Tag: Montana

Posted on

MILESTONE Thresholds

While the 52nd week of another season fades in the rear-view mirror of our marathon lives, my own week features an added, and quite special, milestone. .

Having penned this posting two days ahead of today’s launch into 2026, I (on Dec 30th) reflect on my amazing fifty eight years marriage to  Alice Ann Lout. My Montana bride.

Memories of that late-December (and quite chilly) evening of 1967 rally the proverbial line, “seems like only yesterday!”

My future father-in-law administered the vows – his no-nonsense declaration of a few days past still fresh in my ears, “Once I tie the knot it’s tied!.

A biting north wind had swept into Okmulgee, OK, along North Oklahoma Street, where the modest church structure served as venue for our matrimonial union. The wintry blast brought with it intermittent sheets of icy rain . Brrr.

The parsonage – home of the host pastor – lay beyond the church parking lot. And, the wedding photographer, a resourceful and energetic personality, ventured a suggestion, “How about we get a shot of the groom carrying his bride across the threshold?!”

That image – me in my spiffy J.C. Penny suit, bearing my breathtaking Beauty toward an open door and through the entryway – ranks (in my judgment) among the great photography masterpieces of all time (Move over, National Geographic).  Cries of, “Don’t drop her!”, sounded through the laughing voices of mischievous friends, echo till this day.

THRESHOLDS – Yes,  indeed, they are a thing.  .  .

Happy Anniversary, darlin’!  Happy New Year and Godspeed, everyone!  

©2025 Jerry Lout

 

Posted on

Big Sky

At sixty miles per hour, the piercing cold was pummeling my face. The mountain air continued its assault as Cody, Wyoming receded back of me to the south. I had steered my motorcycle away from the quaint cowboy town early that Sunday morning.  My destination for this Labor Day weekend was Billings, Montana. Neither the city nor the state were places I had ever been. To lessen the chilly discomfort I dialed the fuel throttle slightly back. A sudden shiver rushed through my frame.

This was ranch-land in the raw. Clusters of sheep – like huddling athletes in white jerseys – congregated in tight groups.  My bike took me past similar groupings of cattle in the open range. An occasional head rose among them, nostrils emitting puffs of steam.

I crossed the state line. Minutes into Big Sky Country I slowed. Surveying the quiet main street of small-town Belfry I hoped for an open diner with hot food,  I’ve got to catch  a break from this cold.

Ah. Seems like a cozy cafe. Indeed, and at my journeys’ half-way point – a refuge. I requested my standard. . . two eggs over-easy, bacon, toast – black coffee. I smacked my gloved palms together and circled in short steps before a wood-burning stove. Beyond the effects of frigid conditions that would be common to most people, my polio episodes had likely compromised the general blood flow of my frame.

Once my breakfast order arrived, despite attempts at thawing my fingers, a full two minutes passed before they could hold a dining fork with any ease.

It’ll be nice seeing Fred and his family again. My thoughts anticipated Montana’s largest city as I spread strawberry jam on my toast.

Fred. The third man of the Creason brothers intersecting my world. . . I suppose I should have let them know I would be visiting them today.

The waitress extended a navy blue coffee pot – steam levitating above its spout. More coffee? I nodded.

Fred Creason, his German wife Erica and their two young boys, had till recently lived in my home town, Okmulgee. They were part of our church family. Fred, in the insurance business, moved his family to Billings on what could be thought by some, a whim. But a mystery dream, believed to be God-sent,  played a role.

A thought interrupted my reflections – tightening my eyebrows.

Never one to fuss very much over planning ahead, I realized now I lacked some important information. Quite important.

I had no Billings address for the Creason family. Nor a Creason telephone number. Further, I only assumed they knew that I now resided in Cody – a hundred miles near.

Wow. They could be off someplace on vacation for all I know. And, the Creasons are my only reason for visiting Billings. I don’t know another soul in all Montana. Wow. Well – something will work out I guess. . .

Stretching, I pushed back from the breakfast table and reviewed my road map. Then took up my wool coat, thick scarf and rabbit-hair gloves. I glanced at a wall clock. It was just past 8:00 a.m. when I stepped from the diner.

My first breakfast in Montana. Nice, I mused, cinching my helmet strap.  I eyed the northward highway and wondered of the town called Billings. And the Creason family’s whereabouts.

Something lay before me I could have never foreseen. Within hours I would meet someone. From this another journey would spring.  A larger, life-impacting one.

Of callings. Of dreams. Of covenant.

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

 

 

Posted on

Tents and Braces

tent meeting

 

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.

©2015 Jerry Lout