Tag: Running life’s race

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Revived

He’s a Norwegian man’s man.

In his eighties now, Merland’s handshake transmits power – and tenderness, a rare combination.  Minnesotans boast, with good cause, their ten thousand lakes. Many choose fishing over the comfort of a fireplace from a hard week’s work.  For others, it’s simply that. A happy way to rest. Wintertime fishing demands stamina common to a working man. Famous for thriving in hard winters, anglers navigate the cold like NASCAR drivers do curves. . . It’s there. Make the most of it.

Let’s go do some ice fishing, Merland.

The friend had been standing near a window, studying the sky. By now he was already moving toward a side room where tackle was kept.

Merland responded without coaxing.

En route to the lake, visions of Northern Pike, Jumbo Perch and Blue Gill swam in his imagination. His large hands rubbed together. Part anticipation. Part to warm them.

A light breeze across the frozen lake chilled his flesh – even buried as it was beneath layers of clothing.  Today was extra cold. Beyond frigid.

He hardly lowered his fishing line beyond the just-drilled eight inch hole. Bam, a nice hit. Merland’s reflexes were as sharp as the bursts of cold from newly forming wind gusts.  Detaching the hook he tossed the catch a safe distance away from the hole, its single escape route. He dropped the line again. Bam.

He turned to his friend, Cold day, yes. . . but fine for hauling in dinner. His chuckle attended a smile that broadened with each new catch. The air was so harsh, the temperature so low, that each fish flopped three or four times on the lake’s surface before stiffening rigidly like curved planks.

In minutes the two men’s lines had hoisted a decent mess from the waters.

Merland’s friend turned to him, his teeth chattering.

This has been the best day in a while, yeah.  A good thing, too. Let’s get to the house!

Once home Merland half-filled a large tub with water.

Ultra cold fish are something like people. We can grow so cold, so unpliable, to seem fully beyond recovery. Then a warmhearted person comes along – someone like Merland. An ancient Scripture is shared. A warm handshake given. Compassionate Norway eyes – or those of others – touch the heart.

Fresh warmth – long forgotten – finds entry and a thaw begins. We feel revived.

Merland slipped each fish into the water one by one. He stood watching. In seconds they limbered, then swam again, lively as ever.

I would love to hear from someone who, like myself, has experienced cooling times in life? Passion faded. Joy moved out as cold set in. Then followed a wonderfully welcome thaw. Usually through a big-hearted person who simply cared.  Springtime displacing winter in the soul. I am thankful it happens. And can happen again.

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

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Angel Walk

I walked my youngest daughter down the aisle last Saturday.

Amy-Father Wedding Walk

Her waiting groom beamed, taking in her beautiful smile. I looked to her eyes again. Gorgeous. Memories stirred, some from distant places. . .

Branch out, guys. She can’t be far. . . but Heathrow’s a big place!

The airport lies 23 kilometers west of London.  Heathrow buzzes each day with 200,000 arriving and departing travelers. A sea of strangers were likely sweeping our four-year-old Amy along and we had no idea where.

Amy had been standing beside me at an airport kiosk during our family’s wait for a connecting flight. I bought something in U.S. currency. My change came in British sterling.  In the seconds it took to interpret the coins my little girl was gone.

Catching my urgent tone Amy’s older siblings, Julie and Scott, hurried into the stream of humanity – its patchwork of luggage trailing, emitting a low rumble throughout the terminal. My wife had fractured a toe shortly before our Kenya departure. From her wheelchair Ann did what she could do. She prayed. Five minutes into our search, the public address mic crackled. The voice was male – distinctly English.

All passengers, may I have your attention, please. A young girl by the name  Amy Bethlout is looking for her parents.

I didn’t worry at his blending her middle and last names. Relief washed through me. The voice continued, Please make your way to airport security. . .

I learned that Amy – attracted by the buzz of airport activity – had stepped into the sea of travellers and wandered off. In time, discovering her isolation in the crowd, she tugged at an elderly man’s coat. He stopped and looked down.

Do you know my daddy?

When we left the area – Amy’s hand securely in mine – we moved again toward the kiosk. A father-daughter visit lay ahead. I knew my assignment and hoped for understanding.

Hey sweetheart, let’s get a donut.

Settling into a dining booth I surveyed her pre-kindergarten face. Amy lifted her milk glass. Two gulps chased a bite of pastry down and her eyebrows lifted approvingly. A slight donut remnant shared a spot on her upper lip with a newly-fashioned milk mustache. Charming innocence, I thought. I was moved freshly by the care a father can feel for his children. My smile faded. How vulnerable children are. I stifled a shudder and began.

Amy sweetheart, Daddy needs you to understand something about airports. . . really about any places where there are people – you know, strangers – around. I held her gaze a few seconds before the not-yet-finished donut, resting at her eye-level, won out.  I waited till the pastry was further reduced. My pet name for her was Angel. She again looked my way. Being a parent means limping toward wisdom and often finding it illusive. Fifteen years parenting children left me still feeling a novice at times. I felt that way now.

Amy Bethlout sat patiently as I painted one scenario, then another – making my best effort to instill caution and not paranoia. Inhaling slowly, I barely introduced my final case on the importance of sticking close to daddy and mommy.  Amy issued a soft sigh. Daddy.

In a poised, self-assured tone she continued.  Daddy, I already heard you the first time.

Instinctively I knew my drill was over – while thinking, Oh baby, I hope you have. I sure do.

Now here we stood. Before the minister under a sunny and crisp November sky. David, her handsome groom nearby. Amy’s mom moved to my side.

Thank you Father for bringing her safely, wonderfully to this place. Thank you.

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”  The minister’s voice was clear, strong.

 “Her mother and I do”, I announced – hoping my manner was poised – my tone self-assured.

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Yearning. Magi

Something is amiss. What? What is it?

The mutter passing through Melchior’s barely-parted lips was for no one’s ears. In one fashion or other – half-whispered, barely voiced, even silently within his thoughts – the nagging persisted.  Dozens of times it came since passing third watch. He had keenly followed his animal’s motions and moods from midnight till now.

Beams from a rising sun already stalked the caravan’s rear flank, sketching long, thin shadows on the sand out ahead. At least with coming of light he would gain advantage – would examine each hoof – above and beneath. What is it? What troubles my beast? Melchior’s gravelly voice took a stronger yet warm and pitying tone, directed to the animal herself. Flanked by her pair of lavishly furry ears the camel’s head moved just beyond arm’s reach. But for this distance, Melchior’s hand would have rested here, consoling.

I feel beneath me no limping gait. You seem well enough, my desert lady. Yet. . .

He stroked the lining of the cloak at his shoulders (fashioned itself of camel hair). Melchior’s surprise at a tear forming in his eye provoked clearing of his throat. He glanced about, gruffly swiped at the tear. The priestly magus was drawn again to reflection. Addawser – “the large one” – had long been his beast and was never, to him, a means of mere utility.

Ah no, no mere camel, Addawser. Strong-willed at times? Ha! At times? Haha! The animal answered Melchior’s caress to her shoulder with a throaty rumble. The master grew reflective.

They had – each in the company of the other – weathered thirty-eight summers. Melchior raised his vision above the horizon. He was certain of a star-blanketed sky as if it were still full night and they still visible. He voiced petition to the great deity of skies, hoping an attentive ear might heed. May Constellation’s God grant me and Addawser more good summers together. May it be . . .

The caravan drew to a halt. The sun behind them edged upward.

Alright, Good Lady Addawser. We rest now. At her master’s voice, the camel lowered. He dismounted. A studied survey of her hooves followed. Alright, grand lady, let’s solve this nagging riddle.

The priest’s thumb-stroke halted. The pebble – lodged in the animals left hind hoof – was small enough to have been easily missed.  Not harmful, to be sure, and only barely felt by the camel herself, it could be certain. Still, Melchior knew his Addawser. Knew her pleasure that the irritant – slight though it was – had got fished out by the aid of his pesh-kabz.  I should have thought, my Addawser. Yes, I might have guessed. Foolish master, foolish, foolish master. He chuckled. From the camel’s interior rose another throaty rumble. At this, two servants shared knowing glances.

To speak to one’s camel is no rare thing – most common, in fact. Loud rebukes, angry scoldings. But words of friendship. . . of warmth? Ah, hardly. Sharing, as they seem, a comradery? Rare as oases in the Persian desert.

The nomad priest-scholar fingered his pesh-kabz a moment more – its knife-point keen enough for the stone’s removal, enough to penetrate battle armor if need be. He looked at the pebble – backward and forward he rolling the gritty stone between forefinger and thumb. Melchior sighed. He rendered a wholly new question – though whispered as he had done before.

What of my own pebble?

The more he mused, the more fitting seemed the comparison. Indeed, so fitting the matter of Addawser’s pebble rekindled the old disquiet within.

He spread his mat at the base of a crag where he hoped for daytime slumber. I yet have the feeling. Well, to be sure the feeling itself is different. Yet, much like the matter with Addawser before her riddle was settled.

My soul is troubled by something – as with a pebble gone unfound in my sandal. There is this in my soul. The feeling.  So primary to his thinking this matter, Melchior mused further.

My life goes forward by day, by night, but to where? I gain distance, yet to what purpose? Within, I feel yearning. Toward something elusive. As a phantom. So, turning inward to himself, for what – my soul – do I yearn?

The esteemed Melchior drew a sigh. Emotion threatened to prevail, akin  to that which for some prompts sobbings deep and long. With effort he willed himself quiet. Yet the question remained, What troubles me? Ah! The very question I labored with for my camel through fourth watch. . . What troubles me? God of all constellations. Shall I ever know? Where is my place of rest? He rolled to his side. Drained – body and mind – Melchior slept.

The depth of sleep into which he sank sweetened Melchior’s waking moments hours later. Such restfulness – the kind he’d nearly forgotten through this arduous journey – revived in him an earlier eagerness. The focus, the purpose of their westward trek.

Dark revisited the land, as did the prominent star. Its presence, by now assumed, nearly as much as sought after – like a valued, unparting friend.

The caravan snaked further along a patchwork of desert and sagebrush.

The priest shifted in his saddle. With it came, it seemed, a shift in mood. Of strong stirring. We are near. I feel it. Seldom was the priest known to whistle. Now – for a short time at least – a lively melody from the Persia’s hinterland escaped his lips.

From beginning of fourth watch the caravan undertook a gradual climb. Addawser served this leg of the trek as lead camel.  Thus it was her nose that first passed into the great escarpment overlooking the town. The star sat immobile. It’s light stretched downward. The rays enveloped a domestic dwelling and its close-by animal shelter.  Melchior’s vision – clouded now by ever-moistening eyes – held steady to the sight. He could not have imagined a common home scene stirring such emotion. Drawing his animal to a halt, he rested in the saddle – his spirit hushed. Aware that a long yearning was nearing a threshold passing at this place – not far from the Great Sea. This place, in this dwelling.

In that moment came another knowing – more deeply – of a curious kind. Knowledge that his yearning was not to fully end, not finish here. Not fully. Rather the yearning would be engaged. As a satisfying kind of yearning. In communion, somehow with another. And still others in a lesser measure. Here. Soon.  Such mystery in this entire venture. But compelling. Mighty in its pull.

Melchior breathed in – his mind going to the cargo sack at Addawser’s side. The frankincense for a king-child. His eyes wrinkled to a smile. He felt himself within giddy as any child.

Leaning forward he whispered, Addawser, it is my time. The pebble shall dislodge from the sandal of my soul. The nagging shall soon quiet. It quiets even now, my desert lady. Silence hushed all space from them to the light-bathed dwelling. Then was broken. Addawser sounded her throaty rumble. Melchior – in that moment – laughed more heartily, more freely than he had in many summers.

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Restricted God

If lameness means restricted mobility, God entered the world limping. It is called the incarnation.

Polio visited me before my first birthday. I’ve limped all my life. The physical lameness came uninvited, an unwelcome intruder.

God the eternal Word – constrained yes, but only by love – became flesh. Voluntarily. With no illusions.

Who can take this in – the incarnation? How can it be considered? What mind can think this way? Really.

Jesus – Fully human God. I labor to see this.

‘See’ the creator and sustainer of the cosmos. See Him as the human preborn, the human baby, human child, human adolescent, human adult. . .  Yielding to human death.

God’s lameness (diminished mobility) is his goodness physically embodied – coming to us, to our rescue. Coming for us – we other humans – limping as we are, disfigured by and in our sin.

Taking our crippled lives to his soul; see this God – Word-made-flesh – inviting  spikes to his feet. Display of lameness – disclosing his helplessness.

His human life absorbed judgment for every human wrong. For anyone. Ever.

And three days from yielding to torturous death – this Jesus of Bethlehem, Jesus of Nazareth, Jesus of Golgotha – rises. Rises.

Astonishing. Everything about it. About him.

Baby’s birth, teacher’s life, sacrificial offering’s death, the Savior’s resurrection. To what end?

To deliver. To bring us to the thing he brought to us. His kingdom.

To what end? To the end that, by his kingdom life, he transforms us to be as he is in this world. Cosmic mystery.

To the end that, out of our limping strength we enter into – as he did – the lameness of others. Incarnating among them so to speak.

Thy kingdom come.

The end, it seems, must be hope And transformation.

Bringing Joy.

To the world.

Love has been perfected among us in this. .

because as He is,

so are we in this world

                                                      – 1 John 4:17

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Branch

Bring the lamp near.

Gaspar was accustomed to giving commands. Wealthy, of prominent lineage, tutored by notable scholars.

Gaspar, together with his friend – a devotee to the heavenly bodies – studied the star chart until their half-finished tea went cold.

Now. Let’s go have a look.

Straightening themselves they moved outside.

Lighted pinpoints blanketed the sky. The astrologer-scholar tilted his head, directing his chin toward the westward horizon. He signaled his friend. There.

Gaspar’s deep eyes, squinting just moments ago, widened. Ah, yes. Acknowledging further by a lifted hand he whispered, Yes, I see. Then added, Um, yes, this one has never caught my eye before tonight. Indeed I don’t recall ever seeing it. This star.

You have not seen it because it has never been. Not until these weeks.

Well, said Gaspar, We must look into parchments of civilizations past – others as well as our own. And determine.

Determine what, nobel friend?

What, if any, purpose a new star in the heavens may serve. Fortune perhaps?

Months  later, Gaspar riding his beast – rolling slowly with its stride – reviewed that night. He savored occasions when he could – without intrusion – review his past, his station in life, his good fortune.

Keeping to his general disposition he struggled with humility. This, he himself would not deny. Truthfully, he did find himself growing uneasy at his self-congratulatory musings. But only slightly.

Of course it was I who first took serious note of the light in the western sky. And didn’t I, Gaspar, in my research, uncover the mystery-promises?

The promises, he recalled, were oral references of ancient Hebrew parchments – oracles predicting a king’s birth. A child-king promised to the Hebrew peoples. . . perhaps even to the world.  His shoulders lowered and he sighed, reluctant to credit others whose qualities were equally vital to the cause.

Yes, he conceded, Melchoir was he whose dream one night launched a relentless search of the heavens for some guiding star. And, yes, it lay with Belthazar’s talent to coordinate and map the pilgrimage details – a talent unmatched by most skilled trackers across the eastern world.

Still.

Was it not I among the magi – Gaspar swept his billowy-sleeved arm in an arch denoting his companions. Was it not I of whom the elders in my land whispered openly, ‘Of course Gaspar will lead the expedition. Such a venture demands leadership. Who else?’ His slight-turned smile – even in reflection – betrayed smugness. Shouts interrupted his thoughts.

Master, master! The light we have followed all this way. The star. It seems to have ceased its forward advance. It is lowered now. Fixed. In place. And see, now master, to the valley there ahead. The town. Might it be the place of the king-child. Might it be, master? The servant drew back, rejoining his fellows, each of them abuzz with theory.

The fourth watch was half-run when the caravan finished its descent, trimming the distance to the sleeping village. The star’s brightness shone from directly above them. Gaspar squirmed in his saddle, a curious discomfort had been rising inside him for awhile. With no prompting of any kind he knew. The disquiet was in his soul – a deep troubling within. He shuddered – less settled still.

The star’s light – distinct and above him – converged it seemed with another kind of light – invisible, holy, searing. Illumining his whole person, his inner self. Gaspar’s shudder yielded to a muffled cry –   lamenting, confessing, sorrowing. The shift of mood became his. He owned it and it overtook him.

Woe, woe am I. Corrupt. Arrogant. Viewing my brother with contempt. The remorse went on, spilling out. I am brought low, an unworthy being. Seekings – soul-questions – displaced his confessions. But before whose face I am unworthy I know not.  I dare not proceed. . . to the place of the king-child. Who is this one, this child? Is it he who moves upon me so – here, even before I view his face?

He drew his camel back, brought his cape over his face. At his command – oddly meek now to his animal’s ears – the camel knelt. Gaspar dismounted. He went to his knees in the sand. Unworthy. I’ve nothing to give. Even the myrrh I bring. No, I must receive. Must gain mercy. Mercy. Exalted Being. . Governor of constellations. Mercy!

In moments he sensed a thing wholly new to his experience. A presence. Then he felt a word – felt it more than heard it. Bathed. . .  bathed. The term marked more than any the feeling sweeping him – washing through him. A bathing presence. Wave on purifying wave. Cleansing. Marked by joy.

He didn’t know the time he lingered – the cleansing under the star’s light. His smile was wide, free – embracing the world all about him. After some moments he moved to rise.

His right leg, bent beneath him so long, had lost feeling. Reaching upward, he grasped a young tree’s low-hanging branch and raised himself. Steadying himself by the branch, he rolled the useless foot round and round in motion. A picture began forming in Gaspar’s mind as he balanced there on one leg. Yes, yes this is who I am. I am a man not able, of my own reserves, to properly stand. On my own I am out of balance. Needing support. Support such as found in this tree. He strengthened his grip on the branch.

Old fool you’ve been. Wagging his head, Gaspar chided himself. My own arrogance. My haughtiness. Assigning to myself glory not due me. This has left me a cripple. But now.

 A surprise wave of thankfulness overtook him. Further, it stirred in him a resolve. And a pledge.

From this day I shall walk in the company of others. None of us alone – none isolated from the rest. My brothers – Melchior and Balthazar indeed – yes, and my servants as well. Guides they are  – companions all – upon whom I may lean. Friends unto whom I shall render service. Yes, we shall be – each to the other – as a supporting limb.

But yet. The wise man paused. A  worrying line formed. Are we – we humans, equal to this – frail supports that we are? Hardly fit to carry ourselves – even less one another. What of our frailties? Ours each one? Indeed it is we ourselves most needing support. And what support have we? Have we any?

Bustling movements interrupted his thoughts – excited calls sounding from a place just ahead. Ecstatic, adoring calls – calls voiced in varied tongues – Aramaic, Hebrew, Persian, Arabian. All declaring one thing – one person. The child-king.

One voice, with Persian accent, of Jewish descent – sounded above others. Distinct, crisp, jubilant. The call struck Gaspar’s soul. Cupping his ear to seize upon the phrases, he took them in, every word – one by one.

All worship to him, the Christ-child!

Messiah!

King!

Morning star!

the Branch!

The word almost escaped him.

Branch? Gaspar swallowed. A twilight breeze touched his face, stirring  his beard.

Without thinking, he turned again to the tree still in his reach. He peered toward the lighted glow of a simple dwelling on the path ahead. Hope stirred.

I shall deliver the myrrh to my Lord.

He wrapped his fingers about the bough and squeezed, firm and long.

Gaspar mounted his animal. Take me now, camel. See the light of the dwelling there, camel?

We shall meet there a child.

The King-child.

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

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Nearness

Really honey, no pain meds? First Aid didn’t send you home with some?

Well, I winced, it didn’t hurt that much after they worked on me so I told them I wouldn’t need any pills. That the anesthetic might wear off hadn’t occurred to me.

Pain – like life – isn’t meant to be handled alone. Just Ann’s presence that night eased the hurt of my traumatized finger. A pain-consoler may not dwell under the same roof. Nearness comes often through a hand-held device in easy reach – the call or text summoning a friends voice – and the pain is hushed. Even when these are not available, we remember the ONE. Jesus – our “present help in trouble” – gets pain. With such friends, the injury’s cause – self-inflicted or other –  doesn’t matter. Mercy makes room. Comfort shows up. I was quite the doofus earlier that day.

Bounding over hardware, Francis reached me in two strides. Seizing my wrist, he squeezed evenly. The blood flow, shooting spurts of red a moment earlier, eased.

Here Jerry, do this. I’ll shut the machine down.

I took over my co-worker’s self-assigned medic role, clasping my right wrist. My work-partner, Francis, returned in seconds. Now, we want to get you to First Aid.

***

Reproductions department had moved me to their shop in the massive aeronautics plant. The square, open room, seasoned with inky aromas, pulsed with print-machine rhythms.  I had come to draw odd comfort from the omnipresent, clickity-clack movements of the press room.

I had wrapped up the final job order on my multilith press for the day, clearing away some stragglers of unspent paper. Standing before the unit, I dialed down the ink roller speed, then took up a rust-red work cloth and cleaning solution bottle.

Safety measures can’t be over-stressed, we’d been told. Always look out for things that might catch on moving parts, a supervisor had once warned. Like  clothing.  One machine choked a fellow when ink rollers swallowed his neck tie all the way up. Nasty.

This day clothing didn’t play a role. Still, carelessness did.

I’ll just wrap the rag around this forefinger, spray some solution, slide the cloth  slowly – forward and backward along the roller, clearing the ink. . .  I hadn’t factored the exposed gear rotating steadily near the ink rollers. Its teeth seized my cleaning rag. My finger-tip followed – yanked into the gear and bringing the cog to a halt. Less than a minute later Francis was hustling me down to First Aid.

I lay face up on a black vinyl table.  Someone positioned a right-angle extension to support my arm. My finger end was a grated mess. Head turned its direction, I caught an ink-scent off my work-shirt. The image of a nurse clicking a needle’s syringe caught my attention. I clenched my teeth. The four injections into my finger drew pain I’ve seldom known. Sweat-beads sprung to my face in the cool room.

This is to deaden the pain while treating your finger, a voice consoled.

Really?

The night at our apartment went by slowly. With some whimpering. But tolerable.

Ann was near.

©2016 Jerry Lout