A few weeks ago my friend Rod Olps passed away. This has been pretty emotional for me. Rod had a ministry of fatherhood to men like me - filling a gap that our own fathers left. He essentially made himself available at all hours to jump on a phone call and talk through a difficult decision. He helped me navigate several big career changes over the past ~15 years and has talked me off the cliff on a number of occasions when I was thinking about doing something crazy.  Mostly, he was just an encouragement.  He cheered me on when he knew I needed it (or was led by the Spirit to do so.). He frequently texted just to let me know I was on his mind and that he was praying for me. 

It's hard to even imagine where I would be today and what I would be doing if it hadn't been for Rod.  He helped me discover an interest/gift in Product Marketing/Management and lobbied for my employer, EMSI, to make me their first ever Product Manager - a move that ended up working out very well.  When I quit that job 2 years later, he came alongside me to help me navigate my efforts to start my own business’s.  He was always eager to get guys in Moscow to "leave the nest" and go build in other communities.  When we decided to move to North Carolina, he reminded me that "man plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps."  When I said we'd be stopping in Huntsville, he was quick to suggest that it was possible the Lord wanted us to stay. He then introduced me to a pastor he'd befriended and counseled as a seminarian at RTS Jackson, MS, Stewart Jordan.  Not long after we got settled in HSV & at Redeemer, Rod stopped through and agreed to speak to a group of ~40 men that I gathered from work, PCS, and Redeemer on "the Seasons of a Man's Life" - a talk that I've been fortunate enough to hear & share many times.  The group that attended that talk became the initial Beer & Hymns mailing list.  This was one of several stops that Rod made in HSV when he was traveling to the South - every time he came, he'd have dinner in our home and leave us strengthened and encouraged.  He also always asked me to send him any men locally that I thought he could help.  He met with dozens of HSV men over the years.

A few years later, the church plant in Lewiston, ID where Rod, his son, and son-in-law served as elders stole an Alabama pastor that Bethany and I had prayed many times for the Lord to bring from Birmingham to Huntsville to help our dying church. Of course, God had a plan and ultimately our prayers were answered in a much more powerful way than we ever could have imagined when Matt Carpenter returned to Athens, AL right as we were trying to get TRC going - only now Matt & I shared a common friend/advisor/mentor, Rod Olps - and Matt had a more mature/experienced perspective on church planting.  (Whenever I spoke with Rod these last several years, he'd ask me to tell his pastor "hi" for him - he never stopped viewing Matt as his pastor).  

Rod was on mission his entire life.  He was always ready to go wherever God wanted him to go next. When I told him how he could pray for me by praying God would open either door #1 or door #2, he corrected me: "Larson, that's not how Christians are to pray.  We are to pray like a soldier reporting for duty: 'Where do you want me next, Lord?'"  Which Bethany and I started doing.  This led to quitting a good job where I was having a lot of success, selling our home in a lovely community where we had a great church and school, moving to a completely unknown community w/out a job or church lined up, and then praying that God would either give us a good church or relocate us. 

Last week in Moscow I told Rod's family that I believe his impact will be greater after his death than it was during his life because of all of the men, like me, who will labor to carry on his work in one form or another for the rest of our lives. 

I'm devastated by the loss of a father figure, but I'm also inspired by his example and motivated by his death to get to work.  Rod was blessed with a good death.  He had said he wanted to "die in harness" and God granted him that desire by taking him in the midst of a counseling session with a young Campus Crusade couple.  

Rod's Obituary (written by Rusty): https://obits.nola.com/us/obituaries/nola/name/roderick-olps-obituary?id=55286912

I know you've already invested some time in reading this eulogy, but, for your benefit, I encourage you to take a few more minutes to read the tribute that Rod's oldest son, Rusty, wrote for him.  It was read at the funeral.  I've read and wept over this tribute many times over the last week. It's inspiring.  I pray that one of my children will be able to sincerely write something like this when I die.  

On the Occasion of My Father’s Passing

AD 2024, June 10th

Rusty Olps

We had a porch swing on Massachusettes St., in Covington, Louisiana. And I can recall, when I was only 3 or 4, Dad swinging with me there before bedtime. He hummed to me, the deep resonance joining the chorus of cicadas and frogs. With my head against his chest I could feel the tune of Amazing Grace. I didn’t know the words, but I received the truth into my bones that I was loved by a good father.

God’s grace to me landed often through the conduit of my father. He was infinitely patient. He was affirming and bolstering. I deeply respected him, and I never doubted his love. I wanted to be like him. He took me fishing and went to my ballgames. He modeled the life of a Christian gentleman. All I ever wanted was to have a life like his- a lover of God, a shepherd of the flock, a husband to a godly, intelligent, and beautiful wife, a father of adoring and godly children, to be a good provider, a productive businessman, a gentle patriarch, and a friend of God.

A week ago I watched in shock as the EMTs worked to save him, and a flood of images and textures flooded my mind. On Saturdays he wore rough pique woven cotton polos in bright colors. It was magical to be enveloped in his broad, strong body- a blanket of sunwarmed stiff fabric and fatherly approval. Those polo hugs were a foretaste of the Heavenly’s Father’s affection for me, who’s affection I’ve never doubted, and I think my Dad gets credit for that.

I remember the crystal waters of Gulf Shores erupting with bluefish feeding right off the beach. He taught me how to set the hook, to keep the rod tip high, and to pace with the fish, walking across the cool sand of the beach, my feet tickled by a frothy surf, my little boy’s heart bursting with excitement.

I remember yardwork, in which I was in the yard, and Dad was doing work. We had big green plastic cups, the yardwork cups, that were so important for working in the Louisiana humidity. We conquered a lot of jungle together on our little piece of heaven on the Bogue Falaya River. I can hear the buzzing insects and feel the oppressive heat like it was yesterday.

I can see a billow of smoke arising from his very cheap gas grill. I learned from my father how to grill. His grilling philosophy was “what a good charr won’t fix, processed cheese will.” A similar philosophy governed breakfast on Saturdays where essential proteins like Velveeta were generously applied. He bought us Buttercrisp doughnuts.

He loved going out for breakfast dates, where he would express keen interest in my struggles, and he was always ready to pounce on anything deserving the slightest bit of affirmation and approval.

I can see my Father’s worn out Bible on his desk. I knew it was sacred. It was living. And it was life for him. There’s a yellow legal pad nearby and a green pen or a mechanical pencil to convey his signature penmanship- the neatest, squarest, all caps print I’ve ever seen. Every morning he was with God, meeting with him like Moses, talking with him, as a friend, searching out his will, and experiencing God like a saint of old.

His big, warm hands gave a smooth handshake- not firm or energetic, but welcoming, stable, soft and strong. He was always on splinter duty, and he was a deft surgeon. I never saw his dexterous hands shake, not even when he was speaking publicly, which he despised. On those rare occasions where he was forced in front of a crowd he conveyed tremendous wisdom, articulation, and personalism, always leaving his audience moved and inspired.

On his left hand was a gold wedding band inscribed with the reference “Ecclesiastes 9:9.” God says: “Enjoy life with the wife whom you love all the days of your futile life which He has given you under the sun, all the days of your futility; for this is your reward in life and in your work which you have labored under the sun.”

Mom was certainly his reward in this life. And he treated her that way. He was jealous for her time and attention. She was a treasure to him. He delighted in Mom. He was amused by her. He basked in her radiant, exuberant, joy. He consumed her like nourishing food and fine wine. She was his chief support, a ballast, a sounding board, and a constant reminder of God’s love for him. His marriage was such that I greatly and fearlessly looked forward to my own marriage.

Marriage, in my mind, was the sweetest, most profound, and most meaningful relationship this side of heaven. His humble and teachable composure with Mom was instrumental to fostering such intimacy and depth. She preached to him day in and day out of grace and his worthiness before the Father. She also preached to him of his worthiness to her, her approval, her respect, and her trust. If God the Father was for him, what did he have to lose by exercising again and again his trademark vulnerability and meekness? This, of all his qualities, was paramount.

I can see his tear-strewn face as he looked up at me from his knees while washing my feet. I was 19, and we were on a much relished beach vacation. On these vacations he would slowly decompress- the fruit of which was often some reset, some resolution to live in a more godly way. On this vacation, He confessed, to each of us, his failures as a father, which were absolutely negligible in our minds, but I’ll never forget the power of his contrition. We saw Jesus in Him. And it was that event that softened the hard soil of my own soul.

I remember the grove of pitcher plants in the woods by the river where I found myself kneeling in repentance after wandering wayward. Dad had firmly but gently, with my mother by his side, turned me back. I wanted to resist. I wanted to pretend everything was ok, but he was a meek man- strong and humble at the same time, which makes for fertile ground in a child’s soul. I grew and thrived in that fertile earth of stalwart, unmoving morality and approachable, vulnerable humility. These attributes marked our relationship throughout my childhood and throughout my adult life.

On a busy morning at work, I see emails from Dad with attachments. I confess that I groaned when he sent me large sections of commentary on the Bible from his morning study. I felt duty-bound to read the sideways pdfs that would have highlighting and underlining too. Some ancient had inspired him, probably Spurgeon or Watts. I read these, sometimes too quickly, and I offered perfunctory thanks. I was used to it. I took it for granted then, but I would give anything to have one arrive in my inbox today.

I see him at his whiteboard drawing out the seasons of a man’s life. A signature talk that was one of many tools in his belt to help men through crisis. These countless men in crisis never stole from his endless attention for me. Which was a good thing since my crises were quarterly! He offered clear perspective, wisdom, prayers, and dogged, undeserving approval. He launched me into real estate with a very uncomfortable investment. It was a stressful risk for him, but I couldn’t have done it without him. His broad shoulders carried much of my stress as well as the stress of others.

When I look at other men, if I am so bold to conclude that I have any advantage over them, or if I’m providing some spiritual resource for another, I look quickly away from myself and credit only God the Father- mostly through Rod Olps, my Dad. He loved me well. He made me secure. He made it easy to believe in a loving, sacrificial and good Heavenly Father.

Christian, hear this charge: it is never too late to start over. It is never too late to repent, restart, commit, take responsibility, admit your frailties, wash the feet of those you love, and rededicate your life to the way of the cross.

Four hours before he died he burst into my office for the last time, a fast walker till the end, to talk about what he should do if the Lord gave him another 5-10 years. I was used to this, the awkwardness worn off from repetition. He started doing it around 60. “If the Lord gives me 20 more years,” he would say, “I want to make sure I use it doing the right things. I want to finish strong. Retirement is unbiblical.” As years passed the projection of years diminished, “If the Lord gives me 15 more years,” then 10, then on Monday, for the first time he mentioned just 5. Dad wouldn’t see five more hours, but in that space he talked intimately with me, his characteristic vulnerability and wisdom on display. He needed to know how his next five years would be marked, and he wasn’t going to smalltalk. I told him to keep shepherding people, especially those in crisis. God had given him a new charge of navigating death with relatives. It was a cross he bore willingly. His wisdom and grace, his ready scriptures, and words of encouragement were greatly valued and will be greatly missed. I told him to get his wisdom recorded, which, providentially, had largely been accomplished in writing and in video. After our talk, he said, “Well, that’s all I needed.” He left me and prepped for his meeting with a Campus Crusade staff couple and then started counseling them and preparing for their Birkman until he collapsed, mid-sentence, as he encouraged, listened, analyzed, and loved.

My final image will be his pale face in the hospital room in Coeur d’Alene. The nurse pulled tubes and machines, closed the curtains, and dimmed the lights. As his last breaths were spent, with Mom and his kids surrounding him, I was compelled to sing “Amazing Grace” as I stroked the white hair of his weary, wise head. I could not muster words, but it didn’t matter since it’s a tune that takes to humming. So, we hummed that sweet tune, like he once hummed it to me, and I contemplated and mourned and expressed my gratitude to God for the amazing grace that it was to have belonged to Rod Olps.