Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

August 28, 2025August 27, 2025

Dying To Live

Give me liberty or give me death!

Patrick Henry’s declaration – heralded in his impassioned speech of March 23^rd, 1775 – fanned sufficient flame among a gathering of oppressed colonists to help launch a war for independence. Since the days of Henry’s speech, cries for the preservation of America’s freedoms have repeatedly rung out strong. From sea to shining sea.

Long centuries before Patrick Henry of the Virginia House, and long before the Continent of North America became a “thing”, the voice of an advocate for another kind of freedom was catching the attention of many.

The villages and towns where Jesus preached in the small patch of territory of the Middle East were held in the grip of Rome’s mighty empire. While the rabi’s message of emancipation did not specifically place Ceasar in its crosshairs (as Patrick Henry’s message did for Britain’s King George III) Jesus did – like Henry – employ straightforward language to do with sacrificial dying.

Jesus indeed did go to the grave (before rising from it). Yet the triumph that he secured by the freedom-revolution he led – and still leads – keeps the act of dying as a centerpiece within the communities of all who would know him as their liberating king.

The route taken by the follower of Jesus, bringing them to ever-unfolding life in his kingdom, is ever the path of dying.

Scripture’s words can sometimes rattle a soul. “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.”

The persecutor-turned-apostle reminded his Corinthian friends, “I die daily”, attesting that a practicing disciple is one who lets go of his own identity, and grows increasingly in union with Jesus. Paul brings home the paradox – dying leads to living – as he graphically personalizes the revolutionary truth,

“I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.”

August 21, 2025August 21, 2025

Wantings

Is the particular condition (common to all humans) that we call desire, a good thing or a bad thing? We might go with a, “Well, it depends. . .”

We haven’t needed to experience much time on the planet to be able to confess – most of us with plenty of regret – that we have made some stinky messes along the way. By casually or carelessly giving in to desire (feelings). As John Piper puts it, “We should not be surprised or thrown off balance when we meet in ourselves, some really excessive and distorted bodily desires.”*

Piper went on to reference several disordered behaviors. . . gluttony, fornication, homosexual practices. To that list we can readily add gossip, lying, contemptuous speech (think political rhetoric either side of the aisle). The parade of missteps is longer than we would like to think. Help!

The good news is that help does come, to those earnestly looking for it. Seek and you will find, promises the Carpenter-turned-Rabi.

Part of the good news is that not all desires are bad. Indeed, most all the enslaving appetites that pollute and wreck human lives are actually “hijacked”, then distorted, versions of the real thing. Our best selves as humans bearing the marvelous image of God is what we are actually to grow into.

I really like food.

Foods and beverages come to us in all their wondrous forms and flavors. I indulge them largely out of a stirred-up appetite. Nasal sensors catch an aroma. Taste buds come alive to the mere thought of a delicacy. The stomach might be heard to growl. Maybe your own salivary glands are bearing witness to the phenomenon now! Into this scene at an inconvenient juncture, someone then inserts a useful, though uncomfortable question,

“Do we eat to live, or do we live to eat?”

Certainly, the lovely assortment of our most fundamental desires has made its way to our interior selves due to a very good design at the hand of a very good God. The measure that we are attentive and “lean into” our maker’s wisdom – drawing on his goodness, power and favor – may determine for us the difference between having a good, or a not-so-good (even tragic) pilgrimage here.

August 14, 2025August 13, 2025

A Greater Story

There is an interesting thing about vision. Once a person catches sight of a forward-looking hope or dream, they usually move toward it with only a tiny glimpse of additional things to follow. What they hold is a sketchy outline at best. No neatly printed, detailed contract is laid out before them – not to mention fine print!

The life-change adventure begins when we start realizing that “our vision is not our vision alone”. Indeed, when the presence of the Divine makes himself known somewhere along the way, it is then that we may start catching the wonder that his vision overlaps mine and mine converges with his. A new story is now taking shape. God’s story becoming mine as the two streams of narrative (his/mine) merge into one – much like the blending of threads forming a tapestry – eventually fused to make history, i.e. HiStory.

In not having a contract neatly incorporating fine print detail, we discover a priceless insight – usually well into our pilgrimages. We have been spared much of what we were not ready for at any given crossroad on our long and beautiful and hard and precious trek.

Learn from the past, look to the future. . live in the present.*

Now is the favorable time**

Parting from a world of rain-starved earth and barren cotton fields (Dust Bowl territory), Clyde and Thelma lived in the present. In time “the present” became their past. What a surprise it would have been to either of them had they discovered beforehand that they would one day come to joyous faith in a loving Savior for whom their hearts longed. And how distressing, that the life of their young son would be snatched from them by the swift waters of a Phoenix irrigation canal.

It was in the “present moment” of grief that my mother and father’s story merged with a greater story, a forever story.

August 7, 2025August 6, 2025

Leaning In

Thelma had lugged her suitcase onto a cross-country bus. Clyde had leapt aboard the moving box car of a west-bound train. Their vision for a new life together was matched by Intention. Without purposeful action any vision – noble as it may be – will plateau, then die.

Mom and dad’s dream of a more hopeful future was matched by their “on-purpose” action. The only remaining element had been the means. Enter Greyhound Lines and the Santa Fe railways. Any vision that is brought to a place of fruition calls for actionable intention and for “vehicles” (useful, practical means) to see the vision through.

My wife’s high school clarinet served as her means, on which she practiced long hours (intention) to achieve her aspiration. Her vision of performing as a top-level musician in Billings, Montana’s West High band.

The V.I.M. (Vision – Intention – Means) principle holds just as true for the disciple of Jesus Christ in their spiritual-life formation. A disciple, in other words, is a Jesus-follower who has set out on a lifelong journey, daily incorporating all three of those needed elements.

Practice Makes Complete

Most of us are acquainted with the well-worn “practice makes perfect” adage. While walking with God for sure calls us to an ongoing progress in our growing-up-lives in the faith, we are urged to aim for something different than perfection. At least in the way we often think of that word.

When the New Testament writer states, “whoever says he abides in him (Jesus) ought to walk in the same way in which he walked.”*, he is not suggesting that a Christ-follower lives a life of flawless perfection. That measure of excellence would be – as the saying goes – “above our pay grade.”

What the disciple is called to leaves the devotee amazed. Inside the heart of the Christ-follower a vision is birthed. But the “visionary” is not left to muddle through on his own steam. A living, all-present person, with shoulder-aplenty to lean into, has come alongside. **The Holy Spirit of God inspires and enables as the apprentice proceeds forward, haltingly at times for sure, still employing the indispensable components – intention and means. Being called to,

“Grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. . “***

July 31, 2025July 30, 2025

Visionaries

What sensibly-thinking (unskilled) laborer surrenders his ditch-digger shovel to chase after and secure an even lesser-paying job?

It seems a reasonable question.

When he spotted the simple flier announcing, “Plumber’s Helper Wanted”, Clyde wasted little time pondering its meaning. Shedding his less-than-promising vocation as dirt-shoveler along open trenches in the nearby neighborhood, he soon found himself loading and unloading lengths of galvanized pipe, odd-looking pipe-threading devices, and a sewage-clearing apparatus nicknamed “the snake”.

A companion question follows the earlier one. What kind of mindset would propel a poor young woman hailing from a dusty Oklahoma village to set out by bus and travel mile upon mile across several states to arrive at a “foreign” destination with scant understanding of what may lie ahead?

By the time the paths of Clyde Baxter and his bride-to-be Thelma Christine finally (after their months of separation) reconverged near a sprawling body of water called San Francisco Bay, they had each unwittingly entered the world of VIM.

Several decades were to crawl by before a Philosophy Professor – Dr. Dallas Willard of another Golden State setting (U.S.C.) – would introduce the VIM acronym.

Vision – Intention – Means

Clyde’s mind and heart had given birth to a vision. To one day marry his sweetheart, Thelma.

Clyde’s vision, however, called for significant risk and extraordinary courage. If his dream of gaining this pretty country girl as his life-long companion were to become reality, both he and Thelma must leave behind the dust-laden, increasingly barren, cotton fields of their beloved Sooner State.

It was a daring, costly venture the couple had struck out on, from the moment Clyde had leapt aboard his first freight train departing Oklahoma. And now, clarity of focus had – across the Greyhound miles – settled more deeply in his fiancé’s soul. There would be no going back. Thelma, too, owned the Vision.

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”*.