compassionate – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

August 22, 2024August 21, 2024

Street Beat

One of the most astonishing episodes of my life happened in 1995, stemming from a phone call from New York’s Lake Ontario region.

“Hi there Jerry, this is David Spencer. Would you like to go to China?”

David’s grandfather had long ago pioneered the mission agency through which we had served in Africa through our younger years. David was in pursuit of friends to pull together a low-profile short-term prayer team.

From the early 1970s a phenomenon (tagged later on as ‘Prayer Walking’) had been evolving, expanding its reach year after year. No single group or organization or church had a corner on this partnering-with=God practice. Prayer-walkers – hundreds, then later on thousands of small bands of intercessors donning all manner of footwear – had been taking to the streets all across broad sectors of the globe. Missiologists, evangelists and church planters took note, sensing that a burgeoning prayer movement was clearly afoot. The work of a sovereign, compassionate, pursuing God.

By the 1990s bands of such purposeful intercessors (Jesus-followers directing their praying outward toward the needs of others) had lined up at airline ticket counters. It was as though the world’s nations, many of them hosts to entire people groups still uninformed of the existence of Jesus, had seized the hearts of these travelling travailers.

Our prayer-journeying team (of Canadian and American heritage) numbered twenty and rangwd in age from 19 years to 81.

From our Hong Kong Port of Entry where orientation sessions were taken in through the fog of jet lag, we navigated thousands of miles by train, plane and automobile, by country bus and the occasional rickshaw. Add to this the mile on mile prayer-walking stints along strategic venues of five ‘gateway cities’, the occupants of one such urban center numbering sixteen million strong. Indeed, no town whose sidewalks welcomed the touch of our collective shoe leather boasted populations of less than three million.

An eye-opening, soul-stirring adventure of a lifetime.

Soon, I would take in a piece of news from a Pennsylvania farming community set to catapult my mind to jaw-dropping wonder. Leaving me happily puzzling in the general direction of the heavens,

What manner of God are you?

June 20, 2024

Steps Forward

Sensing that another of life’s thresholds lay ahead for me – one of greater bearing than others – I texted my pastor, requesting a visit.

Not long after his ‘dumpster dive’ narrative (the lone part of the sermon I recall from that Sunday morning), Roger had begun laying the groundwork for a twelve-step venture fitting a specific niche of persons. Men serving in Christian ministry.

A Step program had already been serving our faith community for some time, yielding some beautiful fruit along the way. Through Bible-centered curricula facilitated by a compassionate, Christ-loving husband/wife team, Jim and Pam, a number of souls had – for their first time ever – drunk from springs of undiluted hope. The program, by now widely available and spreading, carried the label Celebrate Recovery (‘CR’).

Enter Roger, a “man the cloth”, who inserted a third letter, sandwiched between the C and the R. The result – a kind of hybrid version nicknamed ‘C.P.R.’ – the ‘P’ loosely representing the term ‘Pastor’.

Imagine. A recovery program concerned with hurts, habits and hangups of preachers, pastors, missionaries, youth ministers and the like. Remarkably (or not so remarkably), Roger’s CPR groups – the first followed by another, then another – never lacked for signups.

In a study spanning a recent calendar year Barna Research noted that 42 percent of pastors had considered leaving full-time ministry. While a combination of factors can give rise to such troubling data, a common theme has surfaced. A high number of leaders in the Lord’s work suffer from a sense of isolation.

Yet, men (vocational churchmen included) connecting routinely with other men in honest, redemptive dialogue are finding themselves ushered into a place of oxygen. A doorway of hope starts opening. Wounds get disclosed. Fears and hiddenness get unveiled. Healing enters. Recovery comes.

Jesus occupies such settings. Men know the empowering presence, in the company of friends. This became my story and remains so today.

By the time of my first interactive session with a CPR band of brothers, much water had passed beneath the proverbial bridge. Some with murky currents indeed. Here, in time, I would muster adequate courage to bring to light the account of a sexual assault, of unsavory influences, and a history of associated brokenness.

I was a child when *Lawrence took advantage. Hiddenness – my behavior default – had kept the incident sealed for beyond six decades.

I would learn afresh that from God there issues love that, as the hymn writer worded it, will not let me go.

November 3, 2015August 28, 2017

Revived

He’s a Norwegian man’s man.

In his eighties now, Merland’s handshake transmits power – and tenderness, a rare combination. Minnesotans boast, with good cause, their ten thousand lakes. Many choose fishing over the comfort of a fireplace from a hard week’s work. For others, it’s simply that. A happy way to rest. Wintertime fishing demands stamina common to a working man. Famous for thriving in hard winters, anglers navigate the cold like NASCAR drivers do curves. . . It’s there. Make the most of it.

Let’s go do some ice fishing, Merland.

The friend had been standing near a window, studying the sky. By now he was already moving toward a side room where tackle was kept.

Merland responded without coaxing.

En route to the lake, visions of Northern Pike, Jumbo Perch and Blue Gill swam in his imagination. His large hands rubbed together. Part anticipation. Part to warm them.

A light breeze across the frozen lake chilled his flesh – even buried as it was beneath layers of clothing. Today was extra cold. Beyond frigid.

He hardly lowered his fishing line beyond the just-drilled eight inch hole. Bam, a nice hit. Merland’s reflexes were as sharp as the bursts of cold from newly forming wind gusts. Detaching the hook he tossed the catch a safe distance away from the hole, its single escape route. He dropped the line again. Bam.

He turned to his friend, Cold day, yes. . . but fine for hauling in dinner. His chuckle attended a smile that broadened with each new catch. The air was so harsh, the temperature so low, that each fish flopped three or four times on the lake’s surface before stiffening rigidly like curved planks.

In minutes the two men’s lines had hoisted a decent mess from the waters.

Merland’s friend turned to him, his teeth chattering.

This has been the best day in a while, yeah. A good thing, too. Let’s get to the house!

Once home Merland half-filled a large tub with water.

Ultra cold fish are something like people. We can grow so cold, so unpliable, to seem fully beyond recovery. Then a warmhearted person comes along – someone like Merland. An ancient Scripture is shared. A warm handshake given. Compassionate Norway eyes – or those of others – touch the heart.

Fresh warmth – long forgotten – finds entry and a thaw begins. We feel revived.

Merland slipped each fish into the water one by one. He stood watching. In seconds they limbered, then swam again, lively as ever.

I would love to hear from someone who, like myself, has experienced cooling times in life? Passion faded. Joy moved out as cold set in. Then followed a wonderfully welcome thaw. Usually through a big-hearted person who simply cared. Springtime displacing winter in the soul. I am thankful it happens. And can happen again.

May 26, 2015August 28, 2017

Falling

My brother Tim and I fought. Not excessively but – as with many close siblings – enough.

By my second year in elementary school I learned more than counting and reciting the alphabet. To my communication skills I added profanity. Never mind my ignorance of definitions, my enlarged vocabulary was picked up mostly on school playgrounds.

I practiced cursing on my brother at least once. Angry with Tim over nothing noteworthy I unleashed a stream of language at a far higher volume than was wise. My mother overheard the rants and seized an educational opportunity. About two things. (1) Resourcefulness. The wire-handle end of her fly swatter-turned-switch. (2) Awareness. Of a zero-tolerance policy for profanity in our home. From that day if I wasn’t fully cured I was clearly more discreet.

Mother was also compassionate. Back of our house the ground sloped gently downward, to a simple red barn where we boys often played. Beyond this was a pasture. I had recently turned nine. From a window mother saw my struggle.

I ambled from the barn toward the house. In mid-step my leg gave way. I fell. Lifting myself up I walked a short distance, then went down again. By the third or fourth tumble my mom was hurrying my way. She helped me to the house. My dad responded to her call and we were soon en route to the local doctor’s office.

Learning of my earlier polio bout the physician assumed this was not likely the same affliction. By now both legs entirely failed to work. I was admitted, limbs weakened and stiffening, into our local hospital. My condition worsened. Another physician was called in. He ran tests and soon conveyed his findings.

Poliomyelitis.

Hillcrest Hospital occupies a spot near downtown Tulsa on historic Route 66. The virus spread rapidly across the country. Hillcrest administrators concisely labelled one of its wings the polio ward. The patients – mostly children – were confined to beds positioned at varied elevated angles. Specific treatment of the patient seemed to dictate the bed’s positioning. A freer flow of air was critical for those with strained breathing muscles.

Through an open doorway I glimpsed a daunting, one-occupant contraption (a word my dad used for any curious object). It reminded me at first of a greatly-enlarged tin can lying sideways. Several patients lay each in their own iron lung – their exposed head wresting on a pillow atop a small extended platform. In most cases the iron lung was critical for staying alive.

We entered a multi-patient room. With the help of my mom, a nurse settled me into a designated bed. A sudden cramp assaulted my limbs. I grimaced. After a time the pain lessened.

I relaxed a little. And guessed I would be here awhile.

Note: In ‘Comments’ I’d love to hear from anyone who’s experienced polio or perhaps a family member? Be free to share a little insight/experience if you wish.