race – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

Marathoner or sprinter, the athlete runs with focus, keeping the goal ever in view.

The best kinds of changes tend to often happen over time. Changes of character, changes of growing into the kind of person one is trusting or hoping to become. As we shift our attention from our own selves redirecting our spiritual gaze to the person of Jesus (the power source of a transformed life) a lot of old, unprofitable things begin simply dropping away.

Once the sprinter hears the crack of the starting gun her focus is laser-like. One thing alone matters. The finish line. Even when circling the track at points where the finish tape is momentarily out of view, the athlete keeps in some way holding that image constantly before her mind’s eye.

In my broken state as a teen I had been fixated on me. . . my wants, my self-centered ego. One Old Testament prophet casts a flood light about the soul, “We have turned – every one – to his own way”.*

Finally, in all the mess of my self-inflicted pain, I looked away to God (memo: prayers of mothers are underrated). And right away, then and there, my head turned his way, a curious thing called wisdom started taking form. Redirecting my line of vision. A radical shift in focus had happened, spurred from the aching heart of a wayward teen. turned me Jesus’ direction. I didn’t know it but he would soon be positioning before a new starting block. What a run lay ahead!

Anyone who has ever competed in a race – even a childhood dash to be first to the ice cream truck – feels a heart-stir in a brief reading from an old Hebrew parchment. Note, in the appeal, the object of the athlete’s focus, the disciple’s gaze.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.” (Hebrews 12:1-2 ESV)

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.

Tag: race

A New Look

Impressions. Polio, first round