I grew up in a small town, the only boy in a family of three
children, a family blessed with two girls—my younger sisters. When I married, I
was absorbed into a large family of eight siblings, one deceased child, and six
step-children. I married into the younger half of the family, which meant I
related most easily to the two youngest boys who became like brothers to me. I
became better acquainted with the older children and their families at a slower
pace.
I never ventured more than sixty miles from home until I was
sixteen years old and rode the bus to Anderson, IN., 180 miles south. My
in-laws lived in the country, fourteen miles out of town, near a Pecan bottom
adjacent to the Deep Fork. I had never seen such red-clay mud-holes as I drove
through the first time I visited Welty, OK. It still had a Post Office and a
General Store along with a few houses. Yet, I joined a post-WWII global family
that was already spread into trendy places like San Antonio, TX, and as far
away as Stockholm, Sweden.
The one time I ever hunted squirrels was a late forties trip
into Oklahoma. My two younger brothers (in law), probably two and four years
younger than me, took their Yankee inheritance over into the Bottom on Deep
Fork for that hunt. As luck would have it, we turned up one squirrel that day. They, being polite southern gentlemen, let me take the first shot--something
I'd never done. I carefully followed their instructions, aimed the shotgun
straight up through the bottom of the nest, and slowly pulled the trigger.
The net result of our hunt was one squirrel, which they
faithfully cleaned and then generously insisted that I eat my kill, which
Mother Stiles tastily prepared. My only memory of that meal is sorting out the
buckshot as I ate that poor innocent squirrel. That was probably sixty-seven
years ago and in the early hours of this morning the younger of those two boys
took his celestial journey into the Everlasting, following his older brother Ben who passed several years ago after a massive coronary.
If our faith is anywhere near right, I can assume Mose was
graciously welcomed by the mother who prayed for her children every day of
their lives into her eighty-ninth year. In the early hours of this morning,
retired pastor Maurice Warren Stiles bid adieu to a world he no longer enjoyed,
following the loss of his beloved “Erm.”
Finding that his six-foot
five and a half inch frame was driven by a none-too-dependable
motor, “Mose” gave himself to libertine
living until the prayers of his mother, his sister, and “Erm” resulted in his coming to
Christ. His conversion was an instantaneous transformation and before long his
heart turned toward ministry. It was not long before he started preaching at
the country church where he had grown up with his family, before his military
fling.
We drove in frequently from Mississippi and Texas in those years, taking care of Granny, and we finally buried Doc. We were
pastoring in Fort Worth, Texas when called
to Paul’s Valley, OK and my wife spent the better part of a week
assisting the hospital staff with her stubborn brother who insisted on
wise-cracking with the doctor, sending him word that he was sitting on the side
of his bed eating “parched peanuts.”
He survived that initial crisis, and ignoring his
vulnerability, Mose continued to serve in Paul’s Valley several more years before
accepting a demanding call to Moore, OK, on the fringes of the city. There, he
eventually became the anonymous prayer partner of MACU President John Conley, after John
relocated that Bible College to OK City.
In Moore, Mose led the charge for a fast-growing congregation
while leading a intensive building program. By the time he retired from that
pulpit, the Moore church was one of our larger churches in OK, until internal
stresses developed with a later successor.
Giving unstintingly, Mose gave many additional years to
Oklahoma Church of God Ministries, as well as being a popular Chaplain for the
OK State Hiway Patrol, and a member of the Moore Police Department. His police work deeply involved him in the OK
City bombing and gave him some unique experiences mostly unknown outside of family members, and remain without being repeated. When he could no longer
serve, he quietly occupied a pew at Shartel Church of God in OK City, where he
and mutual friend Jim Curtis became the life of their Sunday school class.
That was how it was when last I visited with him at Shartel
in December 2005, when a business trip required my presence. He lost “Erm” after that, which proved to be the
extinguishing of that spark by which everyone remembered him. He spent his
remaining years quietly awaiting his reunion with his beloved “Erm.”
Mose was a common man’s man although he grew up the son of a
Medical Doctor. He made thoughtful sense with the brightest minds in church and
out of church. He feared no man, made friends with anyone appreciating a little humor. He read people like I read books and it was a gift that served
him well throughout his decades of ministry.People found him someone they
could trust with the innermost secrets of their souls.
Mose is the second brother in law I have lost this year and I thank God for their Godly influences, hopeful that I can leave a light as bright as theirs. “Brother
Mo” as some called him, left in his wake a life of service that needs no
apology. He touched people transformationally,
leaving people better and richer for crossing paths with him. His
departure leaves a multitude of church friends and none-churched friends, former
parishioners, older sisters Awana--who will soon follow, and my bride of
sixty-seven years. Others include his two children, with the Lee/Stiles grandsons who will carry in their hearts a picture of the man they knew as a man of The Book
.
Warner’s World at walkingwithwarner.blogspot,com
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