Above, Lawrence and Franny, 1930s. Below, Franny, Lawrence and son Jack in about1945.

Franny, Lawrence, Jack, Marilyn and Janice.

Lawrence

By Janice Keillor Wright, daughter

Lawrence Powell Keillor, born October 11, 1915, the sixth of eight children, may have had much of his mother’s disposition — timid always, humming or whistling as he worked, not easily provoked but decidedly opinionated and unwilling to compromise his convictions. And he loved his mother dearly.

As an example of his timidity, there is a story of him being sent by Aunt Becky to the workers in the hayfield with lemonade and cookies. When he peered through the tall corn stalks and saw his father and many others, he was overcome with shyness and put the cookies and lemonade down by the corn stalks and dashed for home. No one ever knew of Aunt Becky’s thoughtfulness, but he did not sleep well that night.

For much of my life, I believed my dad was the third wisest man ever born. In fact, I knew he was because my mother told me he was. If someone had a concern about finances, business, a spiritual question or a personal relationship, he always had time to listen. One of his grandchildren said, “He was someone who was solid, immovable in his faith in the Lord; someone who could, without reservation, be looked to for guidance not just in what he said, but in the way he lived.” Wise but truly humble and I adored him.

He was a tender-hearted man and emotional. Aunt Bessie tells a story of receiving a new doll from Aunt Ruth, and upon receiving their beautiful new doll, the old rag doll was cast aside. “Lawrence, the good-hearted” couldn’t stand to see the old doll getting such treatment so he took it to bed with him. And so he was. In trying to read a sad story he would break down and someone else would have to finish. And yet somehow he always sang us songs such as, “My Little Gray Kitty,” or “The Babes in the Woods,” or the old WCTU song, “Oh Daddy, Dear Daddy Come Home to Us Now.” He became very gentle and sympathetic if we were even the slightest bit sick and would happily stop on his way home for ice cream and/or pop. I recall being cuddled on his lap at those times.

L.P. was a true gentleman. Never did an even-slightly off-color joke pass through his lips. Or a bad word when he was angry (and he did get angry). In fact, not even “darn it;” however, “horsefeathers” was heard when he hit his thumb with the hammer or some similar crisis. He did love a good joke and could readily laugh at himself. I loved so much to watch him laugh at cartoons that, when I was quite little, I cut cartoons out of magazines and pasted them in a scrapbook for him as a Christmas gift. Then I sat back and watched and waited for him to laugh at them.

He kind of missed the point on reading good literature. He said, “If it’s not true, why would you want to read it?” His reading, which occupied hours in the dark winter evenings, consisted of his Bible and Bible commentaries. By the age of 17 he had read every book his father owned, most certainly Bible commentaries. Bill Loucks quoted his father, James, as saying, “My son Lawrence will be of more help in the meetings than any of my boys.” Cousin Betty’s quote, “Your father applied scripture to life in a way that I rarely heard in meetings, where much of the teaching seemed so theoretical.” He seemed to love teaching the young people even with all their debating and questions and doubting.

My mother was his deeply treasured sweetheart and he was hers. I don’t think he ever left for work or came home without finding her in the kitchen for a kiss, always using pet names and singing old love songs, “Silver Threads Among the Gold,” or “Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms.” How he loved bringing her roses — or broccoli, for that matter — from his garden!

And his garden was his haven — his place of refuge after a day of challenges at the bank. I don’t think it took him five minutes to get out of his sharply pressed suit and into a pair of jeans or, preferably, bibs. He had to try any new seed or fruit tree that was promoted in his new seed catalogs and he nurtured and cared for them and probably even sang to them. (However, most of these new “improvements” were not a great success in Anoka Country’s sand.) He loved having produce for extended family and friends.

When I was given the honor of being homecoming attendant at school and called my mother to tell her, she did not think it was appropriate for a Christian and she said, “Now what are we going to do!” But my father was secretly proud of me and that touched me. He was out there on the curb with all his co-bankers watching the parade.

Tom received a promotion with Firestone and we had to leave Minnesota for Ohio. I excitedly called my dad to tell him and his response was, “Why would you want to do that?” I replied, “Dad, it’s a promotion!” which to him was a poor excuse and we had our priorities mixed up, but he carefully didn’t say so.

He never really talked about his father, although I always wished he would. I think perhaps the subject was too emotional to talk about, but somehow I got the impression that Grandpa Keillor was a wonderful, godly man and I could not wait to meet him in Heaven. Still can’t.

He and his brother, John, were always the dearest of friends even when their lives were shattered by the breakup of their two assemblies. He was always “Johnny.” “I must call Johnny,” he would say, and they would chat for long periods of time. I believe that was the only person with whom he spent a lot of time on the phone. I imagine they were best buds growing up and tried hard to keep that relationship.

My mother’s words sum up the life of this fourth son of James Crandall and Dora Powell Keillor, “The warmth, the love, the generosity of this man of God is surely unsurpassed in the world today. Much of his character must be attributed to his love for his Lord and his steadfast desire to live in obedience to God’s Word. What a marvelous influence he has had on the lives of those around him.”