mother

*today’s post is in current time, a departure from my usual narratives out of a more distant past. I’m in Africa. A ministry visit. Thank you for your time and for joining in special prayer.

***

Tanzania, my country host, lies mourning.

The bright young students held such promise, their minds fired up
for the day’s challenge. That was reality a few mornings ago. Before the bus they traveled in left the road.

I am writing from East Africa this morning in May – a month for honoring mothers. I’m the lone mzungu – white person, on a twenty-passenger shuttle bus, it’s occupants making our way from northern Tanzania to Kenya.

I silently offer thanks for our seasoned driver. “I’ve driven commercially since the 80’s”, he had told me. I’m in the front passenger seat. The driver is to my right as vehicles here use the left lane. Six hours more and we’ll reach Nairobi. Keep him alert Lord. Mist gathers on the windshield and he passes the wiper blade across the surface. It’s Wednesday. My mind returns to Saturday’s incident, down the way, beyond my lodging near Arusha.

The primary school students, 12 and 13 years of age, were en route to another school to take an exam.

Rainfall glistened on the pavement ahead as their bus descended a steep hill. For a reason not yet known. . a blown tire, excessive speed. . the vehicle swerved and plunged downward into a river-swollen ravine. Among the thirty six who died, thirty-three were children.

Join with others, would you, in praying for those overtaken by loss. The grieving friends, the siblings, the fathers, the school teachers. And of all. Remember the mothers.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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.

Tag: mother

Falling