Oklahoma – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

January 1, 2026January 1, 2026

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 30^th) 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!

July 31, 2025July 30, 2025

Visionaries

What sensibly-thinking (unskilled) laborer surrenders his ditch-digger shovel to chase after and secure an even lesser-paying job?

It seems a reasonable question.

When he spotted the simple flier announcing, “Plumber’s Helper Wanted”, Clyde wasted little time pondering its meaning. Shedding his less-than-promising vocation as dirt-shoveler along open trenches in the nearby neighborhood, he soon found himself loading and unloading lengths of galvanized pipe, odd-looking pipe-threading devices, and a sewage-clearing apparatus nicknamed “the snake”.

A companion question follows the earlier one. What kind of mindset would propel a poor young woman hailing from a dusty Oklahoma village to set out by bus and travel mile upon mile across several states to arrive at a “foreign” destination with scant understanding of what may lie ahead?

By the time the paths of Clyde Baxter and his bride-to-be Thelma Christine finally (after their months of separation) reconverged near a sprawling body of water called San Francisco Bay, they had each unwittingly entered the world of VIM.

Several decades were to crawl by before a Philosophy Professor – Dr. Dallas Willard of another Golden State setting (U.S.C.) – would introduce the VIM acronym.

Vision – Intention – Means

Clyde’s mind and heart had given birth to a vision. To one day marry his sweetheart, Thelma.

Clyde’s vision, however, called for significant risk and extraordinary courage. If his dream of gaining this pretty country girl as his life-long companion were to become reality, both he and Thelma must leave behind the dust-laden, increasingly barren, cotton fields of their beloved Sooner State.

It was a daring, costly venture the couple had struck out on, from the moment Clyde had leapt aboard his first freight train departing Oklahoma. And now, clarity of focus had – across the Greyhound miles – settled more deeply in his fiancé’s soul. There would be no going back. Thelma, too, owned the Vision.

June 26, 2025June 25, 2025

Turbulent Times

Yogi Berra’s famed quote, “It’s déjà vu all over again”, popped into mind Easter weekend here at our new home of Ada, Oklahoma.

An F-1 tornado slammed the town Easter Eve just weeks after Ada’s first twister of the season assailed us with her mischief on March 4^th. While Ann and I knew our early March move to this fine college town would be somewhat eventful, neither of us guessed Mother Nature would make such a fuss. We’re left wondering how often we may find ourselves hunkering down afresh in the little “safe space” inside our modest abode.

Oklahoma residents, along with plenty of our bordering “tornado alley” neighbors, can call up stories – from entertaining, to instructive, to deeply sorrowful – from the vast numbers of twister touchdowns across our windswept plains. Once, on a nighttime drive on Interstate 40, I got captivated by a large continuous light show as a sprawling thunderstorm edged toward Bristow and its environs. All was pitch dark except for the spectacular flashes of lightning. Pulling to the shoulder, I drew out my iphone, set the camera to video and caught several seconds of the light show. And discovered upon reviewing the clip the next day that a quite-visible cloud-to-ground tornado had been captured on my device.

And, then there was the heart-stopping moment when Ann and I discovered that our son Scott – en route to his college campus after a weekend away – narrowly escaped a direct encounter with a 200 mph Category Four. He had intended to swing into Bruce’s Truck Stop, Catoosa to air up a low tire, but a minor carburetor issue delayed him a few minutes. By the time he was approaching Catoosa, traffic had backed up as emergency vehicles raced to the site. Tragically, seven lives were lost in the vicinity, six of these at Bruce’s Stop.

Citizens of the Sooner State are found every year keeping their human radar keenly sharpened (eyes to the skies, ears to the meteorologists). Particularly in the Springtime season stretching from early April to early June. This is a time to mindfully employ the counsel of an especially wise Rabi of long years past (and present),

“Watch and pray”*.

June 19, 2025June 19, 2025

Tropical Twister

As I guided my Suzuki dirt bike onto the path leading to our remote Africa home, something felt different. What was it?

The narrative unfolds in detail in the Amazon-published memoir, Giants in the Rough*.

A distressing spectacle now caught my eye. Just adjacent to my family’s home stood our African pastor’s house. . . its’ roof missing!

The past hours had found me miles away on a pastoral visit to another leader’s home.

While the land of Kenya was no stranger to the occasional disturbances of nature (mild earth tremors along its ancient Rift Valley, floodings from torrential downpours), the thought of an Oklahoma-style tornado blowing in seemed quite remote.

Though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam. . God is our refuge and strength. Psalms 46:1-3 NIV

To my relief, I found my wife and our two little ones safe and unscathed in our still-in-tact dwelling.

I crossed the few meters over to Pastor Moseti’s place. Large remnants of twisted corrugated metal sheets and shredded lumber – the makings of his former rooftop – adorned the limbs of nearby Eucalyptus Trees. The pastor, who survived the horrific storm without a scratch, recounted, in measured disbelief, his up-close encounter.

As a deluge of rainfall and raucous winds assailed the mission station, William Moseti stood gazing out his front window.

“I was watching the roof of your own house over there”, he exclaimed. “It was lifting, then settling. . . lifting then settling, and I thought, surely that roof might get taken away!”

Suddenly, Moseti heard a great ripping and crashing above him. Able now in the aftermath of it all to relate his story from a place of safety, the pastor concluded with his trademark smile,

“And now I was quickly getting very wet.”

January 2, 2025January 2, 2025

Out Of The Chute

Okmulgee’s Rodeo Grounds sat north of town and directly across the road from our modest acreage along Highway 75. Tuesday evenings in the weeks leading up to the annual rodeo found cowboys, their “spurs ‘ajingling”, mounting their steeds. It was calf-rope-practicing night and on occasion my brother and I ventured onto the grounds to take in the action.

At the nod of his head to the guy manning the livestock chute, the cowboy signaled his, “Let’s GO”. Our perked-up ears caught the sharp clang of a chute gate opening. Perched atop the corral fencing Tim and I watched, mesmerized as a terrified calf lunged forward into freedom, only to lose that freedom in mere seconds if the Oklahoma cowboy got lucky.

At the start of a year I see the livestock chute as an apt illustration.

Here I am among earth’s inhabitants numbering in the billions. The ball drops. Midnight strikes. A master of ceremonies shouts of an infant new year just born! High fives, kisses and hugs and ‘Yippees!’ follow.

The clanging of the chute flinging open. And each one of us gets propelled into . . . What? Routine pursuits, turns in the road, exploration of belief?

To the unsure, the seeker, the disillusioned regarding faith. Simply be assured the Lord Jesus is indescribably good and utterly worth exploring and even pursuing in the new year just dawned. Hearty prayers your way.

To the Christ-follower we may be drawn to emerge from the chute humbly offering up an old but timely ‘yielding prayer’. Like one practiced among our Wesleyan friends at the start of each year since 1755. Navigating its ‘old English’ language calls for rallying the imagination but is wonderfully doable.

I am no longer my own, but thine. Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt. Put me to doing, put me to suffering. Let me be employed for thee or laid aside for thee, exalted for thee or brought low for thee. Let me be full, let me be empty. Let me have all things, let me have nothing. I freely and heartily yield all things to thy pleasure and disposal. And now, O glorious and blessed God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, thou art mine, and I am thine. So be it. And the covenant which I have made on earth, let it be ratified in heaven. Amen.*

May your Twenty-Twenty-Five meet with good at every turn.

September 5, 2024September 4, 2024

Barometric Pleasure

Retired television personality Don Woods stood there smiling, relaxed before the mic.

“Back in my earlier days as a TV weatherman”, he began, “our radar technology was nothing like we enjoy today.”

Among our Thursday luncheon guest speakers over the years, we managed to garner an occasional sampling of hometown celebrities. Don fit the bill.

For decades Don had garnered an impressive viewer following, largely due to the presence of his adorable stick cartoon character – Gusty. Every evening as the cameras rolled Don would offer up the coming days’ forecasts while simultaneously sketching an action scene featuring Gusty – wind, ice storm, lightning, sunshine. Gusty’s actions reflected the nature of whatever conditions might lie ahead. We hoped too, for the benefit of our students (nearly none of whom had heard of an Oklahoma twister), that Don’s talk could include a cautionary element, given our spot in the heart of Tornado Alley.

Picking up on his radar theme, Don Woods went on,

“One morning in the dead of winter I arrived at my office to be greeted by my boss, the KTUL station manager. “’Don’”, he said, ‘we just got a call from one of our viewers. Says he has a request,” ‘Would you please have your weatherman come out to my house and shovel the six inches of ‘partly cloudy’ off my driveway!’”

For our students coming from regions of the world where snow never fell, the account required a little explaining.

Along with being a popular meteorologist, Don was a follower of Jesus. He had brought to the luncheon a collection of small, illustrated gospel booklets of his own creation. Fittingly, the illustrations featured images of his little sidekick Gusty.

August 25, 2022August 25, 2022

Changing Times

Changing Inside-Out.

We see it at every turn, especially where knick-knacks and touristy things are found. Its eye-catching phrase shows up carved on a plaque here, a chunk of driftwood there. The Serenity Prayer invites us to pause and ponder.

“Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. . .

“the courage to change the things I can. . .

“and the wisdom to know the difference. . .”

These much-read phrases only mark the prayer’s first words.

When I saw that the earlier (Accounting) track was not for me I revisited Oklahoma State Tech – moving a different direction this time (call it ‘course correction’).

I soon found myself perched on a chair in front of a teletype machine. That move (direct result of a changed mind) influenced my future in ways I could have never guessed. Special details of one’s future (God knows why) seem often left hidden a while.

Teletypesetter Perforator Operator. Yes, that was once the actual job title for some of us laboring in the world of print media.

Unforeseen changes were soon underway.

How often has the course of history itself been altered by the changing of some plan – a military strategy, a legislative vote? One person’s words penned long ago speak to the reality of mystery as we aim our squinting eyes toward future horizons, “we see through a glass dimly”*.

What is true of grand historical events is equally true on the personal front. A pretty Montana girl I met during my stint in Cody, Wyoming would later become my wife and the mother of our three children. By God’s grace, she’s sticking with me these many decades later.

Change happens and we are, all of us, creatures made for change. Another way of saying it, we are people in formation. All of us are getting formed. Yet, it goes deeper than this. Ask a follower of Jesus. As image-bearers of God, all people are designed by him and are therein meant to grow to be like him. That is, meant to not be merely formed, but transformed. This is what our designer is after. It really is what we were made for.

Here is another prayer, my prayer. Yours too, maybe?

And so Lord, would you grant to me the serenity (calm readiness) to accept the things I cannot change, and please grant to me the courage to change things about me which you know need changing. You are present to help me. Let it be, Lord. Thank you

October 7, 2015August 28, 2017

Warmth

I stood at the entry and surveyed the sanctuary as worshippers trickled in, moved past and made their way to their seats. A gray-haired couple sat ten feet away, near the center aisle to my right. A pianist on the platform up front busied herself with sheet music before taking up a red hymnal.

Hmm, I wonder what songbook the folks do use here? The nearby gray-haired lady held a book of the same reddish tint. My mouth moved as I silently read the title. Cast in gold lettering beneath three delicate crosses it read, Melodies of Praise. I thought. I like that. A song book title with feeling.

Spotting a new visitor the pastor left the platform and came my way. His handshake and generous smile reinforced what I already sensed – the church’s warmth. This may be a place I could get to know the Lord better – and some Rocky Mountain dwellers – all at the same time.

So Jerry, where do you come from? Where would you call home? The pastor’s interest seemed genuine and I warmed to it.

Well, I come from a small place called Okmulgee. It’s in Oklahoma. About thirty miles south of Tulsa.

The mention of Okmulgee struck a chord with the gray-haired lady holding the hymnal. Light refracted on the silver-gray hair as Mom Starbuck swiveled her head abruptly. Her eyes shimmered and her mouth betrayed delight – through the wrinkled face a little-girl smile. In an accent common to my Oklahoma ears, Mom Starbuck offered her declaration. She was enthralled.

Okmulgee?! A brief pause. . . and the clincher. I went to high school in Preston!

Astonishment overtook me – even as I smiled at an accent that rendered high school, haah-skule.

How likely was this? A couple of Okies, she and I. Travelers of a twelve-hundred-mile distance to a common place of worship in the Wyoming Rockies. . .Mom Starbuck and me – united by a common culture – divided by forty-five years.

Preston.

Where Typing Instructor, Mrs. Smith acquainted me with circular typing keys. With numbers, letters and symbols mounted on metal stems. I learned in her class to vigorously slide (a thousand times) the feed roller – along the machine at each lines end. Here I entered the world of black carbon paper.

And now, Wyoming. Mrs. Smith’s Typing I and Typing II inaugurated my passage to Wyoming. To Cody. And her warm-hearted people. My vision moved generally toward the church ceiling. God, could you be doing something?

Two weeks later found me and my burgundy suitcase at Starbucks front door.

Oklahoma cooking. That will be nice.

October 13, 2015August 28, 2017

Wheels

With borrowed carpentry tools I dismantled the wooden crate my dad shipped from Oklahoma. Soon I straddled the unpacked merchandise and thrust the kick-starter. I was happy for the right-foot design. With my left foot’s polio history firing up the motorcycle engine would have been tough.

The 150cc Honda came to me a couple days after my bus arrival on Sheridan Avenue. Sitting on my bike felt good. A link with my home state, and memories. A wistful mood took me back.

I was ecstatic over my bike’s achievement one night. On the Honda I had opened the throttle on a long downhill stretch of highway, seeing what she could do.

Returning to the towns’ main street, I spotted a familiar green and white ‘59 Chevrolet – the wheels of a good friend. The Chevy was parked before a diner. Dropping the bike’s kickstand I strode in – primed to brag. At a booth I spotted my brother Tim, his friend Larry and a couple others.

Guys! Guess what. I just got seventy on my Honda.

Gale, the Chevy owner and the wittiest head among us, grinned my direction. Kinda crowded wasn’t it?

Another memory was the goose-egg my skull acquired from a Sixth Street pavement. I smiled again at the remark, Reckon we oughta get his bike off the road?

Now my same white Honda carried me along the Shoshone River – into and past a canyon. The smell of Shoshone’s Sulphur pestered my nostrils as I leaned into highway curves. The bike hummed loudly through tunnels leading to the Buffalo Bill Reservoir. Cloud-shadows blotched Rattlesnake and Cedar Mountains. Peaks that – like sentries – stood watch over Cody. I ventured between them, then past the lake and up Wapiti Valley.

My motorcycle treks became therapy rides – the perfect answer to hours parked in a chair near an editor’s room. Where my fingers marathon-danced on teletype keys.

Weather attractive to motorcyclists held on till early Fall. Tourism slowed. Intermittent cold snaps knocked at Cody’s door, ready to usher in an approaching winter.

For the Honda and me, a last big trek lay ahead.

Toward the most unexpected, life-altering adventure.

May 30, 2017August 28, 2017

Signposts

The spindly lady of the Bluegrass State bought me time.

Mrs. Hottenstein’s sponsorship gift achieved what she’d hoped. Freed me to attend more to my college work at hand. And the extra hours away from the teletype keys meant added time with my young nurse-student wife. That meant a lot. Our ships-passing-in-the-night could sit a few more minutes each day in their common harbor – the thirty-five by eight-foot rented house trailer we called home.

The added margin freed me to drive northward. To a meeting I felt strongly drawn to make.

“Hey David, I feel I should visit my home church in Oklahoma. Special meetings are going on next week. If you’re free to come, it would be great having time together.”

The nine-hour road trip brought us to the sanctuary of Living Way Tabernacle, my place of worship from childhood. What followed set the course for decades of adventure to come.

Vigorous hand-clapping accompanied robust singing as organist Ragsdale’s nimble fingers brought life to the instrument. Monday night, first evening in a string of special meetings.

Rev. G.C., a pastor hailing from the deep south, was handed the mic. He was a large man, gigantic by any standard I knew. I had never met him. It was preaching time.

Over the past two weeks my thoughts had pivoted back and forth between two topics. An African language whose sounds I wouldn’t recognize if I heard it. And a phrase, leadership training. A seemingly random visit with a former missionary had spawned these musings and the themes wouldn’t let go.

Rev. G. C.’s deep, graveled voice thundered away as he moved deeper into his message. Rivulets of sweat glistened on his broad face as his three hundred or so pounds of Georgia preacher-man paced across the front, up and down the center aisle. His command of sacred text was impressive. His passion ran deep.

Twenty minutes into the sermon it happened.

G.C. paced into center aisle, his preaching on a roll. Suddenly, in mid-sentence, he halted. His head tilted upward. The pause continued. Then the preacher man uttered a single word no one expected.

“Swahili.”

I stared his direction, astonished at the sudden turn in his message. And especially that word. Swahili. The language I had encountered days before. I felt a mist of tears form, a hint at a gathering stream. The preacher went on. “I am hearing the Swahili language.” He scanned the audience.
“Someone in this room is called as a missionary to east or central Africa.”