There's only one way to stop hate, if we're willing. But are we?

Growing up as a preacher's kid and a preacher's grandkid and a preacher's niece, you see things in life at an early age that many may never see. Some things are heartbreakingly beautiful, and you feel blessed to experience them. Some impossibly sad, and you feel burdened to know them. And some are so hateful you can't understand them at all.

And for good reason.

Growing up in my family, we weren't safeguarded against the seriousness of life. Or the reality of it. A safe space? That was the closet we hung out in when the tornado sirens started.

Because I was raised during a time kids rode bikes without helmets and played on playgrounds with hard edges, I understood life held a certain amount of pain. And that was okay. It made the days you left the playground without skinned knees more of a success.

No blood or band-aids today! I'm getting the hang of this playing business.

But the pain I never could adjust to was watching my family attacked without cause. Being in ministry isn't a bunch of delivering casseroles and chatting with the elderly. Although, admittedly, that happens.

It's dealing with people in pain, people who cause pain, and, at times, entire groups who simply hate you for existing at all. I can't even count all the bite marks in my tongue from staying silent while grandpa, my uncles, or my dad sat patiently through accusations, attacks, lies, and verbal abuse from this angry person or that angry group.

The men in my family are why I know what real strength looks like: It's calm. It's generous. It's charitable. And it suffers in silence for the good of others. It's also very masculine, but that's a delicious blog for another day.

As a kid, I learned quickly that hurting people hurt people, angry people rage, and sometimes people hate you for no reason at all. Inside of them, something is broken. Or dark. Or dead. And no earthly power can right them.

I'm not going to say I took it all with stoic indifference, let alone grace. Personally, I wanted to punch these people in the nose, but that would have only gotten me grounded.

That didn't mean, however, I didn't reach my tolerance limit a few times.

"I hate them," a disgusted teen version of myself told my father one day. "They're just a bunch of freaking haters. And I'm sick of it. I really hate them."

Dad, because he's groovy like that, asked me a question that has served to cool my temper frequently over the years. "And how does that make you any different than them?"

Ah, man. I knew what was coming: a life lesson. And this life lesson was going to suck.

First, before he unloaded whatever weighty wisdom I would need to consider, I offered up my best argument: 1) they hated us first, 2) they need a taste of their own medicine, 3) I have good reason to hate them, while they hate us for no reason at all.

It didn't get me far.

"If you hate them," Dad countered, "then you're acting exactly like them. You're doing what you know is wrong. You've become no different than them. Is that what you want? To become like them?"

At the time, I didn't know the word to describe how I felt at that thought. Now I do; it's "repulsed."

He explained that it wasn't good enough to not repay hate with hate or act out my anger. This wasn't only about my actions, but my heart. God calls us to not hate, but He also calls us to take a giant leap further and love.

"But to you who are willing to listen, I say, love your enemies! Do good to those who hate you." Luke 6:27

Man, I just knew I was going to hate this lesson.

The idea of loving a hated enemy, of course, struck me as completely impossible. And, at times, it still does.

Because it is.

Loving our enemies isn't in us. We can't love like that on our own. God, however, can. And does. And shares that love with us, if we'll only ask. But that means we also give Him the right to seek the vengeance or not seek the vengeance we so badly desire.

Man, seriously unpleasant lesson.

The thing is, in life, we will often have good cause to hate. Society will often encourage us to do exactly that, in fact. And to seek revenge. Or to give as good as we got. What that same society won't tell you is that hate will destroy you, too. It'll hollow you out. It'll rip away your peace. It'll torment your mind. It'll sicken your body. It'll rob you of joy even on the lovely days, even in the celebratory moments, because hate has a thin, runny consistency and, once poured out, it gets on everything.

We can let it go. We can forgive and move on. We can release hate because Jesus, who wasn't only a man of incredible words, was a man of incomprehensible action. He didn't only instruct us to love our enemies, He showed us exactly how while hanging on a cross.

"Father, forgive them, for they don't know what they are doing."
Luke 23:34

My family and I watched "Woodlawn" this weekend, which ended up being incredibly coincidental. The movie is about a school in Alabama that overcomes racial division by stopping the finger pointing, stopping the rhetoric, stopping all the airing of grievances and weighing of victimhood and seeking of revenge and turning to Jesus.

These football players chose to stop the repetitive war - where no one was winning, anyway - and leave the past behind by coming together, asking Jesus into their lives, and letting Him change how they treated each other. By coming together, praying together, and letting go of all their anger, they were able to inspire their entire school, which inspired their community, which inspired other schools, which affected their entire town.

They found peace and unity in their community and they didn't need a single march, protest, or counter-protest to do it.

We really can have unity in our nation and here's the historic, tried and tested, formula to do just that. So the question shouldn't be how we end racial division, it's whether or not we're willing to do what will.

Yes. But He's alive.

A wise and noble friend of mine often says, "Life is hard, but it's also so much more than hard."

And I reply, "Yes, but it is hard."

And he replies, "But not only hard."

And I reply, "Yes, but..." You get the picture.

My side of the conversation is super easier to prove. In fact, at this very moment I can rattle off names of family, friends, acquaintances, and even plug myself in there, who are currently struggling financially, with serious health issues, mourning over lost loved ones and lost trust, battling with failure and those fuzzy feelings that go with it, facing self-doubt, helplessness, hopelessness, broken heartedness, and pain of various shapes, colors, degrees, and delights.

See? Hard. I win.

Rules and exceptions.

We know this, of course. The evidence is everywhere. After awhile, and simply to maintain sanity, we accept my argument without much push back. Why fight it? What's done is done. What will be will be.

Right on.

Things get glitchy at this point because, if you're a Christian, you can't leave it there. God won't leave it there either. Lately, His 'not leaving it there' is getting louder. At least in my head. I have this phrase that keeps making its rounds everytime I consider all the harshness of life. It goes something like this, "Yes. But He's alive."

Easy to remember; hard to forget. Also, incredibly repetitive, like when you get, "The Final Countdown" by Europe stuck in your head.

Life is hard! Yes. But He's alive.

The harshness is real! Yes. But He's alive.

The real is confirmed! Yes. But He's alive.

Death is as real as it gets.

Easter weekend is here and I keep thinking about the disciples and their reality. They walked with the Son of God on earth, saw the sick healed, lame walk, thousands fed, Pharisees publically humiliated.

Good times.

Things took a drastic turn nearly as soon as Jesus got off that donkey.

The miracle worker stopped working miracles. The good guys started losing. The man who raised others from the dead was now dead himself. What could they have been feeling as Jesus was tortured to death on that cross? Probably hopeless. Definitely fearful. Incredibly lost. Undeniably defeated.

This was their harsh reality. It was their grave medical diagnosis, their home foreclosure, their sick child, their ending marriage, their failed dream. Jesus didn't just appear dead, He took a final breath. Done, finished, finito.

What's done was done. What would be...was.

Yes. But.

Sunday was coming. Not all that far off, actually.

The disciples saw their Teacher and Savior buried in a tomb. But their reality didn't change God's eventuality. That tomb was already empty. Those burial clothes were already tossed aside. Even before reality said so.

The plan God had written from the beginning was already as good as done before it even started.

Taking the twelve disciples aside, Jesus said, "Listen, we're going up to Jerusalem, where all the predictions of the prophets concerning the Son of Man will come true. He will be handed over to the Romans and he will be mocked, treated shamefully, and spit upon. They will flog him with a whip and kill him, but on the third day he will rise."
Luke 18:31-33 

All these hardships we face are real. They aren't frivolous or minor or shrug-worthy. They're painful, excruciating at times, and overwhelmingly defeating. They're as real as real gets. So, yes. The harshness is true.

And, because of that, I think we often see the future as more of the same. Mourning that never ends. Heartache that never stops. Pain that never relents. It's hard to imagine anything different than the reality we're facing every day, over and over, without any signs of change or renewal or hope.

But He's alive. And, because of that one fact, everything can change. Everything. Even our reality.

You know what this means? It means I lost the argument.

Happy Easter, my friends. He's risen! 

Divide and conquer? Or unite and heal?

This was their answer.

This Season Matters

“Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn’t come from a store.” - Dr. Seuss

Originally posted at LightQuestMedia.com/blog

 

Now You See It

Copperfield made the Statue of Liberty disappear. Criss Angel levitated at will. And Penn ran an 18-wheeler over Teller without giving the little guy a single scar.
Their breathtaking talent is part fanciful, part unnerving. The “ah” leaves us gasping for an explanation. Why? Because we know an explanation exists. The greatest magicians of all time, the ones who can shock us even when we expect to be shocked, all have a card up their sleeve. Or a bird. Or a scarf.
It isn’t magic. It’s an illusion. David Copperfield didn’t remove the 225-ton Statue of Liberty. He hid it behind drapes while, simultaneously, moving his audience on a slow-rotating platform to change their view. Criss Angel freed a leg from an angle the audience couldn’t see in order to lift himself, seemingly, into the air. And that 18-wheeler? It was real. It was also counter-balanced with weights on the opposite side so Teller could lie under the wheels without the weight.
They are tricks. They are not magic.

 

Now You Don’t 

We learn Santa doesn’t exist about the same time a front tooth or two does its own disappearing act. That’s often the first moment our belief in the unexplainable begins fizzling out until it goes completely flat. If Santa isn’t real, if something that glorious doesn’t exist, maybe nothing fantastical exists at all.
Magic disappears like a palmed coin. The next time someone asks us to believe – in anything – we pause. And that pause is the beginning of a lifelong suspicion.
Once we reach our fully-grown selves, we’ve dismissed all fables, all fairy tales, and even many dreams. Life is life, we conclude. It has hard edges and dark days. It’s not a flight through fantasy land with Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. It’s a war with both feet on the ground. And we’re tasked with making the best of it.

 

Presto Chango 

That’s all true. Mostly. Life does have hard edges and dark days, heavy burdens and weighty decisions. We trudge. We stumble. We fall, too, and nothing but determination will get us back up again.
And there’s nothing magical about life. It’s just an illusion. It begins. It goes. It ends. We travel from birth to the grave knowing what you see is what you get.
Except for that pesky, magical story about God coming to Earth.

 

What Matters

The holiday season often means stress, crowds, too many social events, or too few, too much to buy, or not enough money for anything, disappointments and expectations, and time with family, which can be good, bad or a mixture of both. It can be a time when the curtain is drawn back and it’s just a little man with an amplifier and a smoke machine back there.
So why is the season important? Why bother celebrating at all? Shauna Niequist in Bittersweet said it best:

“This season matters. Christmas is a time when God’s presence is more palpable than any other time of year. It’s also a time when what we’ve lost is more present to us, when the pain or the loneliness or the fear are more present than any other time. It’s a glorious, beautiful time and also one in which the smallest kindnesses can transform us. It’s worth more than pushing and rushing and perfecting your decorations or your homemade cookies.”

It’s time, even in the small moments, to once again believe in magic. It’s a time when we seek out the positive stories among the tragedies, when we long to once more dream our dreams, when our childhood memories are strongest and we, one more time, remember what it felt like to be convinced of the immortal among us.
It’s fanciful. It’s fantastical. It’s the Word come to Earth in the flesh, and that was only the beginning of the ‘ah’ that followed Him.
Because of Jesus, Christmas means there are possibilities in the impossible and hope instead of hopelessness. He is why we can dream and wish and wait expectantly to be shocked, with no trickery or illusion attached. His story has no trap doors, no sleight of hand. He’s real. He’s stunning. If He wants to shock a studio audience, He doesn’t need a rotating platform.
Merry Christmas. May the season enchant you with mystery, and romance you with adventure.

It's Friday. But Sunday's Coming.

After watching this, my words fail. Only one response came to mind.

Then Job answered the LORD:
“I am unworthy—how can I reply to you?
I put my hand over my mouth.
I spoke once, but I have no answer—
twice, but I will say no more.”
Job 40:3-5

Would you like to dance?

When music is playing, you dance. Every time. No matter where you are. No matter what you are doing.

I remember thinking this as a toddler. No one told me that. My parents aren't even dancers. But this I simply knew in my heart. When there's music, it's time to celebrate.

My parents tell a story of a time when we were in a restaurant. I was about 18-months old. Who knew I had such notions in my head until someone put a quarter in the jukebox. That's when I stood in the seat and did what I thought everyone was suppose to be doing - a hip-swaying, arms pumping jig.

"You even did it to the beat," Mom says.

A woman came up to my parents, after seeing my impromptu talent show, and asked them, "How did you teach her to do that?" My mom responded, "We didn't."

And so the entertainment ensued. When we'd have company over, my parents would tell everyone to "watch this" before flipping on the radio. That's when I'd put down my toys, stand up, do my thing, and return to my dolls when the music ended.

Yeah. Hilarious. I guess. At least the adults thought so.

Life has a way of sucking the dance right out of you, it seems. When music is playing, I don't always feel a need to get my groove on anymore. Not that I don't. Just not always.

Anyone who grins 24/7 is doing it as a facial-muscle workout. Not from sheer bliss. Besides, smiling that much kind of hurts. And sometimes smiling just isn't going to happen. Not a real one, anyway.

That's life, I suppose. One part beautiful. Another part devastating. Instead of laughing one minute and crying the next, we tend to find an indifferent middle ground and live there.

Whether we always "feel" it or not, however, there really is always something to dance about. When music is playing. Every time. No matter where you are. No matter what you are doing.

That something is a Savior who gave us His life. Defeated death. And reclaimed His life again. All for us, all so that we can conquer death, as well.

A church in Houston, Texas thought this news was worth a jig.



The church was inspired by last year's Resurrection Sunday dance in Budapest, Hungry. Another dance is scheduled to happen worldwide this Sunday. To learn more, you can visit uptofaith.com.

Here's their debut.



Now if you'll excuse me, the music is playing and a Jewish man has claimed this next dance.

Quote Them: Anne Rice leaves Christianity in the name of Jesus Christ

"I quit being a Christian. I’m out. In the name of Christ, I refuse to be anti-gay. I refuse to be anti-feminist. I refuse to be anti-artificial birth control. I refuse to be anti-Democrat. I refuse to be anti-secular humanism. I refuse to be anti-science. I refuse to be anti-life. In the name of Christ, I quit Christianity and being Christian. Amen."

Anne Rice,
devout Godly woman rich and famous for writing gory vampire movies


PS. In 1994, I walked out of the theater and away from Brad Pitt's veiny, pale face in Interview with a Vampire. No vehicle of my own. No way to leave. I sat in the theater lobby with my brother and we stared at the water-stained walls until the movie ended and our rides emerged.

I couldn't stomach the blood, the death and dismemberment, the calous treatment of human life, or the horrific evil images. And as I sat there, ignoring the sound of screams coming from behind the door, I knew the woman who had written the book and eventually the screenplay, Anne Rice, had to be a woman of pure heart.

I'd fled the theater while Pitt drank dog blood and Tom Cruise snapped a woman's neck. That had been the moment I could feel those Christian principles of abhorring evil and clinging to goodness permeating from the screen and directly to my crawling skin.

Rice has been such an example of purity, the Christian community will no doubt suffer culturally from this loss. Who will write books that become movies, like Queen of the Damned, that represent the solid character and lifestyle of Jesus Christ's teachings now?

There will surely be a void of family-friendly entertainment.

If you need counseling, Jeremy D. Boering at BigHollywood is helping Christians work through their grief.

Leader of the Third Rock

photo courtesy of NASA

His words were a nice reminder.
Scratch that. Not nice. Necessary.

They were simple and concise, known and understood, but still existential. Perhaps even crucial to the next moment and the moment after. The words clung to my mouth, like drops of honeysuckle from the monstrosity of a bush that overtook my parent's backyard every bug-infested summer and chopping it down neither cleared the view nor lightened the spirit. That honeysuckle bush, with it's creamy buds tickling the senses and patient sweetness there for the taking, had to survive.

I hung up the phone and thought, "That's right. That's exactly right. I'm not defeated. What a filthy lie."

Optimism does nothing for me. When faced with a reality of death, destruction, mayhem or just a really, bad day, a dose of "the sun will come out tomorrow" ticks me off.
I don't care about tomorrow. I'm living the now...now. And peppy people get on my nerves. Optimism for optimism's sake is pathetic denial. There is no law of nature that requires the world to automatically right itself, the day to end like a sitcom, or the bad guys to actually get "it", whatever "it" is, in the end.
Justice isn't guaranteed, neither is goodness, rightness, or even the victory of truth. In the end, the innocent might die and the cheaters might win. And believing otherwise, for believing's sake, means you've watched too many movies.
Turn off the TV and look around. Life is ugly.

Last night I went to asleep with a simply prayer, "God help." It was more out of desperation or depression.
The last few weeks have been a Chinese water-torture of bad news, each drop expanding a cesspool of woe. Myself, along with family and friends, take variable turns losing jobs, losing money, losing health, all while our President apologies for our existence and publishes classified memos so our enemies feel safer.
The world hasn't gone mad. That happened ages ago. But now we've taken down the gates and invited the madman to afternoon tea.
Why fight for prosperity, for safety, for truth, even for hope, when defeat had already crossed the finish line and sat picking our future from between it's yellowed teeth?

Then, he spoke. And real change happened.

I was chasing down a story for one of my clients, seeking a source. He was a real possibility and so we talked. The article is about spiritual authority, the power of the Holy Spirit in our lives. And admittedly, I was hoping the article would inspire others with courage, not taking into consideration I was one of the "others."
Then he said something. I had heard it before. Lots, actually. And it wasn't any great revelation. He said, "When we pray, we are actually praying to Jesus Christ, asking Him to make intercession, to pray, essentially, for us."
Right, right. I nodded. Writing down his contact info, with the haze of the rainy day clinging to the window outside and my mood just beyond. Right. Got it. Knew that. Moving on.

But I didn't move on. It rested on my slumped shoulder, like a whisper growing in volume as the wind carried it further away. I'm talking to the Son of God.

Now, for those of us who are Christians, that's pretty basic stuff. Jesus 101. We pray, He hears. I learned that on the first day.
"We think it's about the routine of prayer," he went on. "But it's not. It isn't the words we speak. God is looking at our heart."
Right, right. Heard it all before. Nothing new to see hear everyone. Moving on.

Yet again, I didn't. I stopped. It was really just a pause, a hitch. I felt my mind hesitate, as if trying to decide between crossing the road or standing at the corner reading the street signs. I paused somewhere between the double yellow lines. We pray. Jesus acts. God hears. What a blissfully, marvelous concept.

Suddenly, my exhaustion didn't overwhelm, it didn't irritate, it didn't intimidate. I hadn't forgotten that God hears me. I had forgotten He does anything about it. For far too long, I think it's all up to me.

I have a savior complex. I do. It's got a nasally voice and short legs and whenever I have battles to win and mountains to move, it pulls a hamstring and pouts in the corner. The darn thing is absolutely useless and smells like Baby Power deodorant. And when it fails, I feel like a failure too. I can't right the wrongs. My family is still struggling financially. My friends are still going into surgery. And I'm still at a loss to finish the laundry. Success is a myth.

But what if it isn't up to me? What if I actually serve a God, THE GOD, mind you, who talked and Annapurna formed, who met death and laughed at it, who thought up the Bumblebee Bat, who would have more Twitter friends than Ashton Kutcher, who neither needs me nor requires my devotion but loves me anyway, who never checks opinion polls before acting, who shoulders the weight and criticism of the entire planet without a single slipped disc, who not only listens to my prayers, but acts on them? What if I served a God like that? Wouldn't that mean I could rest? Wouldn't that mean I could hope? Wouldn't that mean I could trust the future, whatever it was? Wouldn't I be the most powerful person in the world?

Wouldn't you?

the Word: Cultural Relativism

Ravi Zacharias talks about truth. This is the sun of my universe: truth. Every time I hear the word, I feel my pulse quicken. And I can't even explain to you the reaction, the reason, only that it appears as if truth is dissipating slowly, like warmth in the midst of a bitter Northern wind, and so I'm seeking the heat.

The video is only four minutes and worth the time. I don't know anything about the minister but he's got my attention. Here are a few quotes piquing my interest:

- "I am convinced whatever message God has for this generation, they are determined to change it and come up with the opposite."

- "Intent is prior to content. And the question is: Does this generation really want the truth?"

- "Political expediency stalks the landscape today. How in the name of reason can any sensible human being say, 'I personally believe it is wrong, but politically it is the right thing to do."

Several years ago, on an evening when the darkness seemed thicker, heavier than usual and the weight of it dripped from my hair and dragged down my shoulders, I made a request to God, as well as a promise to accept the culmination of that request.
Driving in my car, alone like I'd never felt and facing a trial of half-truths and misconceptions, I distinctly remember turning the corner toward my closet of a home in the middle of a dilapidated neighborhood where joy remained barricaded on the outside.
This was the end of a tiring day, the end of a tiresome journey, the end of a future so real I had already written the check and never expected it to bounce. I had been lied to so many times, so repetitively over many years and many subjects, I was chocking on the plastic content of it all.

So I asked God, "Tell me the truth. In everything. I want it. I only want the truth. I'm sick to death of lies, from anyone or anything. I want to know, 'What is truth?' And if truth turns my world completely upside down so that up is below and down is above, help me through it, give me truth, as much as I can stand."

I restate that request often, sometimes every week, sometimes every day. It isn't easy, but it's life. Truth, even if it makes me an outsider or unpopular or hated or mocked, I want it. And I have every intention of sharing.

the Word: will the real Hope please stand up

Not today.
I'm not going to say anything.
I'm letting the celebrities and pundits and talking heads slobber over every inch of this Inauguration day.

There are days to speak. Days to listen. Then, there are days to observe, quietly and with God as your only company. And...maybe a glass of wine. Or two.

Today there is hope. There truly is. And it has absolutely nothing to do with Washington D.C. or Oprah or a man some want to crown King.
But hope, real hope, is alive.
It was yesterday, the day before, eight years before, thousands of years earlier, and every moment from then until the end. Hope came with one man, who will never die. And there is where hope resides.

So tomorrow, definitely tomorrow, my comments and sarcasm and observations will return. But today, I think you need something more.

A friend sent me this:


Psalm 37


9 Before long the crooks will be bankrupt;God-investors will soon own the store.

11 Down-to-earth people will move in and take over,relishing a huge bonanza.

13 But God isn't losing any sleep; to him they're a joke with no punch line.

18 God keeps track of the decent folk;what they do won't soon be forgotten.

19 In hard times, they'll hold their heads high;when the shelves are bare, they'll be full.

21 Wicked borrows and never returns;Righteous gives and gives.
28 God loves this kind of thing,never turns away from his friends.
Live this way and you've got it made,
but bad eggs will be tossed out.

35 I saw Wicked bloated like a toad,croaking pretentious nonsense.

36 The next time I looked there was nothing—a punctured bladder, vapid and limp.

37 Keep your eye on the healthy soul,scrutinize the straight life;
There's a future
in strenuous wholeness.

40 God-strengthened, we're delivered from evil—when we run to him, he saves us.

the Word: Truish

"Truth is not just a what but a who."

Pastor Craig Groeschel
referring to John 14:6:

"Jesus answered, 'I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me."

This month, LiveChurch.TV is talking about truth, a word that makes my blood pump, not in a heart attack way.
I crave truth more than chocolate or companionship or even Vitamin C, which I'm very fond of.

The first sermon covers two of Satan's Greatest Weapons:

1. Relativism: assumption that there is no such thing as absolute truth.
2. Subjectivism: I, the subject, have the right to determine what is right and wrong without submitting my judgment to any authority outside myself.

I've been so excited about this series that I dreamed Saturday night I was too late to church and missed it.
Denied.
Except..all the sermons are also online so who the heck knows why I dreamed that. It was also the same night I dreamed about meeting Rush Limbaugh and buying a little bed and breakfast in Alaska from a nice, if not chatty, older couple.

Moving on...
The first sermon was, by no means, a disappointment. If interested, check it out here.

The Word: God's rights

My roommate listens to Joyce Meyer every day. She climbs into her car, plugs in a ministry CD, and listens to 20 minutes of encouragement all the way to work and 20 minutes all the way back.
Then she comes home and tells me about it.

I don't do that. I plug in to scripture during Sunday service, sporadically throughout the week, and when something crosses my path. And I have to say, IT ISN'T ENOUGH.

These days, I need it 24/7. If I could liquefy scripture, I'd be attached to an IV. With YouTube, I can skip the needle.

So as I find ministry shorts, I"ll be posting them. Let me just say this in advance, posting a video does not mean I support or endorse the minister. There are ministers I like, ministers I don't. And I won't get into that. The videos are MESSAGES I like. Nothing more.

Here's today's snack: Pastor Mark Driscoll from Mars Hill Church in Seattle. This is his "Ask Anything" service where those in attendance text questions and he answers them on the spot. And the questions are without limits. Awesome.

Uncle Royce

This week I went on a little adventure. I researched my uncle. Even though I've known him my whole life, even though he has been a staple in my life, and even though I knew his heart, I didn't know everything about him. I didn't know his childhood, for instance, his love of hunting, fishing, his meager years living through the Depression, his love of storytelling, and the way he played with his little dog Bubby Dean every night.
I didn't know any of those things.
When Aunt Shirley asked me to write his obituary, I went on a quest and found out the man I so highly respected and admired still had secrets - good secrets. It was a real joy to get to know him all over again, to learn he was everything I always knew and loved. But more.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is why I love people. Because in all of God's creations, they are His prized possession. And the more of them I know, really know, the more I feel the same.

So meet my Uncle Royce:

Royce Thompson loved working with wood. It was his hobby. One of them.
Oak was his favorite wood. It was sturdy and beautiful and infinitely strong. He would work delicately and precisely, smoothing his hand along the fine surface, working in companionship with the grain, using the strength of the wood as the backbone of his creation.

In life, Royce Thompson was that oak.

Born to Loyal and Opal Thompson on Feb. 16, 1931 in Henryetta, Royce was the first of six brothers. The oldest. He stood tall and straight and lived his life in the same manner.
“He was very well behaved,” said Harry Treagessor, a life-long friend. “To his parents, he was very loving. He wouldn’t disobey them at all. You couldn’t find anything wrong with him.”
Harry lived for a time with Royce and his parents, boys who grew up on the tale of the Depression. They lived together, hunted together, fished together, even purchased their shotguns on the same day.
“We’ve been good friends ever since,” said Harry, who said he and Royce spent a recent hour reminiscing about their youth.
Royce participated in the Diversified Occupation (DO) program at Henryetta High School, graduating in 1949. He eventually would be a successful and well-respected business man in the flooring industry. Through the DO program, he learned the accounting side while working for August Burzio and the technical side while working for his father’s company, Thompson’s Floor Coverings.
At the age of 19, Royce married his childhood sweetheart, Rosemary Blakeley, on December 23, 1950.
“He was the best person I ever knew in my life,” said Morris Palmer. He and his wife Lola were close lifelong friends with Royce and Rosemary.
Two years after marriage, Royce welcomed his son, Randy, who became a successful computer operator at American Airlines.
“We took trips everywhere,” said his only daughter RaJeana, born April 23, 1965. “We went to Hawaii, Maine, Massachusetts, and an across country trip from New York to L.A. It was just the four of us.”
Royce carved out a legacy in business, starting Royce’s Carpets and Draperies, a staple of the Okmulgee downtown for over 30 years. He had managed his father’s company until 1970, launching out on his own with a high-quality carpet business. He eventually closed his business to spend more time taking care of his aging father, who died in 2003, with his surviving brothers. He had lost a younger brother, Jimmy Thompson, at the age of 52 in 1992.

Royce had lost his wife on Dec. 19, 1989, two years after also losing his son. And for 15 years, he never remarried.
“We didn’t believe he would ever marry again,” said Glenn Thompson, his brother.
That, however, was before he met Shirley Hinds.
During a church camp held in Henryetta, Shirley walked into the kitchen and came face-to-face with her future husband. They were introduced by a friend.
“He told me, ‘I’ve got your (piano playing) tape in my car. I’m playing it,’” Shirley said, recalling their first conversation.
They fell in love and married a year later on November 20, 2004.
“He had such sincerity. You immediately felt this sense of being able to trust. He was so strong, so steady, so spiritual. He could make anything okay,” Shirley said.
They spent all their time together, working outside in the garden, playing with their dog Bubby Dean, and being with their family or friends or attending church events. And they loved working on projects together, singing and playing the piano together, and simply laughing together.
“He could absolutely crack me up. You knew when he was going to come up with something funny because he got that twinkle in his eye,” Shirley smiled in remembrance, loving Royce for the man he was. “I never felt so taken care of in my life.”

More than anything in his life, Royce loved reading the Bible. His passion in life was Jesus Christ.
He was baptized August 5, 1945 by Bro. Dave Crank and ordained as an elder in the mid-70s for The General Assembly and Church of the Firstborn. He served the congregation faithfully and loved, above all, serving his Savior.

Royce passed away on Dec. 22, 2008 in Henryetta, leaving behind a family who greatly loves him, including:
his wife, Shirley of the home
his daughter and son-in-law, RaJeana and Robert Dobbs of Hobbs, New Mexico
four brothers, Harold Thompson of Henryetta; Glenn Thompson of Henryetta; Gary Giles of Indianapolis, IN; and Keith Thompson of Henryetta.
one sister, Sharon Wilkinson of Okmulgee
two step-daughters, Angela Hines of Tuttle, Oklahoma and Kimberly McCollom of Edmond, Oklahoma
three grandchildren
two step granddaughters
one step great grandson
and several nieces and nephews and other relatives.

The Knight, and a Man
By Randy Thompson
Jan. 22, 1971
(an excerpt from Uncle Royce's son's High School writing project)

“First, to be a knight, a man has to be worthy, proving that he can withstand punish and has enduring faith. This man I know is all of this and more. He has endured persecution and has been proven to be worthy above a shadow of a doubt.
“The knight has to be loyal to his kind or god the very same way this man does. A knight has to take an oath before being crowned knighthood so as to be loyal to his kind and guardian to his people. Also, he has to be meek with compassion. Again, this man, in comparison to the knight’s duty, is very much in the same manner. Instead of a king, there is Jesus, a king and a ruler in whom this man serves. He is meek with compassion and overflows, and best of all, this man is my father.”