church – Page 2 – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

April 14, 2018

Missing Hymn

The faded blue hymn books lay beneath the baby-grand piano at the sanctuary front, heaped up in two stacks. Their pages were left unopened most of the year – melodies resting muted inside the hard-bound covers – like eager choir members, mouths duct-taped shut. The images linger with me now, as though only five years – not fifty-five – have stolen past.

During my adolescent days I mused now and then over the peculiar ritual of the song books. I’m glad they’re around, but why do they most of the time just sit there, stacked up, hardly ever touched?

“Today, let’s use the song books”. The pastor’s voice was wistful.

Thus, on a random Sunday morning twice or so a year, out the faded books would come. A pair of youngsters were beckoned and the hymnals would get passed along church rows. Shortly the piano’s intro to the tune, “In the Garden“ sounded, followed by “Rock of Ages” or “I’ll Fly Away”. A song penned by a beloved sightless composer named Fanny Crosby, often made the list.

A film of dust had collected on the topmost volumes, as a number of months had passed since the pages last saw daylight.

In those days of the 50’s I hadn’t yet surmised that the faded blue books had become a kind of sentimental relic in our church. The stack of these aged and more formal kind of songs – hymns – remained too near the heart of older believers to see the church completely part with them. Yet, by some undefined standard, it seemed the music in the old blue books lacked a revivalist flavor – of the sort which had recently captured imaginations and vocal chords. The spiritual songs. These were freshly-composed choruses, gaining increased use among independent Pentecostals identified with something called the Latter Rain Movement.

With a musical heritage marked by informal gospel choruses, I grew fond of many of the tunes. Finding myself at times, along with others, immersed in a rich, palpable presence – God’s presence – where sustained, worshipful singing found deep-hearted expression. Such gatherings often left many worshippers reluctant to leave, well after the final dismissal prayer.

Still, as years moved on, an undefined something in the realm of lyric and melody seemed missing. Like an absent-without-leave musical expression specially-tailored to the heart of God-seekers. Then my wife and I moved to Lima, New York in our missionary-candidate season. We stepped into a chapel service at Elim Bible Institute – in the I. Q. Spencer Tabernacle, named for the institute’s founder. That was where it happened.

My soul getting highjacked by the Redemption Hymnal.

May 8, 2018May 7, 2018

Quite A Steal

I waited in the car outside while bride-to-be and her attendants did what females do in an African wedding prep-hut. Excited giggles found their way past thin walls to the outside.

Turning my attention again to the outdoor place where the feisty papa of the bride had parked himself for the verbal contest, I noticed what appeared to be an attitude shift. The gray-haired man, in his effort to extract more dowry treasures from the groom’s family, raised his hand slowly. The patriarch tilted his head downward and nodded – signaling, I thought (and hoped) a civil concession. Glancing to the east I winced. Those gathering clouds look headed our way.

An outbreak of measured laughter sounded from the gathering of elders near the old man. Then, excited jostling and laughter as the open lorry took in more eager passengers. All was good. My passenger doors swung open. The bride and three of her maids squished themselves with their bright billowing dresses into the vehicle.

Due to the drawn-out dowry bargaining, the ceremony got a late start. It was indeed rainy season and the early afternoon downpour began pounding the church’s tin roof. The volume rose, all but muting the voices of the bride and groom pledging their mutual devotion.

Africa weddings, I smiled, Nothing quite like them. Drenched celebrants – including those trying in vain with colorful umbrellas to stave off the blowing torrent – hooted and sang and celebrated on.

The deluge finally passed. Despite the wet conditions and the dowry drama, the knot had gotten tied for the couple. . . all was well.

Festivities drawn to a close, the Peugeot – her wet and weary navigator at the wheel – sloshed and slid along muddy rivulets to the main road.

Reentering our home six hours after parting for the nuptial event, I gratefully received the mug of hot chai my bride offered me at the door. Moving toward a room where dry garments awaited, I chuckled back to her as I went,

“Even at 38 cows, darlin’, you would have been a great bargain!”

September 18, 2018September 19, 2018

Sweet Expansion

Sunday church service in the shade of a fruit tree brings its perks.

When a high-up branch at our quaint meeting place let go its grip on a ripened mango – thumping a half-sleeping listener on his head – my Bible class came alive. For the moment at least.

***

Mzee Kunda (my Tanzania co-worker) and I had scouted Moshi town in hopes of marking out a preaching point and eventually establishing a church. The spot of land with a mango tree caught our eye.

Kunda, an aging, never-wed Chaga tribesman of Kilimanjaro, had endeared himself to great numbers of people as a travelling evangelist. His one-on-one chats had brought many across the region – town and country dwellers alike – to a vital faith. From Moshi to Arusha and back, village after village had engaged the winsome personality which was Mzee Kunda. He knew his calling and trekked hundreds of miles through the years, facing hard opposition at times, but pressing on, sharing a compelling message of love.

“Mzee Kunda,” I posed one day, “could you check an area over near the Muslim sector – you know, where the city has no church at all. . .”

The property he found was the right size but lacked electricity and water. A small river (all but dry but for the rainy season) snaked nearby. Visits with the land owner brought a meeting of the minds. Prayers went up. Funds came in. We were underway.

Fencing the acreage with the aid of our son Scott during his Rift Valley school break, secured the area for construction. Scott and his big sis, Julie, drew water from the river to aid the cement-mixing venture while little sis, Amy, scurried about entertaining neighborhood kids.

It was a special day when Dan and Nancy Larkin came our way. Hailing from New York, the Larkins answered a call to missions. . . and to Moshi. Grandma Nancy promptly endeared herself to 7-year-old Amy.

Excitement stirred in the Kili region when Dan launched a training center project on our two-acre grounds. Decades later we would journey again to Moshi and celebrate Kilimanjaro Christian College opening her doors twenty five years before. Lazaro Kiriama of Maasai-land had nurtured the school into a thriving training center for church leaders, equipping them for service throughout the region.

Meanwhile a familiar old tree like a quiet, loyal friend, moved from thumping Sunday worshippers with mango missiles to seasonally treating a parade of ministry trainees her juicy delights.

June 23, 2015August 28, 2017

The Matter of Sister Opaline

When the Sun-glint from her brace caught my eye that Summer day I wondered. About Opaline and her story.

When yet a toddler her body was attacked by the same disabling illness that redirected my own world. For Opaline, however, the impact was evident; dramatically so. Not for months, but years.

In short-order polio wrenched strength and mobility from her lower limbs. Rigid braces received her feet and legs, more or less imprisoning them there. And – like a prisoner whose parole date is postponed – the waiting lengthened. Then lengthened further.

The shiny hip-to-heel fixtures lent support through one elementary school year. Then another, and yet another.

Every morning she rose and called up the ritual – maneuvering each foot into a special shoe. She fitted the cold steel and leather padding about her dormant limbs. At nightfall young Opaline reversed the process. Detaching the braces, she leaned further forward. Then she manually lifted her legs onto the bed.

Lying motionless Opaline sometimes wondered. What would normal movement be like? Running? Dancing?

But this girl was unusual. She carried something within. Resolve. And a zest for living. Ironically, like a distance runner, Opaline entered the Marathon of Life.

Nothing, it seemed, could sideline her. The theme song of her journey could be, “Life’s an adventure. Bring it on.” She matured, completed high school, then college. Friends in our church community regarded her warmly. Smiles typically greeted her when she approached. Neither the crutches nor the braces mattered to anyone. She was Sister Opaline.

Sister Opaline, Sunday School teacher .

Sister Opaline, Vacation Bible School director.

Sister Opaline – High School teacher (her “handicap-fitted” car carrying her to waiting students in another town a distance away).

Sister Opaline, Christmas Play director. . .

Delightful Opaline.

She owned her personal imperfections. Opaline looked to encourage others – especially the younger others. Parading either gossip or whining into Sister Opaline’s presence proved mostly futile. Her knack for winsomely shifting subjects was magic. She mined for the best in people. Her naiveté about human nature was flagrant (though no-one accused her of being naïve).

Wherever she seated herself, Opaline’s crutches lay at the floor or leaned at a wall nearby. Her underarm muscles suffered from bearing much of her body weight over the years. Still, her face easily sprang into smile. The smile seemed visually fragrant like a rose coaxing a passerby to inhale.

Sister Opaline – Spouse. In a marriage with challenges and hardships of its own.

Our church minister and the common people who worshipped together strove to trust the Bible and its message of God’s big love. And of his available power to bring healings, even miracle-healings. As a nine-year-old, with the aid of crutches, I walked from a hospital. This was weeks after being gravely ill – and after a doctor predicted I would not walk again. And after prayer. By all accounts, through simple trust in a loving healer, continued believing prayer played its role in my astonishing recovery. Was this triumphant faith? To the church family there seemed no doubt. God touched me. Radically so.

And yet there was the matter of Sister Opaline. Would she soon have her miracle?

At a particular church service one Sunday evening I watched keenly, hopefully.

The gangly movements of my Angel-lady comrade entered the center aisle. And moved toward the altar. She was a little over five feet tall. Her smartly-groomed auburn hair fell an inch or two above her shoulders. Beneath the shoulders, the ever-present crutches. They bore her along, steadying the balance of a lady hardly a hundred pounds in weight.

Opaline positioned herself in the prayer line.

May 12, 2015August 28, 2017

Tents and Braces

In the Summer of 1949 sounds of homespun music, clapping hands and shouts of Amen ascended into the night at the north end of our town. A tent meeting was underway.

Things about tents fascinate me. My mother-in-law’s Danish mom – Grandma Sadie – called up memories as a settlers’ daughter. People from Denmark are evidently tough. The family spent their first winter in Montana living in a tent. Sadie’s beguiling reflection, “but it was a pretty mild winter” prompted a reflection of my own; ‘there can be no such thing as a mild winter in Montana – in a tent.’

In my adult years, while living in a tropical region, I bought a weathered six-man camping tent. A patch in the roof presumably marked the spot where the tusk of an elephant punctured the dwelling. The agitated mammal, I was told, raised the edge of the tent off the ground before moving on.

In the ‘1940s and ‘50s open tents seated fifty to a hundred people and served the purposes of transient American preachers. Our visiting preacher, a lady minister oversaw with the aid of her husband, the tent’s inauguration on a vacant lot. A sawdust floor, wooden folding chairs, worn hymnals and a guitar or perhaps accordion completed the setting. The tent’s older visitors kept hand-held fans in easy reach. The preaching was Bible-centered, the messages vigorously delivered, the singing pulsing with strength.

Clyde and Thelma began attending the meetings with my sister, brother and me in tow. The music, preaching and testimonials seemed to usher in the Presence. The family never tired of experiencing the nearness of God in the company of other Jesus followers.

After a few weeks of conducting meetings the minister and her husband felt drawn to remain in our Northeastern Oklahoma town. They rented a vacant building. The Living Way Tabernacle became our church home.

After the polio experience my left leg was fitted with a knee to shoe brace. In my fifth year the brace came off for good. I was active without it and, lacking the benefit of therapy coaches in that era, my folks simply retired the brace. My limp became a little more pronounced from that time.

Support structures and supportive people. Good things to have in our lives. They are wonderfully provided (some would say from above) to help meet real needs, to make up the lack. It’s true that personal betterment can sometimes actually be hindered through over-support. That is, when a kind of assistance or a certain level of it is no longer appropriate.

Still, help is needed by all of us, through all of life. Different types of help and in differing amounts, for different seasons. Prematurely withdrawing support (as with braces) may damage or hinder progress along a road to wellness. Or, at least, better mobility.

I fell in love at age five. Her name was Opaline. She was beautiful. Even in braces. . Especially in braces.