tent – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

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.

In the Summer of 1949 sounds of homespun music, clapping hands and shouts of Amen ascended into the night at the north end of our town. A tent meeting was underway.

Things about tents fascinate me. My mother-in-law’s Danish mom – Grandma Sadie – called up memories as a settlers’ daughter. People from Denmark are evidently tough. The family spent their first winter in Montana living in a tent. Sadie’s beguiling reflection, “but it was a pretty mild winter” prompted a reflection of my own; ‘there can be no such thing as a mild winter in Montana – in a tent.’

In my adult years, while living in a tropical region, I bought a weathered six-man camping tent. A patch in the roof presumably marked the spot where the tusk of an elephant punctured the dwelling. The agitated mammal, I was told, raised the edge of the tent off the ground before moving on.

In the ‘1940s and ‘50s open tents seated fifty to a hundred people and served the purposes of transient American preachers. Our visiting preacher, a lady minister oversaw with the aid of her husband, the tent’s inauguration on a vacant lot. A sawdust floor, wooden folding chairs, worn hymnals and a guitar or perhaps accordion completed the setting. The tent’s older visitors kept hand-held fans in easy reach. The preaching was Bible-centered, the messages vigorously delivered, the singing pulsing with strength.

Clyde and Thelma began attending the meetings with my sister, brother and me in tow. The music, preaching and testimonials seemed to usher in the Presence. The family never tired of experiencing the nearness of God in the company of other Jesus followers.

After a few weeks of conducting meetings the minister and her husband felt drawn to remain in our Northeastern Oklahoma town. They rented a vacant building. The Living Way Tabernacle became our church home.

After the polio experience my left leg was fitted with a knee to shoe brace. In my fifth year the brace came off for good. I was active without it and, lacking the benefit of therapy coaches in that era, my folks simply retired the brace. My limp became a little more pronounced from that time.

Support structures and supportive people. Good things to have in our lives. They are wonderfully provided (some would say from above) to help meet real needs, to make up the lack. It’s true that personal betterment can sometimes actually be hindered through over-support. That is, when a kind of assistance or a certain level of it is no longer appropriate.

Still, help is needed by all of us, through all of life. Different types of help and in differing amounts, for different seasons. Prematurely withdrawing support (as with braces) may damage or hinder progress along a road to wellness. Or, at least, better mobility.

I fell in love at age five. Her name was Opaline. She was beautiful. Even in braces. . Especially in braces.

Tag: tent

Light Journey

Tents and Braces