a refill.

“Let me bring you another serving”, I offered, moving my chair to rise.

When a person is working to master a second language, the occasional slip is bound to surface,

“Oh, no thank you”, Naphatli offered in a most courteous tone. “I am very fine. . . I am fed up.”

Revisiting the fun memory, the special “glow of friendship” common in happy relationships settled over the simple dining area of the Seattle apartment.

I had gently set right our young visitor’s misapplied phrase. And, chuckling in mild embarrassment, Naphtali had taken the correction in gracious stride.

The evening now with our good friend drew to a close. How sweet had been the visit! After prayers, Ann and I moved toward the door. Naphtali beamed his wide smile. And offered up a parting call,

“I do hope this evening you both got very fed up!”

July 10, 2025July 9, 2025

Full Circle Friends

The world of social media, with its myriad features ranging from terrific to terrifying, has brought forward in our day some wondrous random surprises.

The Rockies and the Great Northwest started stealing my soul early on, even ahead of the providential discovery of a Billings, Montana lass whose marital companionship now spans many decades.

Fast forward.

A while back Ann and I were anticipating a special road trip. A long one. Departing Tulsa, we would head northwestwardly. Our travels should in time bring us full circle counter-clockwise back to the Sooner State, catching along the way long overdue snatches of time with family and friends. Enter Facebook.

A heart-skip moment overtook me when the photo of a young East African gent popped up.

“Hey babe, look who’s in Cheyenne, Wyoming!”, I called out.

A quick ‘messaging’ dialogue ensued. Ann and I could hardly wait to enter the Cowboy State and connect afresh with our friend, Seth, and to meet his wife and (now adult) children.

The dinner visit and overnight stay with the “O” family was priceless.

Motoring onwards – up and across Montana and through points further West – we snatched treasured visits (far too briefly) among international student alums of Tulsa University. Treasured friendships had been forged through those campus ministry years.

My social media fiddling had uncovered another revelation. I reached out to Naphtali. Long years had passed since our last meetup.

Ann had, in the early 80s, taught Naphtali accordion, had passed along to him her mother’s squeeze box for his street evangelism work in Nyeri town.

“Hey Naphtali, if you are home there in Seattle when we come through, could we catch an evening together?” Naphtali’s response was immediate, “Oh my. . Of course, Mzee!”

A couple weeks passed and we were in his city. Anticipating our call, our friend and posed a question:

“So now, Mzee, what would you and Sister Ann prefer – dinner out in the American style or some Kenyan food prepared in my kitchen?”

A no brainer, I smiled.

Our Kenyan hosts – transplants to Washington and Wyoming now – lived well the grace of welcoming*. Generosity at home in their bones.

*“Share with the Lord’s people. . practice hospitality”. Romans 12:13

July 3, 2025July 2, 2025

A Tethering

(*note. the account here of a painful ear infection, while written in the present tense, actually references an episode that happened back in May. While I tend to relish sympathies that come my way regardless the conditions that prompt them, I assure my readers that full recovery has happily come and all is well!)

Looking back to the era those years ago, I can appreciate that it had registered with me, even then.

At nine years of age, fighting for survival those long months in a hospital’s polio ward, I could sense (though not in every moment but a lot of the time) the presence of prayer at work. While not equipped at that age to assess – much less articulate – things about the near-tangible element holding my restless soul in check. The tethering cord of heart and mind that kept me going forward, although deprived of the luxury of functioning limbs, was the tethering cord of Hope.

Sitting here now, restless and agitated with piercing stabs sporadically shooting through the regions of my left ear and throat, I am oddly enough, sensing it again. Awareness of hope. Of it’s resilience. Peeking up through the soil of the heart’s garden by way of the compassionate prayers of a loved one. Or a stranger.

A favorite scene pictured in the memoir, Living With a Limp (© Jerry Lout, Amazon) features a nurse. Who, before heading home after her shift at Hillcrest, would often swing by my ward and – catching my attention – cheerily call out, “Goodnight, Jerry, I’m praying for you!”

Hope rooted in someone’s prayer was, I am convinced, ever looping in the background. Even on the day when, in exasperation, I let loose a rude profanity. Unbecoming for that “nice little Christian boy over in muscle-stretch therapy”.

In the wee hours of last night I texted my engineer friend in Houston, Mr. Chen. Alerting him that I would be grateful for a prayer or two uttered on my miserable behalf (every swallow was a visit to the gallows). I knew that he would not likely manage to respond until hours later. Yet, the simple knowledge within me that Chen would at some time or other prevail on my behalf before God, opened afresh the gates of a sweet reservoir of hope.

P.S. The morning’s second visit to Urgent Care this week holds the promise of a battery of antibiotics. So, we hold out in hope.

Trusting Walgreen to come through. Knowing our Lord will companion us forward, regardless.

(*faithful to his character, he has)

June 26, 2025June 25, 2025

Turbulent Times

Yogi Berra’s famed quote, “It’s déjà vu all over again”, popped into mind Easter weekend here at our new home of Ada, Oklahoma.

An F-1 tornado slammed the town Easter Eve just weeks after Ada’s first twister of the season assailed us with her mischief on March 4^th. While Ann and I knew our early March move to this fine college town would be somewhat eventful, neither of us guessed Mother Nature would make such a fuss. We’re left wondering how often we may find ourselves hunkering down afresh in the little “safe space” inside our modest abode.

Oklahoma residents, along with plenty of our bordering “tornado alley” neighbors, can call up stories – from entertaining, to instructive, to deeply sorrowful – from the vast numbers of twister touchdowns across our windswept plains. Once, on a nighttime drive on Interstate 40, I got captivated by a large continuous light show as a sprawling thunderstorm edged toward Bristow and its environs. All was pitch dark except for the spectacular flashes of lightning. Pulling to the shoulder, I drew out my iphone, set the camera to video and caught several seconds of the light show. And discovered upon reviewing the clip the next day that a quite-visible cloud-to-ground tornado had been captured on my device.

And, then there was the heart-stopping moment when Ann and I discovered that our son Scott – en route to his college campus after a weekend away – narrowly escaped a direct encounter with a 200 mph Category Four. He had intended to swing into Bruce’s Truck Stop, Catoosa to air up a low tire, but a minor carburetor issue delayed him a few minutes. By the time he was approaching Catoosa, traffic had backed up as emergency vehicles raced to the site. Tragically, seven lives were lost in the vicinity, six of these at Bruce’s Stop.

Citizens of the Sooner State are found every year keeping their human radar keenly sharpened (eyes to the skies, ears to the meteorologists). Particularly in the Springtime season stretching from early April to early June. This is a time to mindfully employ the counsel of an especially wise Rabi of long years past (and present),

“Watch and pray”*.

June 19, 2025June 19, 2025

Tropical Twister

As I guided my Suzuki dirt bike onto the path leading to our remote Africa home, something felt different. What was it?

The narrative unfolds in detail in the Amazon-published memoir, Giants in the Rough*.

A distressing spectacle now caught my eye. Just adjacent to my family’s home stood our African pastor’s house. . . its’ roof missing!

The past hours had found me miles away on a pastoral visit to another leader’s home.

While the land of Kenya was no stranger to the occasional disturbances of nature (mild earth tremors along its ancient Rift Valley, floodings from torrential downpours), the thought of an Oklahoma-style tornado blowing in seemed quite remote.

Though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam. . God is our refuge and strength. Psalms 46:1-3 NIV

To my relief, I found my wife and our two little ones safe and unscathed in our still-in-tact dwelling.

I crossed the few meters over to Pastor Moseti’s place. Large remnants of twisted corrugated metal sheets and shredded lumber – the makings of his former rooftop – adorned the limbs of nearby Eucalyptus Trees. The pastor, who survived the horrific storm without a scratch, recounted, in measured disbelief, his up-close encounter.

As a deluge of rainfall and raucous winds assailed the mission station, William Moseti stood gazing out his front window.

“I was watching the roof of your own house over there”, he exclaimed. “It was lifting, then settling. . . lifting then settling, and I thought, surely that roof might get taken away!”

Suddenly, Moseti heard a great ripping and crashing above him. Able now in the aftermath of it all to relate his story from a place of safety, the pastor concluded with his trademark smile,

“And now I was quickly getting very wet.”

June 12, 2025June 11, 2025

Sign Of Spring

“You’re from the Sooner State, eh? Isn’t that called ‘Tornado Alley’?”

We Oklahomans have gotten used to being associated with such a dubious label. Not surprisingly so.

My wife and I got another up close and personal reminder a few weeks back.

We had moved from our longtime residence of beautiful Tulsa to the lovely south-central town of Ada (growing expansion of family through one’s adult children carries a magnetic tug). The move remains a little bitter-sweet, as T-town has for a lot of years served as a special spot on our map to call home. Yet, we’re still in Okie-land, still citizens of the notorious Alley.

In the wee hours of our fourth morning settling into our new address, Ann and I began getting acquainted with our apartment’s little hallway. Crouching there in our “safe space” as tornado warning sirens blared, we rode out the minutes with reasonable calm.

A bit later the storm moved on and life resumed as normal. Sort of.

As dawn emerged and the day stretched forward, we and our fellow Ada-ites reflected thankfully that – while the town suffered significant structural damages – the community was spared any dire personal harm.

And then a curious revelation.

A couple days after the twister’s westward-to-eastward dance across town, we spotted a stationary metallic object poised upright near a young tree behind the apartment. It was a common kind of object, we realized. And, in a different circumstance and place, would have generated no cause for puzzlement.

The stop sign, fully intact – complete with sturdy support post – stood upright, freshly transplanted, half-hidden amidst immature branches of our young backyard tree.

While signposts of this design are universally known as alert mechanisms calling for keen and immediate attention – on this occasion, mere feet from our back door – the surprise drop-in guest did indeed give us pause!

And now (who knows where?) there likely sits at some town intersection, another, but a bit forlorn, red-and-white octagonal marker. Troubled by the abrupt absence of a fellow loyal guardian in the noble service of public safety.

June 5, 2025June 4, 2025

An Island Revisited

Irish pirates had kidnapped Patrick as his family was enjoying a holiday at the sea. He was just days away from celebrating his sixteenth birthday.*

Appealing in prayer to heaven during his six years in captivity laboring as a slave, Patrick met the Lord and readily yielded up his life. A dream alerting him that he would be rescued was followed by another dream, notifying him that a ship awaited him. The ship would bring him back to his homeland. Patrick set out toward the port and soon found himself aboard the vessel.

Patrick’s time back in Britain eventually drew to a close as a result of yet another dream. This dream featured a voice with clear Irish accent calling out,

“We beg you, come back and walk once more among us.”

His appeal to church leaders about returning to Ireland as a bearer of Christ’s love was met with sharp resistance. Everyone feared the barbaric Druids who ruled much of the island would come after Patrick and kill him. Responding to his heart’s prevailing conviction he set out on his own, and the saga of an island nation’s spiritual transformation was born.

Patrick’s years of fruitfulness – proclaiming Christ in his adopted Ireland – were nevertheless marked with intense opposition time and again. At least one attempt was made at finishing him off with poison. He writes,

“As every day arrives, I expect either sudden death or deception, or being taken back as a slave or some such other misfortune. But I fear none of these, since I look to the promise of heaven and have flung myself into the hands of the all-powerful God, who rules as Lord everywhere.”

So, Saint Patrick’s account, penned in his own Confessions, brings to us the gift of – as Paul Harvey would have said – the rest of the story.

May 29, 2025February 6, 2026

Slave Boy

The shock was mildly traumatic for a seven-year-old on that March morning. A gaggle of elementary children, rushing toward a handful of their unsuspecting classmates – myself included.

Eyes flashed in mischievous glee, small hands stretching our direction. Too late we discovered our necks and arms were targets. The chubby fingers of our young assailants had been poised to strike any person in their line of vision – those whose garments did not display the magic color green.

The inevitable pinch followed. “Ouch!”

That morning at Wilson Grade School I got rudely introduced to a curiously labeled holiday – Saint Patrick’s.

To the surprise of many (leprechaun folklore and emerald-tinted beer aside), the ancient account of the authentic Saint Pat of history yields elements of intrigue. Patrick’s story rallies the imagination, stirs emotions, and inspires.

Saint Patrick, oddly enough, was not himself Irish.

The 16-year-old of fourth-century Britain was kidnapped and whisked off to Ireland by a band of marauding invaders. Sold into slavery he labored for years as a herdsman. In prayer he turned to Christ. The spiritual discipline of prayer would come to mark the pilgrim forever.

The pages of Patrick’s autobiography, Confessions, disclose a surprising turn of events lying ahead for this shepherd-boy slave. A dream came to him one night. In the dream, a voice spoke to him,

“Soon you will be returning to your own country”. What could this mean?

May 22, 2025

Salute to Maidens

(dear readers, thanks for kindly indulging a shout-out. We celebrate a granddaughter’s graduation and commissioning tomorrow, May 23, 2025, at the U.S. Naval Academy, Annapolis. Well done, “amazing” Grace.)

Social media was abuzz a while back as myriads of accolades found their way to devices of all kinds, lavishing praise upon a host of individuals – daughters, wives, mothers, sisters, grandmothers. A nonstop flow of celebration spotlighted this distinctive sector of humanity occupying our planet.

Women.*

Which prompted me to reflect on a select list (not exhaustive by any means) of ladies who’ve especially affected my life from “back when”. The exercise gave rise to awakened feelings of gratitude.

*My country-girl mother, Thelma Christine Bay Lout, riding urban buses day after day across the busy metropolis of Tulsa, just to sit for hours at my bedside. Prayers accompanied her presence through those three months of my residency in Hillcrest Hospital’s Polio Ward. When specialists voiced no assurance that my paralyzed legs might ever again bear up my body’s weight, mom weathered the prognosis. Loving me. Interceding for me.

*The evening eighteen-year-old Alice Ann Barnes – sitting next to me beneath a Billings, Montana street lamp – pondered my request as I timidly asked her to become my wife. The marriage proposal included a fine-print detail I felt I should in fairness share, “You and I would likely be living overseas. Probably Africa.”

Ann Smiled (a positive sign?). Then responded,

“When I was nine-years-old I told my parents I was going to grow up and be a missionary in Africa”.

Ann’s ‘yes’ resulted in some daring moves. Leaving her Big Sky country, venturing to live in Oklahoma, Texas, then New York. Afterwards, it was Kenya and Tanzania. Our first child (Julie), then our second (Scott), and finally our thirdborn (Amy), each drew in their first baby breaths in a delivery room of Nairobi Hospital. In time – decades later – Ann would work as a Registered Nurse in a large medical center back again in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

The facility’s name rang a bell. Hillcrest Hospital, whose original facility (same location), had once served as a place of shelter and care for the uniquely ill. Children and youth besieged by a virus called poliomyelitis.

*She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future. (The Proverbs Woman, Prov. 31:25)