Coincidence

“Yes, this is Art Dodzweit, can I help you?” Thus began for Ann and me our decades-long adventure among an intriguing breed of people called missionaries.

But it really started in a Church History class.

“Students”, Reverend Jensen, portly and congenial, rolled out our assignment in steady, methodical tones. “On each of your desks you see a list of names – church denominations, Missions agencies, Bible schools. You are to select one. Write a short letter to their office, requesting a copy of their by-laws. Then, do up a brief, type-written report.” His steady monotone went on. . . “who they are, when they incorporated, something of their vision. Turn it in by end of month, please.”

Taking in the long list of names – nearly all of them new to me – I planted my forefinger on an entry mid-way down. My mini research-project was underway.

David spotted me soon after and launched into a chat about our overseas plans. The conversation shifted to missionary-sending organizations.

“You know, Brother Jerry, it was a long time ago but my father used to teach at a place called Elim Bible Institute. It’s linked to a missions agency – Elim Missionary Assemblies. I think they do a lot of work in Africa. You might like to contact them.”

“Hmm, where’s that agency located?”, I asked.

“Well, Elim is up in New York.”

“Lima, New York?”

“That’s right”. He shot a questioning look my way.

“Well, I just sent a letter to those folks asking for a copy of their by-laws.” David and I could only laugh.

Soon a New York postmarked info packet made its way to our our Texas mailbox. I turned in my assignment. Ann and I kept wondering about the short interchange with David Mulford. I turned to my wife.

“Shall we call Elim?”

“Sure, let’s call Elim.”

My first-ever phone call to upstate New York led to a suggestion from Elim’s main office. I should connect with the agency’s pioneer missionary to East Africa. He happened to be in the U.S. just now, visiting California.

When Missionary Dodzweit answered, we chatted briefly. He urged that I speak directly with Elim Missionary Assembly’s president. My second call to New York set in motion a journey we would not forget. I was put through to the president, son of Elim’s founder, Ivan Spencer.

“Yes, this is Carlton Spencer.”

“Sir, I’m calling from San Antonio, Texas. My wife and I hope to serve in Africa.”

“How interesting”.

Why interesting?, I wondered – not mindful another coincidence might be brewing.

Elim’s leader went on.

“I’ll be in your city in a few days. . . In fact, I’m set to speak at your school.”

Yes, I thought. How interesting.
©2017 Jerry Lout

Arrangement

My bride-to-be nearly drowned. She was young at the time, just hours old.

“Mr and Mrs. Barnes, the risks are high. To our knowledge no baby has made it through long-term. But the surgery is the only chance your little girl has.”

Earl and Mary had little time to think it over. A surgical team gathered and a T. E. Fistula repair was scheduled. The life of Alice Ann Barnes – her full body weight shy of five pounds – hung in the balance.

T.E. stood for Tracheosophageol. Sadly, the baby’s esophagus and trachea were defective at birth. Designed to transport her mother’s milk into her stomach, Ann’s esophagus mingled with her air-tube. Thus, any nutrition-rich fluids were sent to her lungs, not her stomach. In 1949 the field of medicine had its limits. Without corrective surgery, death by drowning or malnutrition would likely result.

Anesthetics were administered, their effects carefully watched. The surgeon’s knife found entrance into little Ann’s back. The procedure was underway.

Hours passed as anxious parents waited.

“Her vitals are steady.” Intensive care nurses – hours into post-op – kept a close watch on little Ann. Some likely prayed.

December, 1967. The former pediatrics patient – poised, lovely in her white gown – moved along the church sanctuary’s center aisle and to her waiting groom.

***

Our courtship, Ann’s and mine, had largely played out by long distance – spanning twelve hundred miles and two-and-a-half years. First by old-fashioned letters. Then with my Oklahoma-to-Montana phone calls.

The marriage wasn’t arranged by third-party players, but neither did we magically fall in love. We grew toward one another through the modest media of stationery paper and ballpoint ink, radial-dial phones with long-distance lines transporting two distinctly different accents – one from just south of Canada, the other a stone’s throw from Texas.

We had survived, each of us, our childhood crises of health. To one day embark, united, on a journey unlike any we could have dreamed.

An arranged marriage, one might say. By providence.

©2018 Jerry Lout

Tired Pain

I nudged the clinic door. Inside I inched toward a desk. The dark-haired receptionist looked up just as another sharp pain shot across my back at the waist line. Knees buckling, I caught myself, barely dodging a crash to the hardwood floor.

“Óh, sir!” the lady quickly called out while indicating a chair. “Here, right over here. That’s right, slowly there. . .” Contorting my limbs and back in a couple odd maneuvers my bottom found a resting place.

 “The doctor will see you in just a minute. Here, I’ll get your paperwork” 

Another slow turn in the chair and fresh beads of sweat sprang to my forehead. I nodded a silent thank you and took the ‘first-time-visit’ patient form and ballpoint the receptionist offered. After a couple entriesI paused a moment and recounted the happenings of past hours and the tire-shop mishap that brought me here.

If Francis could see me now. I managed a twisted grin. 

Before our Texas move, my co-worker at the Tulsa Aviation plant had pressed me about the job he figured surely awaited me on arrival to the Alamo City. Between winces now, I could almost hear his “I-told-you-so” if Francis should see me today, here in this bone-cruncher clinic. . .

“Well, Francis, it’s like this, I landed a job down at the corner of Caldera and Bandera, at this Phillips 66 station. . .”

Why did I have to get in such a hurry?

 Twenty hours ago I had grabbed two car tires still encircling their heavy rims. Swiveling around while taking a step another direction was a move that shot a serious stab through my lower back. I reflected further.

Well, I started out lame – a polio baby, back in California. Then the limping picked up again when the same virus came to our Oklahoma hills. I should probably, here in Texas, be used to these kinds of hobblings by now. . .

“Alright, sir, the doctor can see you now. Just this way. Careful there, move slowly.”

Lessons on limping followed.

©2018 Jerry Lout