In Other Words

For the college student suddenly thrust into the streams of an unfamiliar location and culture, it can feel like a whitewater rafter battling turbulence along a Category Five canyon. Sympathetic voices of those who have traversed such currents ahead of them can prove priceless. In the language of Clinical Psychologist Wilson Van Dusen, “Perhaps the most important skill that should be taught to all persons is the capacity to really see, hear, and understand others.”

Such nerve-calming figures might arrive on the scene as volunteers who had previously served in missions service or other cross-cultural vocations. Indeed, lessons gleaned from such informal coaches can sometimes translate to things of life and death! How lucky was I as a twenties-something arrival to Africa, having locals on the ground orient me to new ways of thinking and acting within a different context. Navigating a car along a bustling corridor on the ‘wrong side’ of the road while, poised at a steering wheel affixed to the wrong side of the vehicle carries the potential of posing a risk! Contrasting roadway differences of the American and the British landscape give rise to humorous – and terrifying – tales.

The task of orienting our new international students did not just fall to American welcomers. To our real pleasure, a student or two from abroad – who had by now stacked up some cultural mileage in adapting to Tulsa life – sometimes showed up to lend aid.

“Remember this point. . .” The university upperclassman from Hong Kong paused a moment for emphasis as she served up nuggets of wisdom to a handful of new arrivals. . . “Keep it in mind, that words displayed on a sign along a sidewalk do not always mean what you might think”.

“When you see a sign along a city street announcing SUBWAY, please do not look for stairways leading you underground. No” (here she raised both arms toward an imaginary placard), “it is only a sandwich shop”.

© 2024 Jerry Lout

Abundant

As we hunger on after God he ensures that plenty of life-enhancing nutrients come our way. With him as supplier we don’t fret about scarcity. Rather, we take comfort, even delight, in this wondrous fact. His kingdom into which we have entered and now live overflows in plenty.

‘Supply chain interruption’. The phrase is seldom voiced among those abiding in Jesus, living under his governance. And part of the great news is this – the currency of our Lord’s kingdom. We live by faith. God himself supplies the faith (kingdom currency) needed, and it never ever diminishes.

Everyone has a faith story, even if it is not yet clearly known to them.

We grow to live our lives rooted in things that we believe. . . What we believe about ourselves. What we believe or disbelieve about God, and about the world. Our belief or non-belief about an afterlife beyond the grave.

A person’s behaviors (their routine actions in life) make it clear as to what they actually do believe, what they hold as truth. More about that later.

I first got introduced to the Christian faith as a young child. It was only afterward that I gave much thought to spiritual hunger.

I think everyone gets hungry for God. It is a little like the natural hunger I had that day at the college campus. Yet it is not the same. My mother and father were moved to yearn after God in their time of deep sorrow at the drowning death of their young son. But, whether through a great crisis or simply in a time of honest questionings we sense there is a  “something” missing.

For some of us, this hungering is a thing we have not given much thought to. Yet most all people across the world have deep life questions. And we feel the yearning for the something that is beyond ourselves.

In truth we are yearning for him – God. We thirst for his help and we yearn for his companionship. It is him, the One who is ready and able to fill up the hungry space inside us.  Indeed, the one by whom and for whom we were made.

French mathematician and physicist Blaise Pascal offered a word picture,

“There is a God-shaped vacuum in the heart of each man which cannot be satisfied by any created thing but only by God the Creator, made known through Jesus Christ.” *

(c)2022 Jerry Lout

Spice

Chutzpah. “ho͝otspə”

The Yiddish word even sounds brash. It’s meaning – supreme self-confidence, nerve, gall, audacity, boldness.

While chutzpah doesn’t fully define Claire, some days it seems close. Her fabulous mother – my daughter-in-law who may carry her own chutzpah gene – recounts. . .

     On our way home today in terrible traffic, I was driving like a boss — only centimeters between myself and the many cars around me coming in all directions – maneuvering to make a near-impossible left turn.

Knowing I was doing a great job, I nevertheless voiced to Claire, “Driving in Kinshasa is not my thing”.

Claire responded, THAT’s for sure – Which left mom questioning with a teasing glint,

“What do I have to do to impress this girl?

Such spunk, tempered by her wise parent’s guidance, could well cinch feats in life for Claire the more faint-hearted may only dream of.

***

Relational

Here, grandpa, I’ll take that inside for you. Grandma, let me carry that. The middle child – and indeed his siblings as well – from early childhood volunteered aid to the seniors come to visit.

With daily livestock duties at the family farm, tending to his restaurant job and his full college load, T.J.’s still keenly attentive to relationships. How ya’ll doing? escapes his lips as much as any phrase.

***

Industrious

Saturday – Easter Eve, my wife’s birthday – arrived. While she busied herself in the kitchen with granddaughter and daughters, I sat visiting with my two sons-in-law and grandson, Travis. Our most recently-added son-in-law responded to questions about the small brood of ducklings being nurtured at he and his new bride’s Tulsa home.

Travis, second-born of our grandkids – now married and parenting a fine toddler – ably engaged the discussion,

Hundreds of my baby chicks made it through. The incubator care I gave them made a difference.

Travs’ poultry enterprise began when – in diapers still – he shadowed his mother to the chicken-house, tending to his chirping, feathered buddies. Overseeing the full process fell to him in short order. As did other outdoor tasks, requiring a sharp mind and a ready body.

Three youngsters – Claire, TJ, Travis – all share in the qualities of confidence, warm-heartedness and industry. Yet each one – a one-of-a-kind – in personality and virtues.

As with them, our creator grants us every one, giftings, graces, ways of being. To touch a life, a family, a society – bringing things of good to our needy world.

                                           Variety is the very spice of life, that gives it all its flavor.

                                                                                            – William Cowper (poet)

©2016 Jerry Lout

Kentucky Surprise

“Fill ‘er up young man and check the oil, get the windows sparkling and, yes, run that vacuum of yours above and beneath the floor mats.”

It is common knowledge that many college kids scrape to get by. Such was our world in those days of self-service at the pump.

My young bride and I liked San Antonio with its Hispanic-flavored culture but could invest meager time sampling its delights. Time raced on in our happy but half broke world.

Fulltime work, fulltime schooling, volunteer pastoring duties, these pretty much consumed us. The adage two ships passing in the night depicted our days.

In time the San Antonio Express eyed my application and called me. I took up my post at the teletype machine. Life quieted. A little. Due to my skills the newspaper wage trumped my former gas-pumping earnings. Thank you Phillips 66 at the Caldera and Bandera crossing, and farewell.

Most days just after lunch I kicked the starter arm of my Vespa scooter and ventured to the city center. When my shift ended I mounted Old Blue again, making it to our eight-foot-wide house trailer on Hallelujah Hill before 1:00 a.m. Morning chapel kicked off at 8 o’clock. Vigorous praise music marginally rallied sleep-deprived students as we entered the old army barrack-turned-house-of-worship.

***

Mrs. Hottenstein.

“Brother Jerry, do you and Ann think you might swing by dear old Mrs. Hottenstein’s place Sunday mornings. . . bring her on to church, then drop her back home afterward?”

Pastor David went on, “She’s our retired school teacher from somewhere back in Kentucky’s hills and wants to come worship every week. She’s still pretty spry but is in her nineties and no longer drives. Anyway, maybe you all can talk it over, see what you think?”

A few weeks later following Sunday service we pulled from the church drive with our newer, older passenger. Responding to David’s invitation had been simple.

Nearing Mrs. H’s house this early afternoon I heard a clearing of the throat from our Pontiac’s back seat. Ann and I were fully unprepared for what followed.

©2017 Jerry Lout
Photo by Julie Falk http://bit.ly/2oUf5Fs

Signposts

The spindly lady of the Bluegrass State bought me time.

Mrs. Hottenstein’s sponsorship gift achieved what she’d hoped. Freed me to attend more to my college work at hand. And the extra hours away from the teletype keys meant added time with my young nurse-student wife. That meant a lot. Our ships-passing-in-the-night could sit a few more minutes each day in their common harbor – the thirty-five by eight-foot rented house trailer we called home.

The added margin freed me to drive northward. To a meeting I felt strongly drawn to make.

“Hey David, I feel I should visit my home church in Oklahoma. Special meetings are going on next week. If you’re free to come, it would be great having time together.”

The nine-hour road trip brought us to the sanctuary of Living Way Tabernacle, my place of worship from childhood. What followed set the course for decades of adventure to come.

Vigorous hand-clapping accompanied robust singing as organist Ragsdale’s nimble fingers brought life to the instrument. Monday night, first evening in a string of special meetings.

Rev. G.C., a pastor hailing from the deep south, was handed the mic. He was a large man, gigantic by any standard I knew. I had never met him. It was preaching time.

Over the past two weeks my thoughts had pivoted back and forth between two topics. An African language whose sounds I wouldn’t recognize if I heard it. And a phrase, leadership training. A seemingly random visit with a former missionary had spawned these musings and the themes wouldn’t let go.

Rev. G. C.’s deep, graveled voice thundered away as he moved deeper into his message. Rivulets of sweat glistened on his broad face as his three hundred or so pounds of Georgia preacher-man paced across the front, up and down the center aisle. His command of sacred text was impressive. His passion ran deep.

Twenty minutes into the sermon it happened.

G.C. paced into center aisle, his preaching on a roll. Suddenly, in mid-sentence, he halted. His head tilted upward. The pause continued. Then the preacher man uttered a single word no one expected.

“Swahili.”

I stared his direction, astonished at the sudden turn in his message. And especially that word. Swahili. The language I had encountered days before. I felt a mist of tears form, a hint at a gathering stream. The preacher went on. “I am hearing the Swahili language.” He scanned the audience.
“Someone in this room is called as a missionary to east or central Africa.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Clearly he wasn’t finished.
©2017 Jerry Lout

Family Addition(s)

Clyde,Thelme,3Kids (2)

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.

betty,tim,jerryL

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.

©2015 Jerry Lout