lady minister – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

And now we welcome two brothers – the Lout boys – to the waters of baptism. Our lady minister, dressed in white and smiling, beckoned my older brother and me. Sister A was standing in a cattle pond fifteen feet from shore.

The foreman of the ranch attended our church. In summer months he supplied this venue for those ready to be baptized.

Sister A adjusted her position, steadying her bare feet on the pond’s floor. She stood waist deep, was poised, looking elegant. She noted our approach while pondering the dignity of her office. Considering her bearing Sister A might just as well be performing the sacrament in a cathedral.

Tim and I waded forward. Our understanding of baptism’s actual significance – at least my understanding – was limited, shallow as the waters hugging the pond bank. Our church didn’t always articulate clear reasons for certain practices. To comply. This was seen as the purpose of doctrine. Love God and do what he says:

Jesus was baptized by John.

Followers of Jesus get baptized.

You go under water and come up again. Like Jesus in the Jordan River.

This, for the most part, summed up our tutoring. And, given we were Pentecostal, I vaguely caught that some people experience the Holy Ghost at the moment of water baptism. Without irreverence I wondered. Will I to talk in tongues when I come up?

Nearby, a mama cow bawled.

OK, Tim. Now squeeze your nose shut. Tim complied. Facing him, Sister A placed her palm at his back, the other on his chest. She shut her eyes.

Now, in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, I baptize you. She invoked the divine titles while lowering Tim beneath the water and returning him upward. The small gathering of witnesses, our parents included, smiled their approval. The minister caught my eye and nodded. I stepped forward. The ritual was repeated.

I remember thinking this was a good thing that had been done to us. I also remember wishing we could remain longer – make further good use of the pond, swim around awhile.

Being baptized under the open sky in a setting familiar to a farm boy left me with a pleasant memory. My joy over the occasion, however, came years later. Wise and caring believers opened Scriptures to me on the rich theme of water baptism. The beauty of identifying with Jesus. It was belated joy but still joy.

Tim and I brought our dripping bodies to shore. Our parents received us. Mother extended a towel. We got into dad’s ‘51 Ford.

Our thoughts shifted from pasture and pond to mother’s kitchen. The roast in her oven would be ready now.

We were therefore buried with him through baptism. . in order that,

just as Christ was raised from the dead. . we too may live a new life

– Romans 6. Bible

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.

Tag: lady minister

Baptized

Tents and Braces