students – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

April 11, 2024April 10, 2024

Stated Intent

A brilliant and beloved Southern California professor was fond of urging his fellow believers to live life on purpose, employing principles which he dubbed VIM.

Those lives that bear the marks of wholeness and flourishing for the good, Dallas Willard contended, tend to stem from persons who have firmly embraced Vision (the first letter of the acronym).

Alongside Vision come Intention and Means. Our infant ministry on the Tulsa campus – testing its wobbly legs with gangly stops and starts that are common to the very young – had started hammering out our Intention piece.

Just what were we sensing that God actually wanted? What would bring a ready smile to his magnificent countenance?

Jim Garton and I set out to give it our best in crafting a mission statement. It was clear that International Student Ministries needed one.

What shall we count as ISM’s Intention (the aim or aims that could be counted on to mark us and keep us grounded and focused through coming years). While we understood that a mission purpose can be tweaked and that often the best of aims can meet with course corrections, we felt daily the gravity of this assignment. It weighed on us.

At long last, with a lot of needed grace from above, we landed the plane.

The stated purpose carried two crucial features, neither of which could be realized apart from the other. Students needed to be able to enjoy the assurance that they are genuinely welcomed and cared about. Relationship must be key, with Christ’s tangible love and presence the heartbeat of it all.

The team’s next newsletter to be rolled out would herald our reason for being. Our Intention:

International Community Outreach exists to glorify God by meeting practical and spiritual needs of international students, through acts of service and through the proclamation of the gospel of Christ.

With our stated mission now in place, all that remained was to live it out!

This was to take some doing.

April 4, 2024

Overflow

Turning onto Xanthus Ave that Thursday evening, I glanced at my watch. “How will this go? Who will show up? Will I be on my game (whatever that means)?

The young lady of last night’s call had suggested the newly-arrived grad students I was preparing to meet were open to learn something of the story of Jesus. “Had any of these scholarly young men ever seen a Bible?”, I wondered, Influenced and shaped as they likely were by their homeland’s official doctrine of atheism.

A niggling question played at my own conscience, “How mindful am I of Jesus Christ in the course of my routine days?”

Dialing back the musings, I eased the car along the curb before the Jesus Inn. Minutes later I was settling into easy introductions and conversations with our new arrivals. The easy part was much to the credit of Weili, her cheery personality mitigating any sense of awkwardness. “At last,” I thought, smiling, “we have a face to go with that sing-song voice from the phone visit!”

That first evening at Jesus Inn – engaging, laughing with, welcoming the newcomers – served as a treasured early catalyst for us at the university. Propelling the ministry forward slow-motion, as we inched our way to becoming a truly transcultural family. We (students, volunteers, friendship partners) could with God’s help, steward a faith culture flowering in deep-hearted care, engaging throughout in meaningful acts of service.

Now – three decades in – the miracle of good seed planted, and of lives yet being changed for the good, stands as evidence that any misgivings or nail-biting angst earlier on were mere distractions. Several of the Jesus-Inn graduate students with their specialties (geology – information technology – petroleum) have proceeded wonderfully forward, bearing fruit within their fresh-discovered faith.

Issuing from the overflow of a young lady’s renovated heart.

February 8, 2024February 7, 2024

Reptile Routine

Extending circles of friendships for newly arrived foreign students proves priceless, over time. Stewarded well, the practice can translate into treasured relationships. It’s been noted that a Houston professor researching the matter arrived at a remarkable finding.

When a local resident extends kindness to an international student in a meaningful way within the first 72 hours of the newcomer’s arrival, a lifelong friendship can well have been launched.

My wife and I resonate with stats like these, having drunk deep from the wells of hospitality at the hands of local residents upon our maiden arrival to Africa.

In mere moments of our friends Carl and Annette swinging open their door in welcome to my friend Constant, the space in their cozy residence was ringing with hospitable cheer. Is it any wonder, given the needs and the makeup of we human creatures, how soon authentic friendships among us can bud, then flourish?

Lingering a moment at the apartment door, I took in the surroundings and wondered how many stories lay past the many other student housing doors. My good-humored, keen-minded, bespectacled friend from the Far East greeted me in what had by now become a predictable norm. A cheery grin seemed to mark his countenance at every turn.

Waiting outside his door, I had already begun scanning my brain for a specific kind of word or phrase for this fun-loving Chemistry major.

In the experiment of figuring out ways to help students get a better handle on the English language, I had recognized a robust interest among some scholars over our common American slangs or idioms. My student friend was, I discovered, not merely interested in the world of slang. Constant grew such an appetite for new expressions he inaugurated a kind of game. We were not to part company following any of our sessions without my having left behind a fresh new idiom to take its place inside his ever-expanding slang storehouse.

This Tuesday afternoon, having wrapped up our regular conversational time in the New Testament, Constant hit me with the reminder, “So Jerry, what slang do you have for me today?”

“How about this, Constant. . .”

I coached him then on a common back-and-forth dialogue featuring reptiles as the theme. From that day onward, no conversational session was complete without a shared parting refrain,

“See you later, Alligator. . .”

“After while, Crocodile!”

January 25, 2024January 24, 2024

Charlie Company

To love abundantly is to live abundantly, and to love forever is to live forever*.

It might be argued that Charlie Spear’s all-time-ever favorite term in the world is that over-spilling word – Abundant.

“Hey Charlie, how’s it going?”

“Abundant!”

“What was Christmas like with the kids and grandkids, Charlie?” “Abundant, bro, just abundant!”

Regardless the topic, the time of day, the weather forecast or just about anything else, the decades-long director of TU’s Wesley ministry rarely missed an opportunity to inject the ‘A’ word where any verbal exchange surfaced. Everybody loved him for it.

I would put his height at 6’ 2”, a full-bodied ponytail falling a good thirty inches toward his blue-jeaned waistline.

But neither his impressive height nor the distinctive ponytail nor the ever-present Abundant (that sat poised to break free from his larynx any second) fully explained the happy magnetism most friends and visitors sensed when entering the Wesley Foundation.

Long before I happened into this student center (christened after English Evangelist John Wesley) a vibrant spiritual garden for pointing students to Jesus had been planted and prayerfully tended. Charlie and team – all by their confession, ‘spiritual works-in-progress’ – had long since been leaning into Jesus, drawing on grace. The community remained stirred by a common passion. To know Christ and to make him known, as the Commons Room plaque asserted.

“So, Charlie”, I ventured after being the new ministry guy on campus a while, “the Wesley’s FNL (Friday Noon Lunch) serves the weekly meal here”. His arms in a relaxed cross, Charlie followed my ensuing proposal with apparent interest.

“What if our ministry – ISM – experimented with something similar, only focusing the efforts on serving international students.”

The Director seemed to warm to the notion as I wrapped up my pitch, which was being framed breath by breath,

“Maybe on Thursdays. But only one Thursday a month at first. We might call it FIL (Free International Lunch). Think that might work?”

When Charlie and his team gave the nod, the FIL was launched, my wife Ann orchestrating a volunteer kitchen staff and servers. We trusted heaven’s supply for funding.

Interest grew, appetites sharpened. The once-a-month international lunch (rice dishes never absent!) stretched to twice monthly. Our modest experiment with FIL took off. Eventually, every Thursday noon through the school year found students from across the world – most of non-believing backgrounds – filing to Wesley’s cozy basement dining hall. Nutritional cuisine for both body and spirit – found a pathway to a diverse array of scholars, graciously served up at the hands of cheerful hosts.

Week after week after week. Indescribable.

Abundant!

December 7, 2023December 7, 2023

Horizons

“Hi guys, Welcome!”

It’s a suspicion of mine that only a handful of people in the world can offer a smile that truly lights up a room.

It was this kind of smile we saw glowing from Cathy’s face that day.

Cathy Ambrose was a volunteer with TU’s Wesley Foundation, a campus ministry of the Methodist tradition. She stood at the open doorway when Jim and I made our way across the threshold.

“What brings you fellas our way?” Cathy offered.

The unpretentious warmth and the pleasant environment of the setting signaled the Genesis of one of the foremost adventures of my lifetime. I was unaware in the moment that through coming years much of my sense of belonging in a college environment would be nurtured and reinforced by an easy camaraderie found at this very spot.

My mentor-friend extended his hand offering an introduction, “Hi, I’m Jim and this is Jerry. We’re on campus looking to serve international students”.

The three of us chatted briefly. Cathy turned aside to acknowledge an approaching gentleman.

“Charlie, meet Jim and Jerry!”

“Guys, this is the Director of the Wesley, Charlie Spears.”

The friendly back-and-forth that followed was brief, but I felt it would be no surprise if our paths crossed sometime again. Perhaps soon.

Jim and I moved on across the college grounds, taking in as we went attractive architectural design dating back generations.

Lord, could there be a future for me here. . . on these grounds? For a season, anyway?

I sensed a response to my musings may be nearing, to be disclosed maybe sooner than later.

November 30, 2023November 29, 2023

New Normal

Funny how conditioning works – not that of the hair treatment variety.

A person flies off to another land and settles into the things of life and work. Some years later, having grown conditioned to her adoptive culture, the person returns to her homeland only to find life disorienting.

Depending on how deeply entrenched he has settled into that ‘other life’, the reentry and reorienting process for the returnee may leave him reeling. I’m clearly a misfit, he reasons.

Such a person may feel more at ease in the company of the clerk tending to the nearby Asian or Latin-run convenience store than with many of his acquaintances of an earlier time.

It happened with me at the intersection of Sixth and Birmingham. Where aromas of Indian Curry and Chinese dumplings hung in the air.

ISI’s area director Jim Tracy had reached out, inviting me to accompany him on his rounds – connecting socially in informal friendship with international students hailing from lands abroad. Malaysia, Venezuela, China, the Middle East. . .

I fussed with upside-down feelings day by day as I routinely shadowed Jim, venturing along from one apartment dwelling to the next. Where we happily sipped hot chai offered up by our gracious, momentary hosts. (But wait. Aren’t we. . . us ‘Yanks’. . . meant to be hosting them?)

I grew mildly surprised sensing how the needle of my social barometer tilted in uncommon directions. Feeling less at home within my own mainstream American culture than with the young college students coming from places far, far away. I had hardly begun to know these ‘outsiders’ yet an easy kinship felt more in reach.

For a while this tug-of-war left me unsettled, musing over my ‘space’ and my identity (aren’t I the same red-blooded American fellow who merely relocated for a while those years back?).

In time I made peace with befuddling but pardonable reality. I had changed.

Change had happened on the inside of me. Living in Africa for a couple decades among people groups of varied customs and languages had ruined me – in the best kind of way. Components of my worldview had shifted, broadened. My preferences on many fronts had tweaked. In short, I had taken up a strange and intriguing and somewhat messy cross-cultural identity.

This new normal, it’s going to need some time.

March 18, 2016August 28, 2017

Pecan

How do you say it again, Jerry? This word?

I understood the reason prompting it but fielding such a question on my home town’s Main Street felt strange.

With a smile their way I began.

We spell it P-E-C-A-N. Pronouncing it once, then a second time, I continued. Notice the two syllables. We stress the last one – in this part of the country, anyway. Now, I coaxed them, your turn; let’s hear you say it.

In his Asian accent, one of these our new friends, offered up his version, Pih-Kahn.

Great!, I praised him. Spoken like a true Sooner!

A true what?

***

Our group of twenty – a mix of Tulsa area volunteers and university students from abroad – lined the sidewalk to sample the largest desert-serving they may ever see. Our campus ministry group had planned the June outing. To introduce our bright, young visitors – most engineering students – to a piece of North American culture. And a piece of pie thrown in.

Xiao’s spoon entered the Styrofoam dish for her second bite, Mm, this is a very new flavor to me!

As we meandered the town square, taking in music, seeing parents laugh as children ran squealing to an amusement-park ride, my thoughts wandered to an acreage north of town. A memory there.

***

Boys, there’s a way to earn yourselves a little spending money. Pretty easy. We turned to our father’s voice. The idea he offered was straight-forward and – like our dad himself – sensible. Tim’s dark eyebrows lifted, signaling his eagerness to give it a try. As little brother, I was fully in.

Next afternoon we visited a pecan-merchant at the west end of town – Dunhams – our half-filled burlap bag in tow.

Bring your gunny sack over this way, boys. The man moved to a set of scales. Let’s see now, he pondered, weighing our mini-crop. Taking up a pencil he calculated, At twenty-eight cents a pound. . .

Rewarded for our labors, our spirits buoyed, we all but strutted from the store. Pedaling the bicycle home with me balanced on the handle bar, my brother spoke and I could hear the smile in his voice behind me. Some of mother’s pecan pie is out on the table. A glass of milk will go good with it, huh. My mouth moistened.

I was still smiling when the student’s voice returned me to Okmulgee’s Pecan Festival.

Jerry, do we visit inside the old building now – where you said there is more about culture?

Sure. First, let’s take a look at the marker over here.

One of the newer-arrived students still navigating American English, studied the plaque. Her words came with some effort, but deliberate, distinct. Mm, I think I can pronounce, ‘Creek. Nation. Council. House.’ I nodded and she went on, Now, how do you say this word, M-u-s-c-o- – One of our volunteers came to her aid.

Directing our special guests to the city’s venerable landmark, I mused.

By bedtime tonight they’ll have plenty to write home about.

April 20, 2017August 28, 2017

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.