Wesleyan – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

Okmulgee’s Rodeo Grounds sat north of town and directly across the road from our modest acreage along Highway 75. Tuesday evenings in the weeks leading up to the annual rodeo found cowboys, their “spurs ‘ajingling”, mounting their steeds. It was calf-rope-practicing night and on occasion my brother and I ventured onto the grounds to take in the action.

At the nod of his head to the guy manning the livestock chute, the cowboy signaled his, “Let’s GO”. Our perked-up ears caught the sharp clang of a chute gate opening. Perched atop the corral fencing Tim and I watched, mesmerized as a terrified calf lunged forward into freedom, only to lose that freedom in mere seconds if the Oklahoma cowboy got lucky.

At the start of a year I see the livestock chute as an apt illustration.

Here I am among earth’s inhabitants numbering in the billions. The ball drops. Midnight strikes. A master of ceremonies shouts of an infant new year just born! High fives, kisses and hugs and ‘Yippees!’ follow.

The clanging of the chute flinging open. And each one of us gets propelled into . . . What? Routine pursuits, turns in the road, exploration of belief?

To the unsure, the seeker, the disillusioned regarding faith. Simply be assured the Lord Jesus is indescribably good and utterly worth exploring and even pursuing in the new year just dawned. Hearty prayers your way.

To the Christ-follower we may be drawn to emerge from the chute humbly offering up an old but timely ‘yielding prayer’. Like one practiced among our Wesleyan friends at the start of each year since 1755. Navigating its ‘old English’ language calls for rallying the imagination but is wonderfully doable.

I am no longer my own, but thine. Put me to what thou wilt, rank me with whom thou wilt. Put me to doing, put me to suffering. Let me be employed for thee or laid aside for thee, exalted for thee or brought low for thee. Let me be full, let me be empty. Let me have all things, let me have nothing. I freely and heartily yield all things to thy pleasure and disposal. And now, O glorious and blessed God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, thou art mine, and I am thine. So be it. And the covenant which I have made on earth, let it be ratified in heaven. Amen.*

May your Twenty-Twenty-Five meet with good at every turn.

My eyebrows furrowed as we entered Pennsylvania and took in the expanse of her rolling hills, farmlands and forests. Puzzled, I wondered, Where are the sky-scrapers? Upstate New York was more bewildering.

Any Oklahoman knew that most Yankee states were blanketed throughout by asphalt and concrete. Our ever-expanding world as we motored northward from South Texas, alerted me repeatedly to my wonderful ignorance about the lay of the land. An ignorance of the kind New Yorkers employ when doubting whether Okies own automobiles.

I eased our car to a halt before an aged, multi-story brick structure perched atop a hill. The month was January and a frigid drizzle had begun descending in slow motion. Although it wasn’t yet 10 p.m. darkness had fallen several hours earlier. No one was in sight. I turned to my wife, now in the early months of her first pregnancy.
“Seems we’re here, darlin’. . . the sign out front says, Elim.”

Genesee Wesleyan Seminary, one of the first coed schools in the U.S., had opened its’ doors on this hill in 1831 and Elim’s training center now occupied some of those ornate structures from the past.

Our cold, dreary reception, climate-wise, was countered by friendly greetings of mission-agency staff next morning.
“Oklahoma? . . that’s where you’re from?” The office manager’s eyes brightened. “Then you’ll have to meet Ron and Jerry.” Noting our quizzical response, he went on. “Ron Childs is from Philly. He and his wife, Jerry are also here as missionary candidates. Jerry comes from down your way. Oklahoma.”

Another day passed before we formally met the couple who, as ourselves, felt destined for Africa. The first phrase passing through Jerry Childs’s lips betrayed her origins. This is no New Yorker, I thought to myself with a grin, registering the familiar drawl of my home state.

“Happy to meet you,” replied my wife. Then, drawn to the small bundle her new friend cradled in her arms, “What a sweet little one you have there. . . a girl?”

Jerry Childs smiled and nodded. “Thank you. Yes, a girl. Like to hold her?”

My wife drew near, her own mother-instincts already much alive.

She took up little Sarah and brought her close, little dreaming what lay ahead between the two in another time and place.
©2017 Jerry Lout

Tag: Wesleyan

Out Of The Chute

Yankee-land