limp – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

August 17, 2022August 17, 2022

Changing. Inside-Out

Hi and welcome back friends (old and new alike)!

Excited to introduced our freshly-resumed blog, offering up discourse on a stimulating topic. Change, Inside-Out.

If you’ve visited my website in earlier times you know of my published memoirs, Living With A Limp and Giants In The Rough. See links at this website to view and order resources.

You’re invited to trek with me now as we together explore the what and why (and a bit of the how) of this theme. Life transformation.

Most of us would like to catch some hope of change for the better in our own lives or those dear ones we most care about. I welcome you to ‘draw up a chair’ and savor a few samples of this cuisine. Maybe you’ll choose to linger at the table an extra moment, pondering a new flavor. Regardless, make yourself at home!

Serving #1

“I guess I’ll go with Accounting.”

What was I thinking. . . A better question, Was I thinking?

This little book is about changing. The accounting story is the first in a small parade of narratives with reflections sprinkled along the way. The thread linking them all together points to one common theme. Change.

Changing a vocation, an education stream, or a new place to live, all these mark common redirections for many. But, probably the most radical kind of shift, and weightiest, in our lives comes when we purpose to change our very selves. And undertaking the change from the inside-out.

The year (1963) had already been for me a stretch of transition, high school graduation included.

Thumbing through pages of a vocational school catalog I spotted the Accounting Program. “Sure, why not?”, I thought. (My friend Dan – father of eight adult children – is known for pithy statements, “the foolishness of youth that only age cures.”)

My romance with spread sheets, ledgers and calculations died two days into the course.

When a travel route starts leading to pointless destinations, revisiting a trusted roadmap is wise.

But neither Rand McNally nor GPS offer any real help when trying to navigate the larger highways of life. What we are offered in the midst of our broodings over multiple scenarios is something far richer and better than we might dream. The offers come through an ancient book bursting with story and counsel. The ‘book of books’ (the Bible) points us in a direction like no other.

Who among us desires transformative change, changing leading one to wholeness and to goodness, the real kind of goodness? Bringing that question home to me personally I had to reflect a bit, Do I want such a thing? The bible, lying open before me, leads the way I have found to just such a life. A life increasingly marked by flourishing.

Accounting 101 was not the smartest choice. It was, however, a wakeup call. Best I make a course correction, a correction leading to change. A refreshing word. Change.

“Lord, give me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. . . the courage to change the things I can. . .”*

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.

November 17, 2015August 28, 2017

Angel Walk

I walked my youngest daughter down the aisle last Saturday.

Her waiting groom beamed, taking in her beautiful smile. I looked to her eyes again. Gorgeous. Memories stirred, some from distant places. . .

Branch out, guys. She can’t be far. . . but Heathrow’s a big place!

The airport lies 23 kilometers west of London. Heathrow buzzes each day with 200,000 arriving and departing travelers. A sea of strangers were likely sweeping our four-year-old Amy along and we had no idea where.

Amy had been standing beside me at an airport kiosk during our family’s wait for a connecting flight. I bought something in U.S. currency. My change came in British sterling. In the seconds it took to interpret the coins my little girl was gone.

Catching my urgent tone Amy’s older siblings, Julie and Scott, hurried into the stream of humanity – its patchwork of luggage trailing, emitting a low rumble throughout the terminal. My wife had fractured a toe shortly before our Kenya departure. From her wheelchair Ann did what she could do. She prayed. Five minutes into our search, the public address mic crackled. The voice was male – distinctly English.

All passengers, may I have your attention, please. A young girl by the name Amy Bethlout is looking for her parents.

I didn’t worry at his blending her middle and last names. Relief washed through me. The voice continued, Please make your way to airport security. . .

I learned that Amy – attracted by the buzz of airport activity – had stepped into the sea of travellers and wandered off. In time, discovering her isolation in the crowd, she tugged at an elderly man’s coat. He stopped and looked down.

Do you know my daddy?

When we left the area – Amy’s hand securely in mine – we moved again toward the kiosk. A father-daughter visit lay ahead. I knew my assignment and hoped for understanding.

Hey sweetheart, let’s get a donut.

Settling into a dining booth I surveyed her pre-kindergarten face. Amy lifted her milk glass. Two gulps chased a bite of pastry down and her eyebrows lifted approvingly. A slight donut remnant shared a spot on her upper lip with a newly-fashioned milk mustache. Charming innocence, I thought. I was moved freshly by the care a father can feel for his children. My smile faded. How vulnerable children are. I stifled a shudder and began.

Amy sweetheart, Daddy needs you to understand something about airports. . . really about any places where there are people – you know, strangers – around. I held her gaze a few seconds before the not-yet-finished donut, resting at her eye-level, won out. I waited till the pastry was further reduced. My pet name for her was Angel. She again looked my way. Being a parent means limping toward wisdom and often finding it illusive. Fifteen years parenting children left me still feeling a novice at times. I felt that way now.

Amy Bethlout sat patiently as I painted one scenario, then another – making my best effort to instill caution and not paranoia. Inhaling slowly, I barely introduced my final case on the importance of sticking close to daddy and mommy. Amy issued a soft sigh. Daddy.

In a poised, self-assured tone she continued. Daddy, I already heard you the first time.

Instinctively I knew my drill was over – while thinking, Oh baby, I hope you have. I sure do.

Now here we stood. Before the minister under a sunny and crisp November sky. David, her handsome groom nearby. Amy’s mom moved to my side.

Thank you Father for bringing her safely, wonderfully to this place. Thank you.

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” The minister’s voice was clear, strong.

“Her mother and I do”, I announced – hoping my manner was poised – my tone self-assured.

December 19, 2015August 28, 2017

Yearning. Magi

Something is amiss. What? What is it?

The mutter passing through Melchior’s barely-parted lips was for no one’s ears. In one fashion or other – half-whispered, barely voiced, even silently within his thoughts – the nagging persisted. Dozens of times it came since passing third watch. He had keenly followed his animal’s motions and moods from midnight till now.

Beams from a rising sun already stalked the caravan’s rear flank, sketching long, thin shadows on the sand out ahead. At least with coming of light he would gain advantage – would examine each hoof – above and beneath. What is it? What troubles my beast? Melchior’s gravelly voice took a stronger yet warm and pitying tone, directed to the animal herself. Flanked by her pair of lavishly furry ears the camel’s head moved just beyond arm’s reach. But for this distance, Melchior’s hand would have rested here, consoling.

I feel beneath me no limping gait. You seem well enough, my desert lady. Yet. . .

He stroked the lining of the cloak at his shoulders (fashioned itself of camel hair). Melchior’s surprise at a tear forming in his eye provoked clearing of his throat. He glanced about, gruffly swiped at the tear. The priestly magus was drawn again to reflection. Addawser – “the large one” – had long been his beast and was never, to him, a means of mere utility.

Ah no, no mere camel, Addawser. Strong-willed at times? Ha! At times? Haha! The animal answered Melchior’s caress to her shoulder with a throaty rumble. The master grew reflective.

They had – each in the company of the other – weathered thirty-eight summers. Melchior raised his vision above the horizon. He was certain of a star-blanketed sky as if it were still full night and they still visible. He voiced petition to the great deity of skies, hoping an attentive ear might heed. May Constellation’s God grant me and Addawser more good summers together. May it be . . .

The caravan drew to a halt. The sun behind them edged upward.

Alright, Good Lady Addawser. We rest now. At her master’s voice, the camel lowered. He dismounted. A studied survey of her hooves followed. Alright, grand lady, let’s solve this nagging riddle.

The priest’s thumb-stroke halted. The pebble – lodged in the animals left hind hoof – was small enough to have been easily missed. Not harmful, to be sure, and only barely felt by the camel herself, it could be certain. Still, Melchior knew his Addawser. Knew her pleasure that the irritant – slight though it was – had got fished out by the aid of his pesh-kabz. I should have thought, my Addawser. Yes, I might have guessed. Foolish master, foolish, foolish master. He chuckled. From the camel’s interior rose another throaty rumble. At this, two servants shared knowing glances.

To speak to one’s camel is no rare thing – most common, in fact. Loud rebukes, angry scoldings. But words of friendship. . . of warmth? Ah, hardly. Sharing, as they seem, a comradery? Rare as oases in the Persian desert.

The nomad priest-scholar fingered his pesh-kabz a moment more – its knife-point keen enough for the stone’s removal, enough to penetrate battle armor if need be. He looked at the pebble – backward and forward he rolling the gritty stone between forefinger and thumb. Melchior sighed. He rendered a wholly new question – though whispered as he had done before.

What of my own pebble?

The more he mused, the more fitting seemed the comparison. Indeed, so fitting the matter of Addawser’s pebble rekindled the old disquiet within.

He spread his mat at the base of a crag where he hoped for daytime slumber. I yet have the feeling. Well, to be sure the feeling itself is different. Yet, much like the matter with Addawser before her riddle was settled.

My soul is troubled by something – as with a pebble gone unfound in my sandal. There is this in my soul. The feeling. So primary to his thinking this matter, Melchior mused further.

My life goes forward by day, by night, but to where? I gain distance, yet to what purpose? Within, I feel yearning. Toward something elusive. As a phantom. So, turning inward to himself, for what – my soul – do I yearn?

The esteemed Melchior drew a sigh. Emotion threatened to prevail, akin to that which for some prompts sobbings deep and long. With effort he willed himself quiet. Yet the question remained, What troubles me? Ah! The very question I labored with for my camel through fourth watch. . . What troubles me? God of all constellations. Shall I ever know? Where is my place of rest? He rolled to his side. Drained – body and mind – Melchior slept.

The depth of sleep into which he sank sweetened Melchior’s waking moments hours later. Such restfulness – the kind he’d nearly forgotten through this arduous journey – revived in him an earlier eagerness. The focus, the purpose of their westward trek.

Dark revisited the land, as did the prominent star. Its presence, by now assumed, nearly as much as sought after – like a valued, unparting friend.

The caravan snaked further along a patchwork of desert and sagebrush.

The priest shifted in his saddle. With it came, it seemed, a shift in mood. Of strong stirring. We are near. I feel it. Seldom was the priest known to whistle. Now – for a short time at least – a lively melody from the Persia’s hinterland escaped his lips.

From beginning of fourth watch the caravan undertook a gradual climb. Addawser served this leg of the trek as lead camel. Thus it was her nose that first passed into the great escarpment overlooking the town. The star sat immobile. It’s light stretched downward. The rays enveloped a domestic dwelling and its close-by animal shelter. Melchior’s vision – clouded now by ever-moistening eyes – held steady to the sight. He could not have imagined a common home scene stirring such emotion. Drawing his animal to a halt, he rested in the saddle – his spirit hushed. Aware that a long yearning was nearing a threshold passing at this place – not far from the Great Sea. This place, in this dwelling.

In that moment came another knowing – more deeply – of a curious kind. Knowledge that his yearning was not to fully end, not finish here. Not fully. Rather the yearning would be engaged. As a satisfying kind of yearning. In communion, somehow with another. And still others in a lesser measure. Here. Soon. Such mystery in this entire venture. But compelling. Mighty in its pull.

Melchior breathed in – his mind going to the cargo sack at Addawser’s side. The frankincense for a king-child. His eyes wrinkled to a smile. He felt himself within giddy as any child.

Leaning forward he whispered, Addawser, it is my time. The pebble shall dislodge from the sandal of my soul. The nagging shall soon quiet. It quiets even now, my desert lady. Silence hushed all space from them to the light-bathed dwelling. Then was broken. Addawser sounded her throaty rumble. Melchior – in that moment – laughed more heartily, more freely than he had in many summers.

December 23, 2015August 28, 2017

Restricted God

If lameness means restricted mobility, God entered the world limping. It is called the incarnation.

Polio visited me before my first birthday. I’ve limped all my life. The physical lameness came uninvited, an unwelcome intruder.

God the eternal Word – constrained yes, but only by love – became flesh. Voluntarily. With no illusions.

Who can take this in – the incarnation? How can it be considered? What mind can think this way? Really.

Jesus – Fully human God. I labor to see this.

‘See’ the creator and sustainer of the cosmos. See Him as the human preborn, the human baby, human child, human adolescent, human adult. . . Yielding to human death.

God’s lameness (diminished mobility) is his goodness physically embodied – coming to us, to our rescue. Coming for us – we other humans – limping as we are, disfigured by and in our sin.

Taking our crippled lives to his soul; see this God – Word-made-flesh – inviting spikes to his feet. Display of lameness – disclosing his helplessness.

His human life absorbed judgment for every human wrong. For anyone. Ever.

And three days from yielding to torturous death – this Jesus of Bethlehem, Jesus of Nazareth, Jesus of Golgotha – rises. Rises.

Astonishing. Everything about it. About him.

Baby’s birth, teacher’s life, sacrificial offering’s death, the Savior’s resurrection. To what end?

To deliver. To bring us to the thing he brought to us. His kingdom.

To what end? To the end that, by his kingdom life, he transforms us to be as he is in this world. Cosmic mystery.

To the end that, out of our limping strength we enter into – as he did – the lameness of others. Incarnating among them so to speak.

Thy kingdom come.

The end, it seems, must be hope And transformation.

Bringing Joy.

To the world.

Love has been perfected among us in this. .

because as He is,

so are we in this world

– 1 John 4:17

December 31, 2015August 28, 2017

Branch

Bring the lamp near.

Gaspar was accustomed to giving commands. Wealthy, of prominent lineage, tutored by notable scholars.

Gaspar, together with his friend – a devotee to the heavenly bodies – studied the star chart until their half-finished tea went cold.

Now. Let’s go have a look.

Straightening themselves they moved outside.

Lighted pinpoints blanketed the sky. The astrologer-scholar tilted his head, directing his chin toward the westward horizon. He signaled his friend. There.

Gaspar’s deep eyes, squinting just moments ago, widened. Ah, yes. Acknowledging further by a lifted hand he whispered, Yes, I see. Then added, Um, yes, this one has never caught my eye before tonight. Indeed I don’t recall ever seeing it. This star.

You have not seen it because it has never been. Not until these weeks.

Well, said Gaspar, We must look into parchments of civilizations past – others as well as our own. And determine.

Determine what, nobel friend?

What, if any, purpose a new star in the heavens may serve. Fortune perhaps?

Months later, Gaspar riding his beast – rolling slowly with its stride – reviewed that night. He savored occasions when he could – without intrusion – review his past, his station in life, his good fortune.

Keeping to his general disposition he struggled with humility. This, he himself would not deny. Truthfully, he did find himself growing uneasy at his self-congratulatory musings. But only slightly.

Of course it was I who first took serious note of the light in the western sky. And didn’t I, Gaspar, in my research, uncover the mystery-promises?

The promises, he recalled, were oral references of ancient Hebrew parchments – oracles predicting a king’s birth. A child-king promised to the Hebrew peoples. . . perhaps even to the world. His shoulders lowered and he sighed, reluctant to credit others whose qualities were equally vital to the cause.

Yes, he conceded, Melchoir was he whose dream one night launched a relentless search of the heavens for some guiding star. And, yes, it lay with Belthazar’s talent to coordinate and map the pilgrimage details – a talent unmatched by most skilled trackers across the eastern world.

Still.

Was it not I among the magi – Gaspar swept his billowy-sleeved arm in an arch denoting his companions. Was it not I of whom the elders in my land whispered openly, ‘Of course Gaspar will lead the expedition. Such a venture demands leadership. Who else?’ His slight-turned smile – even in reflection – betrayed smugness. Shouts interrupted his thoughts.

Master, master! The light we have followed all this way. The star. It seems to have ceased its forward advance. It is lowered now. Fixed. In place. And see, now master, to the valley there ahead. The town. Might it be the place of the king-child. Might it be, master? The servant drew back, rejoining his fellows, each of them abuzz with theory.

The fourth watch was half-run when the caravan finished its descent, trimming the distance to the sleeping village. The star’s brightness shone from directly above them. Gaspar squirmed in his saddle, a curious discomfort had been rising inside him for awhile. With no prompting of any kind he knew. The disquiet was in his soul – a deep troubling within. He shuddered – less settled still.

The star’s light – distinct and above him – converged it seemed with another kind of light – invisible, holy, searing. Illumining his whole person, his inner self. Gaspar’s shudder yielded to a muffled cry – lamenting, confessing, sorrowing. The shift of mood became his. He owned it and it overtook him.

Woe, woe am I. Corrupt. Arrogant. Viewing my brother with contempt. The remorse went on, spilling out. I am brought low, an unworthy being. Seekings – soul-questions – displaced his confessions. But before whose face I am unworthy I know not. I dare not proceed. . . to the place of the king-child. Who is this one, this child? Is it he who moves upon me so – here, even before I view his face?

He drew his camel back, brought his cape over his face. At his command – oddly meek now to his animal’s ears – the camel knelt. Gaspar dismounted. He went to his knees in the sand. Unworthy. I’ve nothing to give. Even the myrrh I bring. No, I must receive. Must gain mercy. Mercy. Exalted Being. . Governor of constellations. Mercy!

In moments he sensed a thing wholly new to his experience. A presence. Then he felt a word – felt it more than heard it. Bathed. . . bathed. The term marked more than any the feeling sweeping him – washing through him. A bathing presence. Wave on purifying wave. Cleansing. Marked by joy.

He didn’t know the time he lingered – the cleansing under the star’s light. His smile was wide, free – embracing the world all about him. After some moments he moved to rise.

His right leg, bent beneath him so long, had lost feeling. Reaching upward, he grasped a young tree’s low-hanging branch and raised himself. Steadying himself by the branch, he rolled the useless foot round and round in motion. A picture began forming in Gaspar’s mind as he balanced there on one leg. Yes, yes this is who I am. I am a man not able, of my own reserves, to properly stand. On my own I am out of balance. Needing support. Support such as found in this tree. He strengthened his grip on the branch.

Old fool you’ve been. Wagging his head, Gaspar chided himself. My own arrogance. My haughtiness. Assigning to myself glory not due me. This has left me a cripple. But now.

A surprise wave of thankfulness overtook him. Further, it stirred in him a resolve. And a pledge.

From this day I shall walk in the company of others. None of us alone – none isolated from the rest. My brothers – Melchior and Balthazar indeed – yes, and my servants as well. Guides they are – companions all – upon whom I may lean. Friends unto whom I shall render service. Yes, we shall be – each to the other – as a supporting limb.

But yet. The wise man paused. A worrying line formed. Are we – we humans, equal to this – frail supports that we are? Hardly fit to carry ourselves – even less one another. What of our frailties? Ours each one? Indeed it is we ourselves most needing support. And what support have we? Have we any?

Bustling movements interrupted his thoughts – excited calls sounding from a place just ahead. Ecstatic, adoring calls – calls voiced in varied tongues – Aramaic, Hebrew, Persian, Arabian. All declaring one thing – one person. The child-king.

One voice, with Persian accent, of Jewish descent – sounded above others. Distinct, crisp, jubilant. The call struck Gaspar’s soul. Cupping his ear to seize upon the phrases, he took them in, every word – one by one.

All worship to him, the Christ-child!

Messiah!

King!

Morning star!

the Branch!

The word almost escaped him.

Branch? Gaspar swallowed. A twilight breeze touched his face, stirring his beard.

Without thinking, he turned again to the tree still in his reach. He peered toward the lighted glow of a simple dwelling on the path ahead. Hope stirred.

I shall deliver the myrrh to my Lord.

He wrapped his fingers about the bough and squeezed, firm and long.

Gaspar mounted his animal. Take me now, camel. See the light of the dwelling there, camel?

We shall meet there a child.

The King-child.

March 1, 2016August 28, 2017

Nearness

Really honey, no pain meds? First Aid didn’t send you home with some?

Well, I winced, it didn’t hurt that much after they worked on me so I told them I wouldn’t need any pills. That the anesthetic might wear off hadn’t occurred to me.

Pain – like life – isn’t meant to be handled alone. Just Ann’s presence that night eased the hurt of my traumatized finger. A pain-consoler may not dwell under the same roof. Nearness comes often through a hand-held device in easy reach – the call or text summoning a friends voice – and the pain is hushed. Even when these are not available, we remember the ONE. Jesus – our “present help in trouble” – gets pain. With such friends, the injury’s cause – self-inflicted or other – doesn’t matter. Mercy makes room. Comfort shows up. I was quite the doofus earlier that day.

Bounding over hardware, Francis reached me in two strides. Seizing my wrist, he squeezed evenly. The blood flow, shooting spurts of red a moment earlier, eased.

Here Jerry, do this. I’ll shut the machine down.

I took over my co-worker’s self-assigned medic role, clasping my right wrist. My work-partner, Francis, returned in seconds. Now, we want to get you to First Aid.

***

Reproductions department had moved me to their shop in the massive aeronautics plant. The square, open room, seasoned with inky aromas, pulsed with print-machine rhythms. I had come to draw odd comfort from the omnipresent, clickity-clack movements of the press room.

I had wrapped up the final job order on my multilith press for the day, clearing away some stragglers of unspent paper. Standing before the unit, I dialed down the ink roller speed, then took up a rust-red work cloth and cleaning solution bottle.

Safety measures can’t be over-stressed, we’d been told. Always look out for things that might catch on moving parts, a supervisor had once warned. Like clothing. One machine choked a fellow when ink rollers swallowed his neck tie all the way up. Nasty.

This day clothing didn’t play a role. Still, carelessness did.

I’ll just wrap the rag around this forefinger, spray some solution, slide the cloth slowly – forward and backward along the roller, clearing the ink. . . I hadn’t factored the exposed gear rotating steadily near the ink rollers. Its teeth seized my cleaning rag. My finger-tip followed – yanked into the gear and bringing the cog to a halt. Less than a minute later Francis was hustling me down to First Aid.

I lay face up on a black vinyl table. Someone positioned a right-angle extension to support my arm. My finger end was a grated mess. Head turned its direction, I caught an ink-scent off my work-shirt. The image of a nurse clicking a needle’s syringe caught my attention. I clenched my teeth. The four injections into my finger drew pain I’ve seldom known. Sweat-beads sprung to my face in the cool room.

This is to deaden the pain while treating your finger, a voice consoled.

Really?

The night at our apartment went by slowly. With some whimpering. But tolerable.

Ann was near.

June 30, 2015August 28, 2017

Post-polio. Carried to Wholeness

(conclusion of three-part piece – the Matter of Sister Opaline)

We’ll carry you. Like we did in the winter times, Mrs. Opaline. Please stay. Keep teaching here.

Her students adored her, the auburn-haired teacher of Geometry, Shorthand and English.

At times during the winter, icy patches lined a critical high school passageway. It was a short outdoor walk linking classroom areas to the school restrooms. With unassuming gallantry senior boys of Opaline’s class physically lifted and carried her to the Ladies Room door. Her crutches, they feared, didn’t give enough stability to get her safely there and back. Teenage Nobles-in-disguise – they couldn’t imagine letting her risk a fall.

But now it was time. Opaline accepted that she could no longer teach. Her failing health dictated it.

Traces of gray marked her temples and lines of aging graced her forehead. But it was a diagnosis of cancer that provoked the decision. Opaline loved to teach. She always had. We’ll carry you up and down the stairs to your classes. Anywhere you need, if you’ll stay, Mrs. Opaline.

We lame people – all of us – need carrying at times. A childhood friend recently called up a scene from my polio journey. She watched on a Sunday as my father carried me into our place of worship. He settled me onto a pillow, cushioning my bony frame. And Opaline – when still a child – was carried to school and back on a gentle horse. Her siblings easily accompanied her on foot.

Facing her condition now, it was Opaline’s faith that underscored an important truth. Mortality itself cripples. Not just accidents or illnesses and the like. She needed carrying in this life. And when such a time came, she would need carrying into the next. The thought didn’t alarm but reassured her. The attractive squint in her eyes, the familiar movement at outer edges of her mouth, testified still to joy. Her Lord carried her now. He would carry her going forward. Regardless.

Opaline passed her church duties to others she had long mentored. She came less and less for the worship gatherings. At last she was moved to Tulsa’s St. Francis Hospital.

I was living outside the country when we received news of Opaline’s death. The message from Oklahoma was simple, Sister Opaline is now home. I learned shortly afterward, however, that her home-going experience was far from ordinary.

My minister friend, Melvin, sat not far from the hospital bed. He observed Opaline’s responses to what she seemed to witness of the other side before passing away. Melvin spoke of the wonder of her descriptions.

Nearing the end, Opaline rallied. Her eyes opened wide – then wider yet, as though waking up in another setting. It seemed that she was.

Suddenly her face beamed a radiant Opaline-smile. She was in another place, taking in vivid sounds and scenes.

Oh! The colors, the beautiful colors. . . like none I’ve ever seen, like none I could imagine! Oh! And the flowers, such beautiful gardens. . . beautiful, so beautiful!

Her voice trailed. Her eyes closed. Moments later with revived energy and her freshly wakened smile, Opaline resumed the adventure. Now it was sounds capturing her attention.

What glorious music! The singing and the music is so beautiful. I can’t imagine. How lovely and beautiful. Oh! Lovely, glorious!” Again her voice faded. Her eyes closed.

Not long after there was quiet. She was gone.

I have thought a lot on our lives, Sister Opaline’s and mine. The polio battle. Our similar and differing journeys. I’ve wondered of prayer. Of God’s will. Wondered about a curious mystery – of the miraculous. I am confident that in the experiences of each of us both, the miraculous was in play. Throughout. The supernatural of God entered our worlds and executed his purposes. Undeniably.

At the age of nine – aided by crutches to be soon laid aside – I limped from a hospital. Amazingly I soon ran. Freely and in the strength of renewed limbs. All the evidence of the experience virtually shouted, Supernatural. The works of a wonderful, powerful God.

And the miracle of Sister Opaline.

Courage, stamina, her giving-switch ever at the ON position. They are marks not of a merely good person – tough, resilient, resolute. Years of rich, contagious smiles in the face of adversity, pain and surely some disappointment. Opaline’s life itself radiated the supernatural. Messages of grace and of joy and love sounded out most clearly from the platform of her limpings.

I occasionally sit back and entertain a visual. While imaginative, to me the imagery seems realistic. And quite possible.

The scene is a court room.

A shabby personage identified as Mortality is presenting his argument. Its a case for fatalism. For futility, for death and decay.

It is the end of the line for her. No rescue, Mortality declares. No miracle. No hope. It is over for her, this Opaline mortal.

And Mortality drivels on.

A deafening thunder-clap stirs the room. The court’s great doors heave open. And Immortality steps through. Vital. Brilliant. Life-pulsing. He then heralds the entering King.

The King’s presence overtakes the environment. A great bouquet of flowers – alive with color and fragrance – is in his hand. A grand orchestra sounds music seldom heard on earth. His eyes survey the courtroom-turned-Ballroom.

She comes into view. Her eyes are adoring, worshipful. Her delight is Him. Her Savior. Redeemer. Friend.

Broadly smiling, the King laughs. He extends a hand.

Opaline runs to him. They dance.

I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death. – Philippians, new testament

June 16, 2015August 28, 2017

Standing already. Why Not?

You did what? My body, settled in the wheelchair, jumped a little. The doctor’s tone was sharp. He was not pleased.

Who told you to stand up?

It was Monday in what would become my final month at Hillcrest Hospital.

I had been at our Okmulgee home for a rare weekend visit. Sunday afternoon I rested on a living room sofa while mom busied herself in the kitchen.

A thought from nowhere suddenly stirred me.

Try your legs. Stand up. For a few seconds I gazed at my limbs. They hadn’t supported my body for months. What if. . ?

Why not?

I wobbled upward, drawing support from the sofa arm. Once fully upright I leaned against the nearest wall. Steadying myself I called out, Mother. Mother! She released her dish towel and it landed on the floor. Some quick steps from the kitchen and she was with me. She steadied me a little. Then we stood together. Just standing without movement. Upright. My mom and I looked down and took in my spindly legs. Astonished.

Not accustomed to bearing weight, my legs quivered and Mother lowered me again to the sofa. It was then I smiled. Eager to tell the nurses – and the doctor. And Monday came.

Being a youngster, I had been scolded over a generous number of misdeeds before. But never rebuked for trying to walk. Scolded for using my limbs – by a person whose job it was to restore their use? The thought bewildered me.

I saw later that recovery usually requires process. To put weight on my limbs too soon and without proper oversight could hurt – even ruin – any hope for recovery. Inside though, I couldn’t quiet the rush of emotion. I would soon walk. Walk.

Running with Meaning

In the first blog post of this series, Running with Meaning, I spoke of my dad having a limp of sorts – disadvantages in life. Then the idea of California, notions of work there, a place for beginning a family; these possessed his thoughts. Some why not dreams stirred in Clyde Baxter.

Perhaps you are meeting with hardship, illness or work troubles. Relational pain; maybe a personal struggle.

I think it can serve us well to look about (in my instance a new look at a pair of nine-year-old inactive legs). And to look up. Hope comes from a place beyond ourselves. Up.

We revisit Opaline – the angel of a shared affliction – and her narrative soon. Faith marked her journey – differently in some ways than mine. Still with wonder. And surprise.

Why not?

May 5, 2015August 28, 2017

Impressions. Polio, first round

When the Okies left Oklahoma and moved to California, it raised the I.Q. of both states.
– Will Rogers

Impressions. Some are innocuous. Others are vital, setting life-altering forces in motion. An impression, when acted on, can foster adventure, inspire faith. Hardships seem postponed. Then they wash ashore and into our lives. Some in manageable waves. Others overwhelm us, tsunami-like, leaving us reeling til we re-gather ourselves. Hopefully in the comforting aid of others.

Impressions played their roles in the young Oklahomans. From their California arrival ten years earlier and going forward. .

Unexplained comfort administered through a sister-in-law’s hands drew them into a life new to them. They began the long journey of yielding themselves to the new way. A way of prayer. Of faith.

Clyde responded to a later impression, leading them to trust for added children.

On still another occasion Clyde met with an inner constraint. It was a tender, yet cautionary word while he was taking in a scene at a movie theatre. The path you’re on isn’t leading you to where your little boy has gone. He exited the viewing.

Then, on a Spring night in 1946 my mother, Thelma, dreamed vividly of our family travelling a long roadway.

Clyde, I feel the Lord saying we’re to return to Oklahoma.

His response was surprisingly sudden and certain. They both laughed. Sensing the guidance was sound, they followed the impression.

Okmulgee. Bubbling Water.

The winsomeness of its Creek Indian meaning was matched by the strangeness of the town’s name to an unaccustomed ear. (Ohk-muhl-gee)

I was five months old when we entered the land of my family’s roots. It would be my land, the place of my roots. We were home.

An aggressive disease showed up near my first birthday. The polio virus disabled my legs and feet before I had a chance to try them out. The assault was rapid and, thankfully, short-lived. It contorted my left foot, permanently curbing it’s range of motion. In time my left leg resumed growing. So the right leg trumps the left by more than an inch. The redesigned foot and the shortened leg combined to supply me with an uninvited trademark of sorts. A limp.

The disquieting polio intruder wasn’t finished. Awhile later the illness paid a second childhood visit. It was then the term iron lung entered our vocabulary.