Montana – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

At sixty miles per hour, cold pummeled my face. The mountain air continued its assault as Cody, Wyoming receded back of me to the south. I had left before Seven a.m. My destination this Labor Day Sunday was Billings, Montana. To lessen my discomfort I dialed the throttle back a notch with my right hand. I was shivering.

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 must dismount this bike and 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 common to most people, my polio episodes seemed to hinder blood flow still more. Despite attempts at thawing my fingers, once my food came another two minutes passed before they held a fork with any ease.

It’ll be nice seeing Brother 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 come see them today.

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

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.

An 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.

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: Montana

Big Sky

Tents and Braces