tornado – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

June 26, 2025June 25, 2025

Turbulent Times

Yogi Berra’s famed quote, “It’s déjà vu all over again”, popped into mind Easter weekend here at our new home of Ada, Oklahoma.

An F-1 tornado slammed the town Easter Eve just weeks after Ada’s first twister of the season assailed us with her mischief on March 4^th. While Ann and I knew our early March move to this fine college town would be somewhat eventful, neither of us guessed Mother Nature would make such a fuss. We’re left wondering how often we may find ourselves hunkering down afresh in the little “safe space” inside our modest abode.

Oklahoma residents, along with plenty of our bordering “tornado alley” neighbors, can call up stories – from entertaining, to instructive, to deeply sorrowful – from the vast numbers of twister touchdowns across our windswept plains. Once, on a nighttime drive on Interstate 40, I got captivated by a large continuous light show as a sprawling thunderstorm edged toward Bristow and its environs. All was pitch dark except for the spectacular flashes of lightning. Pulling to the shoulder, I drew out my iphone, set the camera to video and caught several seconds of the light show. And discovered upon reviewing the clip the next day that a quite-visible cloud-to-ground tornado had been captured on my device.

And, then there was the heart-stopping moment when Ann and I discovered that our son Scott – en route to his college campus after a weekend away – narrowly escaped a direct encounter with a 200 mph Category Four. He had intended to swing into Bruce’s Truck Stop, Catoosa to air up a low tire, but a minor carburetor issue delayed him a few minutes. By the time he was approaching Catoosa, traffic had backed up as emergency vehicles raced to the site. Tragically, seven lives were lost in the vicinity, six of these at Bruce’s Stop.

Citizens of the Sooner State are found every year keeping their human radar keenly sharpened (eyes to the skies, ears to the meteorologists). Particularly in the Springtime season stretching from early April to early June. This is a time to mindfully employ the counsel of an especially wise Rabi of long years past (and present),

“Watch and pray”*.

June 19, 2025June 19, 2025

Tropical Twister

As I guided my Suzuki dirt bike onto the path leading to our remote Africa home, something felt different. What was it?

The narrative unfolds in detail in the Amazon-published memoir, Giants in the Rough*.

A distressing spectacle now caught my eye. Just adjacent to my family’s home stood our African pastor’s house. . . its’ roof missing!

The past hours had found me miles away on a pastoral visit to another leader’s home.

While the land of Kenya was no stranger to the occasional disturbances of nature (mild earth tremors along its ancient Rift Valley, floodings from torrential downpours), the thought of an Oklahoma-style tornado blowing in seemed quite remote.

Though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam. . God is our refuge and strength. Psalms 46:1-3 NIV

To my relief, I found my wife and our two little ones safe and unscathed in our still-in-tact dwelling.

I crossed the few meters over to Pastor Moseti’s place. Large remnants of twisted corrugated metal sheets and shredded lumber – the makings of his former rooftop – adorned the limbs of nearby Eucalyptus Trees. The pastor, who survived the horrific storm without a scratch, recounted, in measured disbelief, his up-close encounter.

As a deluge of rainfall and raucous winds assailed the mission station, William Moseti stood gazing out his front window.

“I was watching the roof of your own house over there”, he exclaimed. “It was lifting, then settling. . . lifting then settling, and I thought, surely that roof might get taken away!”

Suddenly, Moseti heard a great ripping and crashing above him. Able now in the aftermath of it all to relate his story from a place of safety, the pastor concluded with his trademark smile,

“And now I was quickly getting very wet.”

March 6, 2025

Merry Memory

*Note to our fabulous Readers! The bit of delay getting this piece out today. . . We have moved to another city and two nights later a tornado came through, knocking out wi-fi access. (our new place not damaged, hallelujah!). And, here’s a little ‘after-Holiday’ narrative I hope you enjoy. . .

Savoring the yuletide season still, we thank a dear friend and colleague for the following,

One day leading up to Christmas a few years ago my husband and I invited some internationals to help us decorate our Christmas tree. Included in the group was an older couple – visiting scholars at a nearby university.

While the two men busied themselves stringing lights on the tree and about our door and windows, I welcomed the wife to help me set up our nativity scene.

“What is a nativity?”, Molly asked.

“It’s a scene made up of carved figures, symbolic of Jesus’ birth.”

My new friend followed with another question, her expression communicating sincere curiosity, “Who is Jesus and why is this so important?”

While Molly’s question gave me momentary pause, I immediately sensed the wonderful gift God was offering me, in this moment. That I might share something of the greatest story ever. How exciting! What followed was remarkable.

Into those coming minutes, I felt my whole being somehow charged with supernatural energy. The near-tangible presence of Christ, continuing strong. And, with the placing of each nativity piece – Mary, Infant Jesus, Joseph, the domestic animals of the stall and the rest – this supernatural “energy” did not diminish.

What inexpressible joy, sharing with this dear lady from a far away land the reason we celebrate Christmas. Why we believe Jesus is who he says he is, why he came to earth. And that Jesus not only gives us Christmas but gifts to us an everlasting, personal & intimate relationship with God. Fulll of joy, peace and love.

My friend Molly was so enthralled, listening intently, asking questions to make sure she was understanding.

As we finished the decorating she said, “I want to know more about this Jesus.”

My husband and I made sure she had a Bible and from that day forward she has been reading the Bible and has, for some time now, been participating in a Bible study with someone who speaks her own language.

Although my friend has not yet confessed faith in Christ, her heart is so soft and her questions give evidence that the Holy Spirit is still working to draw her further and further into his wonderful Light. And, even though this couple has returned to their own “restricted-access” country, we still communicate. Continuing to see God working!

A true Christmas miracle!

While our yearly calendars mark the arrival and the passing of Christmas Day, the present reality of “God with us” continues on and on and on. Until the long awaited day of the final Maranatha. . . “Come, Lord Jesus!”

September 5, 2024September 4, 2024

Barometric Pleasure

Retired television personality Don Woods stood there smiling, relaxed before the mic.

“Back in my earlier days as a TV weatherman”, he began, “our radar technology was nothing like we enjoy today.”

Among our Thursday luncheon guest speakers over the years, we managed to garner an occasional sampling of hometown celebrities. Don fit the bill.

For decades Don had garnered an impressive viewer following, largely due to the presence of his adorable stick cartoon character – Gusty. Every evening as the cameras rolled Don would offer up the coming days’ forecasts while simultaneously sketching an action scene featuring Gusty – wind, ice storm, lightning, sunshine. Gusty’s actions reflected the nature of whatever conditions might lie ahead. We hoped too, for the benefit of our students (nearly none of whom had heard of an Oklahoma twister), that Don’s talk could include a cautionary element, given our spot in the heart of Tornado Alley.

Picking up on his radar theme, Don Woods went on,

“One morning in the dead of winter I arrived at my office to be greeted by my boss, the KTUL station manager. “’Don’”, he said, ‘we just got a call from one of our viewers. Says he has a request,” ‘Would you please have your weatherman come out to my house and shovel the six inches of ‘partly cloudy’ off my driveway!’”

For our students coming from regions of the world where snow never fell, the account required a little explaining.

Along with being a popular meteorologist, Don was a follower of Jesus. He had brought to the luncheon a collection of small, illustrated gospel booklets of his own creation. Fittingly, the illustrations featured images of his little sidekick Gusty.

September 12, 2017September 12, 2017

A Sound Of Drums

“Do you hear something, Hon?”

The drum-beat rhythms seemed distant and ill-defined – more like a dream than real. Indeed, for a moment I thought the sound was a dream. But it grew in strength and as we lay wide-eyed in our fully-darkened sleeping quarters, our senses were strained. Time passed slowly.

“They’re coming nearer.”

Taranganya occupied a tiny dot on the rare Kenya map that found the outpost worthy of any space at all. The village’s claim to fame included a butcher shop. Flies gathered there to hike around on suspended beef portions well before customers took their cuts home to savor them for themselves. Pressure cookers were prized items in any missionary dwelling.

Two government schools roughly book-ended the butchery, one for elementary kids, the other, high-schoolers. Beyond these, the one evidence that Taranganya village existed was Bukuria Mission.

Bukuria. Our first upcountry home. The place an outdoor hired hand pummeled a seven-foot spitting cobra after she raised her head just yards away and shot venomous spray my direction.

Bukuria – where a tornado ripped the metal roof off our neighbor’s house to hurl it across the compound, pretzelizing it in the branches of several trees on the way out.

Bukuria was a kind of place that stirs nostalgia. Past residents recall images of smoke clouds wafting over distant Maasai plains – evidence of herdsmen purging brown grasslands before the onset of welcome March rains.

A night watchman, Nyamahanga, was a fixed security presence on the station, greeting us at our first arrival. His armor consisted of a homemade bow with a handful of arrows (razor sharp). We had heard that tribal skirmishes may flare up in the area now and then. One wouldn’t want to be caught in the cross-fire, or worse yet, become the direct target of an angry archer.

“Lord, thanks for watching over us, over this place.”

The mission station rested on the uppermost slope of a gradually-ascending hill. Its entrance-point marked the head of a sweeping curve of the narrow, unpaved road passing before it. Our new home was in a remote sector of Kenya just five miles north of Tanzania’s unpatrolled border. The massive waters of Lake Victoria glistened from her banks 40 miles to our west.

We, the newbie missionaries, had just moved more than two hundred miles to this place, having received little orientation. We had no actual history with anyone of the Kuria Tribe.

The drumming volume intensified. Chanting sounds in a local dialect unknown to us fueled our anxiety.

Had we pondered more the impact of faith since the arrival of outsiders bearing the Jesus-news three decades earlier, our jitters would have lessened.

Our night of fitful sleep finally passed and we asked the obvious question.

The midnight drum-beats and chanting voices had stirred old film images of painted warriors, pith helmets and boiling pots. But we traced our Saturday night of sleeplessness to a little band of Kuria believers. En route to a prayer meeting.