Tag: San Antonio

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Next stop. San Antonio

I nudged the clinic door. It opened and I inched toward a desk behind which sat a dark-haired middle-aged lady. The receptionist. A pain shot through my back at the waist line. My knees buckled but I caught myself, barely dodging a crash to the hardwood floor.

“Óh, sir!” Her concern was genuine. She indicated a chair. “Here. Right here.” I eased into it, contorting my limbs and back in a few deft maneuvers.

“The doctor will see you in just a minute. Another slow turn and I was seated, a trace of perspiration beading my eyebrows. Thanking her with a silent nod, I began filling the first-visit patient form. After a couple entries, I had relaxed enough to reflect on the event sixteen hours that brought me now to this house-turned-clinic.

A wry smile momentarily hijacked my features. If Francis could see me now.

Shortly before our San Antonio move, my co-worker at Tulsa’s North American Aviation had asked what job awaited me in the Alamo City. Now, between winces, I imagined his I-told-you-so if he could meet up with me today in this bone-cruncher establishment (the average chiropractor of the era hoped to see his specialty one day rise above the “snake-oil peddler” status it was often relegated to).

Well, Francis, it’s like this. Down at the corner of Caldera and Bandera there’s this Phillips 66 station. . .

Midafternoon yesterday I had grabbed two car tires, each of them encircling its own heavy rim. Lifting a heavy load while swiveling to another direction defied sound judgment. This insight was shouted to me from that waist line point along my spinal column.

But fifty minutes from entering Dr. Brown’s clinic I left convinced a miracle-worker had signaled magic to my miserable frame. Unlike at my entry, I exited the premises without a whimper. The bone-cruncher enterprise had won my vote.

This early encounter into our South Texas move served as a kind of preview for my wife Ann and me. Twists and turns of our movements ahead would usher in adventure, discovery. Pain would play its role.

How do you turn a Pentecostal into a Baptist, then to something other, and still retain qualities of each.

A fellow with the middle name of Worthy crossed my path. I was never the same.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Out of this World

By my eighteenth year I had never seen a televised funeral, much less for a president.

From my elevated perch at the client’s living room I watched my dad, pipe-wrench in hand, navigating space beneath the house. Stooped beyond an open place in the hardwood flooring, he called up occasionally, assigning me a task common to plumber wannabes.

Stepping carefully to avoid a fall through the rectangular gap where the floor furnace had earlier rested I took in the somber music and snatched glimpses of the T.V.’s black and white images. The casket, draped full-length in the national flag, held the body of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. It rested atop a carriage drawn by seven white horses. I shivered at the cold air rising from the opening below, the absentee furnace depriving us of warmth in the November chill.

Thirty months earlier as my Sophomore High School year was ending, this popular young president had boldly announced, “we choose to go to the moon!” He attached a timeline. By the end of this decade. That was May, 1961.
Challenging his citizens to beat the Soviets in a great skyward race, Kennedy’s speech had fueled a bigger-than-life dream. Pursue the unthinkable. That was then. An assassin’s bullet had afterward found him and eight years had now lapsed.

I dismounted my blue Vespa scooter before the newspaper plant that helped fund my college fees and support my young wife. San Antonio’s July heat bore down. Removing the bike helmet, I padded my brow and neck with a handkerchief, collecting enough moisture to quench a small fire. Relaxing a moment, I squinted across the way, marveling once more at the recently erected Tower of the Americas, landmark of the city’s historic International Exposition otherwise known as Hemisfair. Making my way to the shop floor I settled into my usual place before the teletype equipment. This, however, was no usual day.

Minutes later I joined fellow technicians before a T.V. set. In near disbelief our gazes drank in something no humans in all history had witnessed and few had dared dream. Our past president, his body long since entombed in Arlington Cemetery, had declared it, “we choose to go to the moon”.

The television crackled as a man’s voice traversed a great expanse of outer space. It found its way to an upper floor of the San Antonio Express. The voice of Neil Armstrong.
“One small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.”

All about me the newspaper’s work area rang with cheers. I fell silent and revisited memories of a different work place. North American Aviation. Where I had not that long ago, sorted, filed and fetched engineering blueprints.

Labeled Apollo.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Strong Language


“Hey Gary, got a minute to listen to my water pump? It’s got a clatter goin’ on.”

Minutes later, socket and ratchet in hand, the wiry young man wriggled beneath his fellow student’s old car. He felt as at home here as an armadillo in this South Texas heat. It was why Gary Pokorney’s conquest in Korea left me mildly puzzled.

Gary was no slouch. His dogged probing of a carburetor or gear box on any number of nearby vehicles attested to it. And there were plenty nearby. The Bible school parking lot gave a shade-tree mechanic projects abundant.

“Jerry, how would You and Ann like to join Beverly and me on a pizza date – celebrate our graduating departure from the Hill?” Hallelujah Hill at the Northwest edge of the city, barely inside 410 Loop, home to International Bible College.

The Italian eatery along Fresno Avenue offered up the best deep-pan pizza.
Raising my napkin to dab a speck of red sauce lingering from my last bite, I grinned, “Hey guys, let’s plan another one – a pizza date. Down the road next time, when you furlough home from Korea and we’re back from Africa?”

“That’s a date!,” the Porkorneys chimed.

Two years passed. Ann and I had settled into life in the great Continent of Africa. Turning my Nairobi post office key and swinging open the box one morning I drew out the latest copy of my alma mater’s paper. Travelling surface mail via land and ocean it was seven weeks arriving. Any mail from home brought instant smiles, especially of friends or family. A lead article in the Torchbearer caught my eye. “Gary Pokorney Honored in Oratory Feat”. I read on.

Astonishing phrases leapt from the newsprint, “. . . Pokorney wins first place. . . nationwide oratorical contest. . . Korea’s First Lady hosts reception. . .”

I devoured the piece – amazed and proud for my old school acquaintance. Over dinner, Ann and I recalled fond scenes. Of the Hill, of special friendships, memories. All refreshing.

“To think, babe,” I looked her way. “Just listen again. First Place. . . the wife of the nation’s president hosted a special tea in Gary’s honor. . . The Head of State himself remarked that if he weren’t looking at Gary firsthand he would swear the speaker was a Korean national.”

Later that evening my fingers pecked away at our small green Hermes typewriter. “Dear Gary,” I began. .

“We just got news of your achievement. Wow, Congratulations, sir!” A post script wrapped up the note. . .

“I do want you to know this. When I read of your feat I retreated to my room. I seated myself in sackcloth and ashes, and wept over my Swahili-English dictionary.”
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Kentucky Surprise

“Fill ‘er up young man and check the oil, get the windows sparkling and, yes, run that vacuum of yours above and beneath the floor mats.”

It is common knowledge that many college kids scrape to get by. Such was our world in those days of self-service at the pump.

My young bride and I liked San Antonio with its Hispanic-flavored culture but could invest meager time sampling its delights. Time raced on in our happy but half broke world.

Fulltime work, fulltime schooling, volunteer pastoring duties, these pretty much consumed us. The adage two ships passing in the night depicted our days.

In time the San Antonio Express eyed my application and called me. I took up my post at the teletype machine. Life quieted. A little. Due to my skills the newspaper wage trumped my former gas-pumping earnings. Thank you Phillips 66 at the Caldera and Bandera crossing, and farewell.

Most days just after lunch I kicked the starter arm of my Vespa scooter and ventured to the city center. When my shift ended I mounted Old Blue again, making it to our eight-foot-wide house trailer on Hallelujah Hill before 1:00 a.m. Morning chapel kicked off at 8 o’clock. Vigorous praise music marginally rallied sleep-deprived students as we entered the old army barrack-turned-house-of-worship.

***

Mrs. Hottenstein.

“Brother Jerry, do you and Ann think you might swing by dear old Mrs. Hottenstein’s place Sunday mornings. . . bring her on to church, then drop her back home afterward?”

Pastor David went on, “She’s our retired school teacher from somewhere back in Kentucky’s hills and wants to come worship every week. She’s still pretty spry but is in her nineties and no longer drives. Anyway, maybe you all can talk it over, see what you think?”

A few weeks later following Sunday service we pulled from the church drive with our newer, older passenger. Responding to David’s invitation had been simple.

Nearing Mrs. H’s house this early afternoon I heard a clearing of the throat from our Pontiac’s back seat. Ann and I were fully unprepared for what followed.

©2017 Jerry Lout
Photo by Julie Falk http://bit.ly/2oUf5Fs

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Unexplainable

I’m dreaming, right? Hallucinating?

By the time I again took a seat the Preacher-man had shifted from prophesying mode to Holy Ghost fund-raising. I sat quiet, weeping, marinating in a fog of wonder.

Rev. G.C. had drawn a bill from his wallet. Waving it to the gathering, he sounded a challenge.

“Who’ll join me tonight in getting this young man and his wife over to Africa. . . so they can start doing God’s work?”

An offering basket had found its way to the preacher’s side. In minutes it overflowed. Although the week of meetings had not been billed as a Missions conference, everyone present was now taken by a get-the-gospel-to-the-world passion. Spontaneous generosity flowed, with cash gifts and pledged offerings fully meeting Ann and my travel costs. Africa, here we come. Wow.

The road trip with its surprise happenings drew to a close. My good mentor-friend and I headed back to San Antonio. “Brother Jerry,” David’s his easy drawl interrupted the silence as the car hummed southward. “Isn’t this something? Hasn’t this trip been just something? Imagine what Ann’s going to say.”

Whatever my wife might voice, the thing I was surely not ready for was what David himself – my fellow student and ministry friend – would be saying.

Next Lord’s Day arrived for Eastwood Baptist. Our worship service was underway. A couple of late arrivals settled into their pews and Pastor David was at the podium.

“You know, folks, our Lord is an amazing God.” David eased into the topic of the Oklahoma visit just past. Stationed at my usual spot at the platform, mentally reviewing a hymn I would soon guide the worshipers in, I heard David mention my name.

Oh my goodness, I thought. Is he going to have me tell these very baptisty Baptists about the Big Georgia preacher-man? About the prophecy things in Okmulgee? Oh my.

In a matter-of-fact gesture, David turned my way.

“. . so I’d like Brother Jerry to come and share something of what God did there.”

Stepping forward I surveyed the gathering. Dear folks Ann and I had grown fond of – devoted fellow-travelers on a heaven-bound road, sat quietly. I realized how close we had become. The anxiety dialed down.

In a few words, void of terms and clichés common to my Pentecostal upbringing, I shared with our faith community. The words came easily. No persuasive tone was needed. I sensed that they readily understood, that they welcomed, even celebrated the news. Of added confirmation to our call. In their attentive, Baptist kind of way.

God was setting things in motion. Ann’s precocious childhood forecast, “When I grow up I’m going to be a missionary in Africa”, was nearing fulfillment. We would go together.

The microphone passed back to David. Another surprise awaited.
©2017 Jerry Lout

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Say What?

Street-preaching in the 70’s with my college peeps on San Antonio’s Houston Avenue left me stumped one Sunday afternoon.

A well-groomed young fellow, perhaps a businessman, approached after being assailed with a volley of ‘repent and get saved’ appeals.

“Excuse me”, he said courteously, “would you mind if I ask a question?”

I nodded agreement.

“Why are you guys so cynical?”

Lacking the depth needed to respond well, along with a nagging awareness I had no real idea what the term ‘cynical’ meant, I went defensive. . .

“No, we’re not cynical, we’re just trying to show people. . .”

The lame defense that followed, along with this polite gent’s quiet departure afterwards, left me troubled. And wondering. Along with uncovering the meaning of ‘cynical’, I pondered a nagging thought that day, and many days after.

Can I find ways of sharing my faith other than just lobbing gospel missiles at passersby? What if these are real people, much like myself – folks who want to get through their day and through their lives – in basically one piece. Some of them likely exist in bare survival mode. And, for a great many – if they are anything – they are sincere.

I came to learn the word cynical suggests “a disbelief in the sincerity of human motives”. I’ve been asking the Lord to help me ever since, wishing I could dial back the calendar – sit with the young man over a cup of chai.

Street evangelism – Open-air campaigns – Stadium events. Historically, such varying means of outreach have brought spiritual orphans into God’s family by the thousands. May they never go away.

And may an alternate response to the one I got way back when, somehow come to be the norm. . .

“Why are you guys so caring?”

© 2017 Jerry Lout

 

 

 

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Deja Vu

Delivering a sermon at Congo Bar Church in 1986 came about through a yearning. Not a hunger to preach in a large city gathering but a stirring in my wife and me. That we were to launch from Kenya, enter another African nation, and serve there. The question was – given the continent is home to more than fifty countries – which one?

“In their hearts humans plan their course,
but the Lord establishes their steps.”    – Proverbs 16:9

***

From a disarming “so you’re the man with the black heart” greeting by the silver-haired gent in San Antonio, Ann and I had grown fond of Carlton Spencer in the years following. That early connection had factored in to our maiden assignment to East Africa. Now finding ourselves at another missions crossroads, his remarks carried a hint of déjà vu.

Elim President Spencer stood relaxed before a company of missionaries at our annual general meeting outside Nairobi.

“Several of you have served in this beautiful land for some years. I sense the Lord’s nudge that some are perhaps to set yourselves praying about other regions, other fields on the continent. Places little-served by kingdom laborers – some more challenging to live in than here.”

Both of us, my Ann and I, felt a stir. Following conversations and times in prayer the conviction grew that we were to venture toward a new field.

“Well, we know the mission serves regions westward from here,” I mused. “And to the south as well.”

And so it happened I flew the fifteen hundred miles to Kinshasa, and found myself days later before a crowd in a renovated bar.

Aidini’s ministry had dramatically multiplied the past three decades and church congregations now numbered more than 3,000 across Zaire’s enormous landscape. The leadership-training workforce certainly needed more people.

After two weeks poising as best I could the spiritual antenna of my heart, I boarded a Nairobi flight home with no new sense of clarity. None.

Not discounting Zaire just yet, we turned our attention to Kenya’s big neighbor to the south – land of famed explorer-missionary, Dr. David Livingstone. This time I wouldn’t go alone. We crossed into Tanzania at Namanga border.

What a surprise lay ahead.

©2018 Jerry Lout

 

 

 

 

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A closer Friend

Tim March 2010

The young woman beamed. Stepping to the podium she almost sang the announcement.

Ladies, listen up. You are all invited to Friday night’s baby shower for, Jerry Lout! 

My brother’s wife Geri – pronounced ‘Jerry’ – would soon be giving birth to their first child, Todd Benjamin Lout. Excited female voices rippled through the Chapel while the elbow of a buddy seated next to me found it’s target. My ribcage flinched as he teased, I hadn’t heard the news, Jerry. . . and you’re not even showing!

After high school and a stint of vocational training Tim had begun work as a draftsman in southwestern Oklahoma. He met Geri there. She became the love of his life.

The Lout brothers moved with our brides to San Antonio within the year of our respective weddings – that occurred just two weeks apart. Each of us felt God’s call to service – not sure what that really meant.  Our first stint at training came at International Bible College.

Though my brother modeled gentleness and goodness, Tim saw early on that his heart wasn’t at home in God – a form of limping common to all at some point. He needed rescuing, needed what the Bible calls training in righteousness.

Clinging to news of a real Savior coming for him at great personal cost, he yielded his life over to Jesus Christ.

A draftsman concerns himself with two things – construction and its detail. Tim’s draftsman-to-minister shift was logical. Wherever he served as pastor, as counselor or friend, he brought his heart. Each person counted, and their unique concerns (detail). He also  built people, aiding their progress in spiritual formation (construction). Leaning into Christ he entered broken lives of others patiently. In faith. With compassion. Among those was Karena, who attests with tender frankness, He saved my life. Karena – the bride of Todd Benjamin Lout.

Once when he was little Tim swallowed a roofing nail. Almost. An image of this is branded in my memory.

Six-year-old Timmy suspended head-downward, his ankles secure in our daddy’s grasp. Shake. Shake. Third shake. The nail bounced twice on the living room floor. Breathing resumed – for Tim and the rest of us.

Memories from childhood can rekindle pain or con prompt feelings of remorse. But some memories, thankfully, evoke humor, warmth, smiles.

  • Seeing young Tim recklessly bounce along, approximately straddling a runaway Shetland Pony.
  • Witnessing his just-opened, warm Dr. Pepper explode upward – redecorating our kitchen ceiling. Followed by his self-conscious chuckle. . . (Tim never outgrew his chuckle).
  • Regaling  his mimics of Inspector Clouseau . . .
  • Teaching himself, then me, guitar. And singing. Lots of Singing – carrying actually through all his lifetime.

The abdomen pain started in his sixth decade near a birthday. Tests followed. Procedures were scheduled, pancreas surgery undergone. And chemotherapy. The regimen blurred the calendar. Praying people prayed. Cards and calls came in.

The decline advanced. His wife summoned Hospice Care. Geri primarily attended him, at times with the aid of  my RN wife, Ann and me.

The end drew near, his promotion looked close at hand and the family was conflicted over a likely parting. Family members hurt seeing family members hurt.

An early afternoon I brought a stool to his bedside and took his hand once more. He seldom spoke now. But with eyes still closed, his lips formed the half-sentence and he sounded the words clearly,

There is a friend who sticks closer. . . Just that. A partial sentence.

 Yes, Tim.

 I completed the verse from Proverbs he began. It would be the final exchange between us.

Yes. . Closer than a brother, Tim.  And he is here for you and he’s here for me.

He had asked if I would officiate a service should it be needed.

I would be honored.  Meanwhile we keep looking to the Father.

I rose early Saturday, July 10, 2010.  Heaven had received my brother home four days earlier. This morning we would worship God and celebrate Tim’s life.

I made my way to the coffee maker in the kitchen. Reentering my sleeping quarters I reviewed some notes. The room was still. I was reflective.

Consulting the ancient scripture for solace or wisdom never disappointed, I thought. Opening my One Year Bible I had brought from Oklahoma I turned to this day’s reading. July 10.

My breath caught slightly. Familiar words – especially of recent days – tenderly seized me from the page. They embraced my heart.  Of all the Scripture verses – tailored by a random editor of a random Bible-reading program. I double-checked the reference and the date. Yes, this is for today:

There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother   Proverbs 18.24

 I savored its special message a moment longer. For myself. For all who would take it in. And looked upward.

Thank you, Father. Thank you for Jesus. Thank you for my brother. Tim.

To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord   2 Corinthians 5

©2015 Jerry Lout