Tag: running life’s race with a limp

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Attentive

It wasn’t Bill’s fault. They decided and that was that. They deprived him any say – no decision-making leverage – no voicing an opinion. Not that it would have mattered. They were the farmers. Bill was the horse.

To him it probably seemed unfair. Bill didn’t sign up to entertain adolescent boys, have their spurs gouge his ribs at will, yank the bridle this way and that till the bit bruised his mouth. Who turns teenage boys loose to traumatize a stallion – not to mention a fifteen-year-old gelding?

Such injustice may have prompted the biting assault to my side one Fall day.

Neither my brother Tim nor I – nor our Dad for that matter – were schooled in proper horse care. Still, we weren’t mean to Bill. Not on purpose.

Added to other abuses, the reckless cinching of a saddle strap can be especially annoying evidently, to a horse.

He was a tall animal and at first stood passive as I brought the saddle upward along his left side. Landing it atop the protective wool blanket I reached beneath and across Bill’s mid-section for the strap. Bringing it my way I threaded it through the cinch ring. I then undertook the most demanding task in preparing for an afternoon ride. Apart from catching the horse in the first place.

Tugging the girth strap I scolded Bill under my breath. Stop bloating your belly, horse! Horses will often distend their belly when the saddle is tightened, likely to reduce discomfort. However, a loosened saddle is the result once an animal relaxes their breathing again. In the worse instance this can endanger a rider. Putting my hundred twenty pounds into it I yanked the strap upward. That is when Bill’s head swung around. And his great teeth struck a fierce bite.

DANG, Bill! Dang it!

 I leapt, swung at him and grabbed my side all at once. DUMB Bill. Bad horse!

The shock and sting let up after a minute. I lifted my shirt. An orange-red hue marked the area along his teeth marks. Thankfully the skin didn’t break.  Dumb Bill.

Drawing a parallel on human behavior in some relationships seems natural.  As in child-raising.

Parents will, at times, apply excessive pressure on a child to conform.  Discerning what helps both the child and their parents needs time and consideration. Patience and wisdom. Often, prayer.

In time I learned how to reduce excessive pressure to a horse – and teeth marks to my side.  Spacing the cinch-tightenings with short walks between can relieve tensions and settle the matter agreeably for both horse and rider.

And being attentive. Not so hard a thing to do, but being attentive must be done on purpose. Noting body language, feelings, considering the persons point of view.

After the barnyard misunderstanding I always saddled Bill attentively. One eye toward the girth strap, the other toward his head. I found that, with practice, it can be done.

©2015 Jerry Lout.

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Light Journey

A Christmas Tale that might have been

 Balthazar rolled to his side. Though he had slept, he was long from home and, thus, not well rested. Besides, slumber is meant for night time. His eyes opened to barely a sliver and held there. Pulling in a slow breath he noticed – even with his sliver of vision – the light in his tent had diminished.

I must rally. The sun will soon be down, dark of night will blanket us. He smiled. Then the star will ease into view. Already pre-travel action had set in beyond the tent – servants fussing with saddle bags, a camel protesting with three loud snorts, the cinching of her belly harness.

Heydar! The call of surprise – almost of alarm – sounded beyond the tent flap. And a second time. Heydar! Wait, we are coming!

Balthazar’s eyes widened fully. Worry creased his forehead. What misfortune’s come to my foremost servant, Heydar?

The caravan – its multi-blend of culture and language – was now months into its westward trek. Balthazar – and his fellow magi (Gaspar and Melchior) to be sure – began sensing in recent days a soon arrival to their destination. Still, they could not be certain. Indeed there was little of which they were certain. Ever since leaving the familiar – the predictables of home, of family.

The one sure thing about all this – the indisputably sure thing – was the mandate, a curious stirring of destiny. They each felt it – The worship compulsion  he privately tagged it. Indeed, he thought wryly – as surely as the nostrils of Gaspar’s camel expels the foulest breath of all Mesopotamia’s beasts – the magi were called Westward. A mandate. From the heavens. And after no small attention to the starry bodies and no meager energies making ready for the trek. . . Well, to this place they had come. Thus far.

Ah, but what of Heydar? And – (a secondary thought) what of tonight’s fire?.Balthazar was hurrying now toward the commotion.

The great sun was lower. A chill settling over the craggy landscape.

They had camped here in this hostile terrain from after sunup this morning – here where rocks were many and trees few. The full caravan staying put, as they had on each day previous at each day’s location. Until darkness arrived – and, with it – the star. Among the last of Heydar the servant’s tasks this day was to gather and bring firewood – for it was Balthazar and his company’s turn to make ready the fire for all the travelers.

Heydar limped into camp, aided by two companions and leaning much into a gnarled makeshift walking stick – the stick of a dead tree. It hardly seemed fit to bear his weight. Indeed, in that moment, a sharp crack – the stick snapped beneath him. Heydar staggered past the reach of his fellows and dropped to a knee. He stifled a cry and grimaced – his hand reaching low to rend comfort to his throbbing limb.

Master, Heydar called momentarily to the approaching Balthazar. Forgive me, my lord. While gathering sticks a viper startled me, I leapt. And, though spared the sting of its fang, I lost footing and plunged my ankle into a crevice, twisting it sorely. I have no wood for the fire, my lord, save for what remains of this pitiful acacia stick.

Heydar’s master consoled him briefly, ordered the others to see the servant to his tent. Then he, Balthazar, turned. Facing the way from which his servant had just come, the magi, with care, ventured forward. I am not so advanced in years to fail the task of gathering fuel for our last dining in this place. Still, the land had darkened much in these moments.

Balthazar paused. As he stood – with quiet and dark all about him – he discovered at the ground ahead of him the forming of a murky outline of his body.

Ah, my shadow! The landscape brightened. Enough to detect the terrain, and a fallen tree out ahead. Before moving to it he turned about and looked up, seeking the source of the light.

Ah, the old man smiled. Of course.

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Race to Space

My index finger entered the circular hole of the rotary disc. I dialed the figures scrawled on the paper before me. A job lead, maybe?

The seconds taking me to dial had me reflecting.

Boy oh boy, just yesterday it seems. I was five-years-old – shedding the leg brace. Then nine – hospitalized by the second polio bout.

My thoughts easily moved to the sweet angel on crutches. What an impact she made. . . Still does, I mused.

 The ringing at the line’s other end stopped. Hello, this is Richard.

Placing Richard’s voice was easy. Ultra-deep bass. Warm, of a kind surely passed to him from an older sister. The angel on crutches – Opaline.

Hi, Richard. This is Jerry returning your call. How are things?

A short exchange then, Jerry I’m calling to let you know the aerospace company I’m with is hiring. If you’re interested in a Tulsa job, I think you might get on here. He was right.

My first day on the job had me trudging through rows of filing shelves – aisle on aisle of engineering data. I thought of my earlier years when I peered at oddly-textured, blue-tinted paper spread across the hood of my father’s pickup. His fingers traced images while his mind tracked their silent messages. Here, taking in rows of files, my senses mingled. Feeling the green, metal pickup hood beneath my palms, smelling the print-room chemicals from the nearby room in this place.  Wow, I never imagined so many blueprints.

The company, its employees in the thousands, processed me for security clearance. Heady stuff for a country boy raised on a farm just south of here.

The United States and Soviet Union race-for-space had launched in earnest. Brilliant American minds developed and crafted a top priority project. Where will all this lead? I wondered. Over coming months my hands felt after, retrieved, refiled blueprints by the hundreds Many bore a name out of Greek mythology.

Apollo.

©2016 Jerry Lout

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Train

Warm the bench.

 The high, red-brick gymnasium overshadowed our school’s single-story classrooms.

Parked on the cold bench with fellow player-wannabees, my gaze dropped to the tennis-shoed polio foot at the end of my left leg.

My rear end’s the best thing this bench ever saw come its way. I’ll keep this wood plank warm all season.

I looked up to the scrimmage happening on court. My melancholy eased. Look at those Petit brothers. Perspiration glistened on their lithe ebony forms. Wow, amazing their fitness. . . and their moves. Effortless.

So it seemed.

* * * * * * * *

A common link binds me presently to four athletes.

Colton, the youngest and his sister, Tara (high school junior) practice lobbing free throws. Every day. They scramble after rebounds for their teams.  Moments later their coach barks, Work it inside, move the ball inside!

After practice the siblings breeze along four miles of dirt road to their Oklahoma farm home – to chores, and homework. To laughs with family at the wood-burning stove.

The third athlete in the quartet – Luke, the ninth-grader – schools in Kenya. Luke keeps fit for what’s up next. . . Rugby, volleyball? Calls made in the game of rugby land strangely on American ears. . . scrum awarded – collapsing ruck. . . Given the sport’s intensity, ‘Rugby-moms’ are known to gasp at certain calls – bleeding wound. . .

Grace rounds out athlete number four. On the Congo playing field rigorous training tunes her ears to soccer calls. Corner kick – yellow card. On it goes.

I thrill taking in games, studying pics of these my grand-athletes. Some nearby, some far.

My mind revisits the Petit brothers of Preston High. And the term so readily voiced before. Effortless.

No. The thing that is going on out there – over the squeaking shoes – the pivots, the fakes, the twirling leaps. Nothing accidental’s going on out there. Not a thing.

My thoughts shift to another dimension. To life. All of life.

Whatever goes on with a person that actually counts. Language acquisition, architecture, athletics  – or that makes for exceptional living – those actions demand something. On-purpose, precise, repetitive action. While dreaming, hoping.

My fabulous four athlete-grandkids practice. They’re keeping fit. They  train..

I’ll never suit up for the NBA. Or charge down a soccer field defying blockers and goalies. I won’t (God forbid) kick shins – or have shins kicked – in a rugby scrum.

Every athlete has an aim.

In the contest of life every follower of Jesus has an aim. Really, an aim beyond the highest aspirations of any physical athlete. The aim is dual in nature, fashioned amazingly God himself.

Being transformed by renewing the mind, the way we think.

Let Christ be formed in you – our becoming like him. In word and action.

Great, we say. So. How’s this done? How?

Good news it is possible. He will help us.

To train, to practice, to be made fit. Till new ways become, not ill-fitting, but natural. Something we call – as Jesus did –  the light burden – the easy yoke.

I lean down. Cold bench, warm bench. . . no matter. Lacing my shoes I cock my ear to the coach’s call,

Time to train.

©2016 Jerry Lout

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Seed

Alright everybody. It’s that time!

 Though the sanctuary lighting was nothing exceptional it highlighted the richest shock of blond hair I had ever seen. On anyone – male or female. The occasion – our youth rally, where teens showed up at that monthly gathering’s host church – wherever it happened to be.

Oddly, for a clergy simply receiving an offering Pastor John’s enthusiasm seemed tangible. Contagious. The glint in his blue eyes conveyed his pleasure. And warmth. This was near his heart – this offering – for missions.

Songs had already been sung. Hands had clapped. Youthful energy released into guitar strings, accordion keys and the occasional tambourine. It was the way with our youth rallies. Kids with musical talent – whether well developed or barely evolving – united in praise. John affirmed at every level. No spectator himself, his own electric guitar drooped comfortably at his midsection. It responded easily to his familiar touch.

Two empty collection baskets sat at the church’s altar up front.

OK, here’s our chance to join the Lord in sending his Good News of Jesus throughout the world.

The contagious smile, strong as ever.

Our Rally Offerings help Nigerian evangelists share Jesus way over there in Africa. But now first, young people (his voice softened), let’s quiet ourselves. Let’s pray for our dear brothers laboring in hard places far from here. These servants need our prayers as much as our quarters, dimes and dollars.

By the prayer’s ending most of us guys and girls fished what currency we could from our blue-jean pockets or pink-and-silver purses.

Filing from our seats, weaving forward, we dropped our modest offerings in. Dispatching salvation to the ends of the earth.

Pastor John laid aside a guitar pick. He took up his microphone, then his Bible. And soon found a reference.

Young people, listen up. I want you to hear this. Tonight we are helping dear African brothers to go among their own – taking God’s precious message of hope and life.

Listen. The slight pastor with his planet-size heart paused reverently. The room grew still.

God calls every one of us to the mission field in one way or the other. All of us to the world’s unreached nations. Now. I want you to do something. Turn your eyes toward your shoes. Just do this would you. Look at your shoes now, your feet. Keep your eyes to them.

Our focus shifted from hair-dos, from after-meeting burgers and fries. And from wherever our minds may have been carried by a random daydream.

Pastor John read slowly – his tone deliberate – from the book of Romans in the New Testament. We young people each one remained still. Eyes fixed – throughout the sanctuary – on our respective pairs of feet.

“How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!”

I stared at the pair of shoes nearest me. My own. The shoe at the end of my shorter leg – that limped, sometimes tripped. My mind went to descriptive mode. Shoes housing the weirdest, most pitiful-looking feet in the county. Maybe the state? I let myself try to imagine.

What if, though, in God’s eyes somehow – What if he sees beauty. Even in this pair of feet?

I smiled slightly. In the continued quietness supplied by Pastor John the  question surfaced again. From within. More forcefully, but sweetly. What if.

What if?

I felt my eyes moisten. As if to water a seed.

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Freed

In battered tennis shoes we shuffled through leaves of gold and red. A wooded area on his family’s land. Kenny pointed to a brown clump of dead vines gracing a tree stump. End-of-Summer rains hadn’t arrived and we easily crossed the creek bed to reach them. I grinned.

Yeah, these oughta smoke well.

 A few pocket knife maneuvers and we were set. I touched a lighted match to our smokes. We inhaled. And instantly discerned. How overrated the vine-smoking thrill was. Tears blocked our vision. We gagged on the acrid smoke. My coughing trailed off in time.

Kenny and I did what country kids did in the 1950s. Some things – inhaling fiery toxins – could have injured us. Badly. Surviving childhood itself, was indeed, a notable feat.

When a speeding semi-truck spooked my horse Bill and he, in turn, hurled his passenger (Kenny) to the grass embankment.

While breaking up a field of sod.

Look out, Jerry. It’s coming down on us.

Towing a farming implement called a harrow, I had steered a corner too sharply. The harrow swung upward, then slammed downward. It penned Kenny’s tennis shoe to the tractor’s axle casing where he stood. He withdrew his foot. Prying the shoe free I handed it over – thankful for unbroken bones.

Dodging BBs while firing on each other with Daisy rifles. Years later we realized we each had won – We ended all the shootouts with our eyesight intact.

My friend Kenny and I jumped from roof sheds. We swam in snake-colonized ponds, ‘fished for crawdads with bacon bits. And lit up discarded Marlboros we happened upon. This only barely edged out – pleasure-wise – the vine-smoking venture.

With my brother, Tim’s help we mastered the basics of guitar – devoting hour-on-hour to the happy cause. We formed a musical group, Tim, Kenny and I. A a trio with three-part harmony. Even naming ourselves – Sons of Faith. What fun. Singing at the Living Way and a few other churches.

Kenny. The funnest guy I knew. Quick wit. Contagious smile. Musical.

He soaked up kindness – where it was found. Like a sponge.

And Kenny limped. Though not physically.

Alcohol cheated him of youth. In a measure.

Misuse of liquor. Not his own. Not yet. And not entirely.

In several ways, though, Kenny displayed not poverty – but richness.

Rich in personal charm. A law court could have introduced Kenny, People-person. Exhibit A

Wealthy in big-heartedness. Opening himself to a big-hearted God brought him there.

But he did know scarcity.

It’s been said, alcohol impoverishes the brain.

We might add – And people. At least the abuse of it.

Kenny’s family suffered lack through an absentee parent. Yes, a limping parent. Absent emotionally; often physically. The family dependents struggled to get by while resources of the household wage-earner fed an addiction.

Kenny’s music then took him to California. To a music label. And Into a measure of fame. For a time.

Kenny was offered a drink. This by a religious leader. The drink led to another. He spiraled.

Years afterward – adrift – on a California freeway, my awesome and hurting childhood friend met with fear. Then something else. Kenny:

I tried to navigate the freeway in my beat-up Volkswagen. Empty beer cans covered the floor all around. I leaned to the center mirror. My eyes met their own gaze. And fear hit me full force.

Who is that person? I didn’t recognize myself. I was so frightened. And I knew. It’s time.

Taking an exit I drove to the home of an almost-forgotten friend. A believer in Jesus.

Kenny’s freeway exit became his entry ramp. To his old acquaintance. Then to hope. To a twelve step group. To sobriety. Then on – astonishingly to him – to service.

Visit prison quarters today. From Arizona to California, to Oklahoma to Florida. And beyond.

Kenny’s name is known there. He’s welcome there. Every time. Among the lame ones. Ones overly-acquainted with their limps.

He speaks to their heart. Not as outsider but as peer. They warm to Kenny. His quick wit. His contagious smile. His songs and his story. He is their friend – this apprentice of Jesus. Their fellow-traveler. Limping. Some of these he’s led to recovery steps. Some to counselling sessions. Others to confession. All to Jesus. That is his desire anyway.

Kenny passes into the prison. A guard unlocks and relocks gates. They enter the meeting area. Confined men glimpse him. Some with recognition. These men smile.

For Kenny, he’s warmed to the gathering before arriving.

He takes up his instrument and breaks out in a fun impersonation of Johnny Cash. Hands clap in rhythm. Smiles flash his way.

Those who’ve seen and heard him before are happy for the ice-breaking music. But their eyes are trained on the small podium before Kenny. They’ve spotted what their eyes sought. The worn book. Kenny’s Bible.

He’ll shift to ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ and other hymns soon.   A prisoner leans back; inhales slowly. Like welcoming an aroma.  He hums to the music – and looks again to the podium.

Kenny’s here today. With the book.

Today is a good day.

http://kennymundsministry.org/

©2015 Jerry Lout

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The Creason Effect

The people who influence you are

The people who believe in you

                                                     – Henry Drummond

Three brothers of the same household believed in me. Each played an influencing role. Each introduced me to something or someone – marking me for life. For good.  I’m in their debt.

The Creason brothers. Common men of uncommon influence.

Troy (small business-owner, cattle-tender) sat with eleven and twelve-year-old boys in a tight, window-less room. Seated on straight-back chairs and short benches we boys formed a square – most of our backs touching a wall.  Ricky, Larry, Dwight, Tim, James. . .

Brother Troy’s King James Bible lay open before him. With a calloused forefinger he tracked the sentences as he read. His instruction in down-to-earth terms supplied me and the others with building blocks of truth. For life. Though we likely retained only a trace of the Biblical riches dispensed, Troy showed up week by week.

What he shared, he lived. The truths could bring us into and through a meaningful life. He knew this. He introduced us to Christ. His nature and character. Truthfulness, perseverance, responsibility, faith. A life with Jesus was the life to live. Nothing else made sense. I never doubted Troy’s motives, his reasons for showing up. Why would I? The reason was obvious. He believed the book. He believed in us.

Melvin (farmer, welder)

Melvin totally wowed me as a youth leader. He and his gracious auburn-haired wife, Joan, endeared themselves to all the teens.

Melvin was never splashy, sensational. But engaging, sincere. Attentive.  If in my teen years I relished anything to do with church it was tied to Melvin.

Brother Melvin, could you teach me to make a necktie knot?

Sure. Just a second, while I adjust this mirror.

The white Ford Mustang breezed along Hwy 75 – Melvin and his wife up front. We were going to a Monday night youth rally. I was squeezed between other students in the back seat – positioning my Adam’s-apple to meet Melvin’s focus through the rearview mirror.

My clumsy fingers fumbled with my tie as Melvin – steering wheel firmly in hand – talked me through.

Ready Jerry? Thread the broad part over, then under and through (pause); now up and out the triangular opening, then. . .

Melvin glanced first to the mirror, then to the road and back again. This two-step rumba continued, alternating between the highway and my knot-tying exercise. He patiently took me through the steps, assuring me along the way. Melvin believed in me.

I would get this knot tied. I knew it.

If you hold rich memories of some person who made a positive influence in your life, be assured. That person was an encourager.

I heard this piece of wisdom years ago.

The neck tie incident – one in a long list of treasured happenings with Melvin – illustrated the truth.

Be a blessing.* This tender mandate of heaven was personified in my youth pastor. He blessed us. By his devotion, by believing in us. Influencing us – well into the future.

When our thirty-fifth anniversary came, Ann and I renewed our marriage vows at the little church. Where my family worshiped. Where the two of us were wed.

As I dressed for the affair I threaded my green and white tie. I snugged the knot securely.  Melvin would officiate our milestone renewal. I reviewed my workmanship and smiled.

Would he notice the knot?

——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——      ——

(The third Creason brother – Fred – introduced me to my bride.  An account for another day.)

                                                                                                                                                                                                                        *Genesis 12.2 Bible. Old Testament

©2015 Jerry Lout

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More

A gravel parking lot where two streets met hemmed in our little white church. Inside I scooted my trousered bottom cautiously along an unpolished church bench – taking care to dodge the occasional splinter. I gave in at times to a curious temptation – running my finger-tips along the bench’s underside. A braile-like search yielded my prize. A random trail of chewing gum deposits – discarded and hardened. I don’t recall ever sampling more than perhaps one. Oddly enough, their presence supplied me with a sense of comfort – contentment derived from revisiting a familiar setting. Like being home.

 Living Way church was home in certain ways. Clyde and Thelma Lout set the worship-attendance tradition in motion from the start. Sunday morning and Sunday evening; Tuesday and Friday nights. Four services every week. Increased to a fifth – the youth meeting – when my brother and I entered our teens.

The Living Way –

  • Where with fellow preschoolers I first sang, Jesus loves the little children of the World
  • Where a bearded prophet parted a Sea; an Inn-keeper denied a couple lodging; an unflustered Messiah calmed a wild storm. Witnessing them all through the marvel of
  • Where a ponderous Leviticus sermon on ‘types and shadows’ lulled me to sleep
  • Living way. Where fervent prayer over me against a life-threatening virus prevailed.

Where the mystery of Presence descended on eleven-year-olds one Summer morning.

Isn’t he just wonderful, boys and girls?

The portly gentleman exuded joy. With no pretention. Clearly Brother Addison loved Jesus.

Warmly commanding by nature, Brother Addison was an established businessman in town. A lay minister, he served in a spiritual renewal movement among Christian professionals. He delighted in aiding others toward a vital relationship with his Lord. We children – seated in the Vacation Bible School assembly that morning – knew Brother Addison. We liked him. And trusted him.

How many of you children would like more of him. More of Jesus in your life?

Hands went up speedily. Of course. Who wouldn’t wish for more of the Good Shepherd’s presence?

We were ten to twelve year-olds. It was our third day in VBS. His words conveyed invitation and our expectancy-barometers rose. What’s coming? It seemed something special could be ahead. What does having more of Jesus mean? Some of us wondered.

Addison acknowledged our raised hands.

That’s wonderful. His smile was large and warm.

He summoned us to a pair of benches near the front of the chapel. He directed the girls to one; the boys to the other. Brother Addison passively jingled coins in a pocket, letting us settle in. We knelt along one side of the altars.

Now boys and girls, we are all up here because we simply want more of Jesus. We open the way by speaking to him. Speaking our love to Jesus. He continued.

Begin now thinking of Jesus. What he is like. How good he is. How caring.  And Thanking him. Let’s speak our thanks and our love to him.

Yes. He is meeting us here. Just now. In this place. We welcome him. He is good. And he loves us. He comes among us now. Bringing more. More. Speak to him. Let him speak to you in your heart. Let him love you. He’s here.

We offered our voices. Each spoke softly, sincerely. To Jesus.

Without trying, we began sensing him. We were aware. Even as young children. Then, hardly a moment passed and something happened I will never forget. Would never wish to.

Every child – perhaps fifteen or sixteen – was suddenly awash in delight. Rich, bubbling-up delight. It overtook us in a moment’s time.

And tenderness. Our pre-adolescent eyes poured tears. Self-consciousness went out the window. Words rolled from us – some intelligible, some otherwise.  We didn’t care. We had yielded over for more of Jesus. And we knew he had come – in wave on wave of tenderness. Love.  Delight.

We cried over and over our love of him. Then, as if on cue, we sought one another out. We rushed – bawling, laughing – to embrace another kid. Anyone in reach. Every boy found another boy or two to hug, and to laugh, and to cry on and with. Among the girls the same.  Mucus and laughter mingled in the pleasure of affection not one of us had known. Ever.

The phenomenon carried forward a good while. No child took interest in snack time. Cookies and Cool-aid could never match this. This more.

We were loved. And we loved. We couldn’t love enough. Couldn’t cry, thank you! Enough. Simply couldn’t.  We knew this was Jesus moving among us – filling us. I hoped the more could just go on and on.

After a time, quiet came – the most serene and pure sort. Purity bathed us. What words capture this? The purest of pure soaked the atmosphere. Today I would employ a companion word. Holiness. Us little non-theologians, immersed in holiness.

Brother Addison was speaking. He shared a simple encouragement. Of letting Jesus fill and refill us as we would afterward go our ways.

I’m reflective today. I relish this richer-than-rich memory – personal, sacred, marvel that it was.

Six decades have passed. While I have, by God’s kindness, savored many cherished times in his presence, I suspect I may never taste a sweeter, richer flavor. When, at age eleven, one summer morning my friends and I said, yes.

To more.

You have made known to me the paths of life;
    you will fill me with joy in your presence.

                                                                                                                    Acts 2. The Bible

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Trading Distraction

Distraction. That which divides the attention, diverts or draws away the mind; prevents concentration.

 

 Jerry Lout! What are you looking at out there? You come right up here.

 Elementary school.

I limp through my life distracted. Not all the time.

But more of the time than desired. Ask Ann, my wife.

Occasionally my distractions serve a handy purpose. Even therapeutic. A quiet brook in a peaceful setting brings respite to a stressful day. Still, helpful distractions seem rare.

My inattention might have pinned a teenage chum under a tractor tire. I absent-mindedly left a fence-gate lying in my horse’s pathway. Thankfully we cheated disaster. Still, distraction took me there.

You come right up here, Jerry!

 My nine-year-old daydreaming mind had transported me outside our Fourth Grade classroom. The playground scene beyond the window had won me over. I surveyed a world beyond the smell of chalk dust and the warble of Mrs. B’s voice.

Whether the punishment fit the crime, Mrs. B’s hard paddle stung. And I quivered – from embarrassment as much as pain. My classmates hadn’t often seen me blush or shed tears. A ringside seat today for both – at the front of the room.

As with most kids, distractions peppered my growing-up years. Sidelined once by teenage infatuation I entered a covert alliance with a girl. And nearly train-wrecked my bond with my parents.

Motor vehicles and distractions don’t do well together.

‘Reckon we ought to move his motor-bike outa the street?

 My head throbbed. I lay face-down. Struggled to make sense of the man’s folksy question.

 I had been trying out the used motorcycle dad recently helped me buy.

Turning onto Sixth Street from Wood Drive I concentrated on my lame foot.

The bike’s gears didn’t respond well to the efforts of my left heel. Normally the gear is shifted by the shoe toe. But polio left me with no upward lift. So I improvised. I sent my foot over and beyond the gear and lifted the lever with the back of my heel. The tactic hampered the shift. Brought Distraction.

I looked up and a car crossed before me from a side road. It was a safe distance ahead but its image spooked me. I seized the front brake. It locked and I tumbled headlong. I wore no helmet.

My white and black Honda lay on its side. I was transported by strangers and lain face-down in a grassy area at the street’s edge. After some moments I stirred. I lifted my head slightly and surveyed several pairs of shoes. The shoes faced me in a rough semicircle. It was then I heard the man’s matter-of-fact voice.

Gradually someone helped me up.

Thank you. I could at least speak.

 Another kind person steered me to a clinic just steps away.

The doctor studied a place on my forehead.

That’s a real goose egg you have, young man.

He shined a light in each eye, shared a cautionary remark and sent me on my way. Days afterward I pondered some questions. Significant ones for me.

What Good Samaritan saw me to the clinic?

Who covered the doctor’s visit (did anyone)?

Who retrieved my bike?

What mercy-givers hauled me out of harm’s way and onto the grass?

What unseen force, presence, or hand kept the goose egg from cracking?

 Thanksgiving wells up. Not to impersonal lucky stars.

Rather to one who – in faithfulness – attends to the inattentive. Delivers the distracted. And counsels. With wisdom.

Next time I rode, the helmet went on. And I traded distraction for vigilance. For awhile.

 

*Medical Interlude update. The hospital released my dear wife three days ago. She mends at home. Is better each day. Thank you, readers. Who’ve expressed care, offered prayers, well-wishes. We limp forward – my wife and me – in the company of really special people. Grateful.

©2015 Jerry Lout

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Medical Interlude. My bride.

To all who follow or check in on the Jerry Lout memoir narratives. ‘Running Life’s Race with a Limp’. A momentary break in the flow of postings. Thank you for taking in the following explanation.

An overseas follower and great friend writes, ‘Your blog seems to be limping the past several days’.

My short-version of the week’s happenings.

What is your pain level on a scale of one to ten?

Ann didn’t hesitate.

Ten

Stomach pains sent my dear wife to Emergency care this week. Following a CAT scan a surgical team went to work.

The surgeon had plenty to do. Navigating, dealing with hernia and scar tissue from earlier times*. Locating and clearing a long-constricted intestine. Serious business.

I shelved my blogging pen.

The surgeon – aided we know by the ‘Great physician  – prevailed. An outpouring of love-fueled prayer went far.

Ann remains in hospital – likely a few more days. But is on recovery road. Our family is grateful. Very much so.

Blog Readers, I haven’t left – just to St. Francis Hospital, Tulsa OK.

Hanging with the best woman who’s lived.

I’ll blog-post shortly. Stay tuned.

Thanks to all who pray for the good lady. . . and her limping scribe.

 

*A malformed esophagus at birth gave rise to emergency surgery in her second day of life. Scar tissue from six-plus decades compounded the week’s crisis. Again, Grateful.

©2015 Jerry Lout