Sign Of Spring

“You’re from the Sooner State, eh? Isn’t that called ‘Tornado Alley’?”

We Oklahomans have gotten used to being associated with such a dubious label. Not surprisingly so.

My wife and I got another up close and personal reminder a few weeks back.

We  had moved from our longtime residence of beautiful Tulsa to the lovely south-central town of Ada (growing expansion of family through one’s adult children carries a magnetic tug). The move remains a little bitter-sweet, as T-town has for a lot of years served as a special spot on our map to call home. Yet, we’re still in Okie-land, still citizens of the notorious Alley.

In the wee hours of our fourth morning settling into our new address, Ann and I began getting acquainted with our apartment’s little hallway. Crouching there in our “safe space” as tornado warning sirens blared, we rode out the minutes with reasonable calm.

A bit later the storm moved on and life resumed as normal. Sort of.

As dawn emerged and the day stretched forward, we and our fellow Ada-ites reflected thankfully that – while the town suffered significant structural damages – the community was spared any dire personal harm.

And then a curious revelation.

A couple days after the twister’s westward-to-eastward dance across town, we spotted a stationary metallic object poised upright near a young tree behind the apartment. It was a common kind of object, we realized. And, in a different circumstance and place, would have generated no cause for puzzlement.

The stop sign, fully intact – complete with sturdy support post – stood upright, freshly transplanted, half-hidden amidst immature branches of our young backyard tree.

While signposts of this design are universally known as alert mechanisms calling for keen and immediate attention – on this occasion, mere feet from our back door – the surprise drop-in guest did indeed give us pause!

And now (who knows where?) there likely sits at some town intersection, another, but a bit forlorn, red-and-white octagonal marker. Troubled by the abrupt absence of a fellow loyal guardian in the noble service of public safety.

©2025 Jerry Lout

Seasons Rhythms

Nothing comes to Spring save through Winter.

Since the long-ago decade when I first snagged this anonymous quote (sketching it there in the flyleaf of my Bible) its wisdom has revisited me often. On my better days I’ve paid attention.

Over coffee a friend and I puzzled, “Would it be possible for us humans to appreciate and honestly savor the good of life without drinking of the hard – the ‘difficult’ – of life?”

Winter preceeding Spring. As a pre-toddler I met with an episode of Polio that left me with a forever limp. This was followed by yet another tangle with the same nasty virus shortly before I celebrated my tenth birthday. This encounter nearly ended my life.

In the case of both these afflictions, Spring emerged, a Springtime of thankfulness. Even now a smile of gratitude visits my eyes and face.

A winter of wanderings as a stubborn, self-willed teen somehow gave way to sunshine’s warmth in the form of generously forgiving parents and persistent, rescuing Lord. Exodus 34:6 puts it well, “the Lord, merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love”

When an esteemed institution misconstrues motives and stridently calls into question a team member’s integrity. Winter

When self-reflection, prayer, and straightforward dialogue seasoned with grace characterize engagement with whatever ‘powers that be’. Spring.

And on the personal front. Where long Wintry seasons of remorse, fed by insecurities from mistakes and general brokenness, dog the soul. To such a dreary scene, what an unspeakable relief comes when one awakes one morning to the drenching of the sunlight of grace through an East window.

When Spring begins to dawn, signaling Winter’s soon retreat, no one needs declare it to us. The gray cold must yield.

It is time.

©2025 Jerry Lout