children – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

July 20, 2023July 20, 2023

A Family Of Words

Closing my eyes, the simple, melodic sounds of kindergartener voices waft in from a season of long ago. I ponder particular bundle of lyrics we Sunday School kids belted out lots of times in those early years. Intuitively we somehow knew that the lines carried life-altering truth – “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so”.

A phrase or two follows the first. Today I realize that way back then I had started a lifelong journey affirming a profound truth drawn from those stanzas.

I am weak but he is strong.

Piano keys sounded in the modest sanctuary on Oklahoma Street. Vacation Bible School Week had arrived!

For the first time most kids in the room are catching glimpses into a brand new kind of worldview, Jesus loves (all) the little children of the world. They are – every one of them – precious in his sight.

Hans Christian Andersen treasured music’s power, “Where words fail, music speaks.”

Yet, one specially-compiled family of words does not fail. Not to the person whose mind and spirit are open to take them in. The words of scripture. Although ancient in origin, this unique collection of prophetic, historical, poetic works embody a power. A power which today and throughout history transforms people. . . and even times and cultures.

As I (among the millions of others) undertook memorizing Bible verses in my early years and following, I became struck by its life-changing power from the inside out. Not by any magical quality or spooky spell, but because its content is traced not to mere human origin.

I have always been an amateur memorizer at best. But scripture concepts like, I hide your words in my heart so that I may not be habitually given to wrongdoing, find a way of sticking. I find that such passages transport power straight into the soul that chooses to marinate within the ancient text. Inspiration bubbles up of the kind beyond the sheer rah-rahs of the athletic court or stadium. The ancients, I believe, had it profoundly right.

May I encourage the reader. Pursue the Bible. Seek out a community (if it is not currently your practice) that loves God. A gaggle of imperfect seekers, hungry and thirsty, strong after his Word.

For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thought and intentions of the heart.*

June 13, 2017August 28, 2017

Who’s Got This?

Why is it? I wondered.

Why does God, when setting out on a mission, often pass over human schemes. Why does he seem to disregard the confident, presuming “we’ve-got-this” mentality often advanced by his people? He seems almost to chuckle over us humans – our strategies, our denominational fixations. Our rightness – I know I am right, don’t confuse me with facts.

Lord, you’re fiddling with my name tag. Air fare paid by Pentecostals, automobile by Baptists. Why?

A refreshing concept plays on the mind. Maybe God likes to get his things done through means available. Period.

That a label is attached or not attached, that a traditional approach or an innovative approach is applied, such factors he seems to look at as non-factors.

The church’s Head is advancing his kingdom, moving his players forward in the enterprise he fostered. It’s kind of like God is saying, “Denominations, structures, systems, take a breath. Let me demonstrate my sufficiency, my creativity. Through the whole batch of you. It is people I’m after, my kingdom we’re going for. Jump in where I invite you. Your energies, ideas, resources, yes they count. Yet. May I gently remind you, “It’s my kingdom. . . Kingdom (yes. singular)”.

Some are catching this phenomenon, the idea that the founder of the cosmos might possess the creativity needed of forging a game plan. His own. One he shares with the simple-hearted, the believing.

God seems overjoyed when his children start turning aside from undue introspection, from gazing at their own navels, or those of others. When we attend to him. Wait before him. And respond to his invite.

A while back I caught wind of a maxim I wish I had coined, “God will get the glory when we don’t care who gets the credit.”

April 28, 2015August 28, 2017

Family Addition(s)

It wasn’t an appealing dwelling place for a family but California’s Mojave Desert supplied one perk. Houses didn’t cost much. South African immigrants had assigned retired gold mining communities their names. A two mile drive west of Johannesburg led to Randsburg. Clyde, Thelma and seven-year-old Betty settled into their new home. He paid $150 for the house. His plumbing skills secured work for him at a nearby military base.

Clyde privately pledged that he and Thelma would have no more children. He vowed so during the agonized hours after Bobby’s drowning. For sure, his heart began a slow healing as he read through Bible stories. The life and words of Jesus especially drew him in, bringing more composure. And he sensed growth in his spiritual journey.

Still, something he dreamed after going to bed one night in their small Randsburg home left him astonished.
In his dream he pictured small children whom he couldn’t recall ever seeing before. They were lively, happy at play.

After some moments into the dream a crisp, convicting message – like a theme – overtook his mind. Bringing no further children into the world was not Clyde’s decision to make. Not really. His choosing this path closed the door to receiving precious little ones assigned to their family’s care.

Receiving? Assigned?

In the days following, Clyde could not shrug off images of laughing, playing children nor the dream’s assertion as he experienced it. The matter became a conviction. He yielded.

In due course Thelma delivered their third child. All nine pounds of Timothy Arthur Lout were clearly present. Exclamations erupted at Red Mountain’s hospital.

Now there’s a Big boy! He’s half grown already!

Timothy was still a baby when the family moved once again. Back to the Bay. To Berkeley. My mother (Thelma) later reviewed the setting and its seasons. When you were born, Jerry, Berkeley was just a quiet little college town.

I came into the world one year, one month and one day after my brother, Tim. I skinned up the tip of my nose from regularly rooting face-down into the bed sheets. For this the hospital nurses labeled me ‘little bull’.
How our small-framed mother actually delivered us bruisers, Tim and me, is a marvel. I trumped my brother Tim’s birth weight, tipping the scales at a disquieting ten pounds. A vital, robust life seemed clearly ahead.

During this period a word was finding its way into conversations all around. The word polio.