Have you been to Hobby Lobby?

A lot of people come to our stores, especially around the holidays, for arts and crafts supplies, home accents and more.

Our shelves are filled with picture frames, fabric, glue, beads, glitter, clay, ribbon, baskets, candle rings, table runners, wreaths…everything you might need to decorate your house and make gifts for Christmas.

We have more than 430 stores in 35 states, and I’m often asked how the company got started. The quick answer? With a six-hundred-dollar loan and a 300-square-foot retail space.

For the real story, though, I’ve got to go back to the five-and-dime in Altus, Oklahoma, where I found a job–and something more–my junior year of high school.

Altus was a small town when my family moved there in my early teens. There was an Air Force base, a hospital, a post office, a dusty courthouse square with a few stores and churches–including the one my dad pastored.

We lived in a tiny two-bedroom house. My parents got one bedroom, my three sisters got the other and my brothers and I slept on rollaway beds in the kitchen.

To get to the bathroom, we had to walk through Mom and Dad’s room, and it was pretty common to see them kneeling by the bed praying–for an ailing church elder, for a neighbor family struggling to make ends meet. Maybe for our own family, because we were struggling too.

The congregation, all 35 members, did their best to help. They held “poundings,” bringing five-pound bags of flour or sugar or potatoes to worship, anything they could spare to feed our family. Still, there were plenty of times our cupboards were bare.

If company was coming, we would stock the fridge with “leftovers”–we’d put tinfoil over empty cans or plates on top of empty bowls, as if they were full. Folks had enough worries. No need to make them worry about the preacher’s family.

“We’re not poor,” Mom declared. “You’re never poor when you have something to give.” She crocheted doilies and made fried pies and sold them to raise money for missions.

We kids were expected to work too. In the summers we picked cotton. As soon as the girls were old enough, they waited tables or worked in the donut shop.

“Someday I’ll get a job and bring something home for you,” I promised Mom. A new dining room set, I thought, or a sofa that didn’t have stuffing coming out of it.

“Just look for what you can do for the Lord,” she said. The problem was, I didn’t know if there was anything I could do for the Lord.

I couldn’t be a preacher or a missionary or a teacher. Unlike my brother, who was a gifted speaker, I could barely say a word in front of people. I got tongue-tied just giving a book report in English class.

My siblings all got excellent grades and were destined for Bible college. Me, I tried hard, but I wasn’t much of a student. I had to repeat seventh grade. Things didn’t get any easier in high school.

By junior year, I was just looking to sign up for classes where I wouldn’t have to speak. Math was a safe choice; I was pretty good with numbers. Then I noticed something called Distributive Education. “What’s that?” I asked a teacher.

“D.E. is a program that allows students to work for one of the businesses in town. You earn class credit and get paid too.”

Our family could use the extra money. “What kind of job would I get?” I asked.

“Sweeping up or putting away boxes,” he said.

That sounded a lot better than picking cotton. “Sign me up,” I said.

Back then in 1960, the courthouse square was the center of town. My teacher sent me there to McLellan’s five-and-dime. The first thing I noticed when I walked in was the smell of fresh popcorn. It was inviting, almost like someone saying, “Come in and stay a while.”

The next thing I saw was how neat and clean everything was. Not a speck of dust on the counters and wood floors. Altus was in the middle of cotton fields and cattle ranches. In those pre-air-conditioning days it took a lot of dusting and sweeping to keep things spotless.

A short, wiry gray-haired man in a bow tie came up to me. “I understand you’re the young man who’s going to help us out here,” he said. “I’m T. Texas Tyler.” Then he handed me a yarn mop. “You can start with the floors.”

I went over every inch of those wood floors and got to see how well laid out the place was. Candy counter and toiletries in front, sheets and towels further back, pots and pans to the right, hardware supplies to the left.

I lingered in the toy department, admiring the board games and model airplanes on the shelves.

You could buy anything at McLellan’s, and Mr. Tyler made sure you could find just what you were looking for. It made me think of a Bible verse my dad liked to use in his sermons, “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.”

Maybe I was no good at schoolwork, but I would give this job my all.

Mr. Tyler was an excellent teacher, and his subject was retailing. He was constantly finding something new for me to do. He sent me to the stockroom where I took boxes off the conveyor belt and put price stickers on the merchandise. Another time he had me reorganize the shelves.

“There’s a place for everything, son,” he said, “and your job is to make sure everything’s in its place.” I knew what he meant. At home I had only one drawer for all my things.

One day Mr. Tyler asked me to roast a huge supply of nuts. He had separate sacks of peanuts, hazelnuts, cashews and walnuts that needed to be salted and roasted together. “Why don’t we just sell them like they are?” I asked.

“Think of our customers,” he said. One of our biggest was the Officers Club at the Air Force base outside of town. “When the Officers Club has a party, they want the nuts roasted and mixed already, and they’re willing to pay for that convenience.”

Think of the customers. That sounded just like what my parents instilled in me about serving others, putting their needs first.

No task was too lowly for Mr. Tyler. One day, he asked me to clean the toilets. I dumped some cleanser in, swirled the brush around and called it a day. Mr. Tyler called me back, pointing out how much grime I’d missed. He got down on his knees and scrubbed the toilets till they sparkled.

It was a brilliant example of what my dad called servant leadership–no job, however humble, is beneath the boss. To lead well you need to serve.

I had my share of successes and blunders too. Like the Easter display of chocolate bunnies for our front windows. It looked great when I set it up in the evening, but the next day in the hot sun, the bunnies melted into a pool of chocolate.

“We all make mistakes,” Mr. Tyler said. “The important thing is to learn from them.”

By senior year I was putting in almost 40 hours a week at McLellan’s. I added to Mom’s fund for mission projects. I was able to buy her a dining room set, a new sofa and a refrigerator. More important, I discovered what I could do for the Lord–work at the calling he had given me with all my might.

Really, I founded Hobby Lobby on those principles I learned at McLellan’s five-and-dime: Always think of the customer. Put people first. Don’t get stuck behind a desk (Mr. Tyler didn’t). And find a way to do what you do for the Lord.

One way we do that at Hobby Lobby is by closing our stores on Sundays. Weekends are big in retailing, and I’m told we lose millions of dollars because of this, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.

Our employees are able to spend Sundays at home and at worship with their families, and that’s more important to me.

I know Mom and Dad would be pleased. So would Mr. Tyler. What they taught me has become the Hobby Lobby way.

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Bulging red rubber tubs of decorations were scattered around the living room of my log cabin as I prepared for the holidays: Christmas lights and ornaments for the tree, red and green candles for the windows, holly for the fireplace.

I’d wrestled the tree into its stand. Now I needed a quilt to spread around the bottom for a skirt.

I went to the linen cupboard. One quilt immediately caught my eye: a hand-stitched antique. Do I really want to put this on display? I thought as I pulled it out. The one she gave me?

“She” was Mrs. Messner, my ex-husband’s mother. In 25 years of marriage I never got comfortable enough with her to use her first name. Our relationship was always tense, but then she did something I could never forgive her for.

Just looking at the quilt—hand-stitched by Mrs. Messner’s mother—made me furious all over again.

Twenty years ago I was scheduled for a medical procedure that would take me away from home, and my husband was coming with me. That meant we needed a babysitter for our beloved dog, Muffin. “I’ve got a fenced-in yard where she can play,” Mrs. Messner offered.

“You’re sure you’ll keep a close eye on her?” I asked.

“I promise,” she said.

She promised, I thought angrily, shaking out the quilt. For all that was worth. Two days after we dropped Muffin off, Mrs. Messner called to report that our dog had gone missing. Apparently she hadn’t been at Mrs. Messner’s an hour before she slipped out of the yard and ran away.

She wasn’t even wearing her collar because I’d neglected to put it back on after giving her a bath. Of all the terrible times for Muffin to have been without her collar!

I searched the neighborhood, going door-to-door with pictures of Muffin. Mrs. Messner had put signs up: LOST DOG $5 REWARD. Five dollars! That was all Muffin was worth to her. It infuriated me all these years later.

Weeks went by with no sign of Muffin, and I had to accept the fact that she was never coming back. “Could you tell me what happened that day?” I asked Mrs. Messner. “What was she doing when you last saw her? Do you have any idea how she got out of the yard? Did you forget to latch the gate?”

“Quit upsetting everybody about that dog, Roberta,” she snapped. “You’ve got me so worked up I’m getting hives. Just go out and get yourself another dog.” I was stunned. Speechless. Another dog? That was her solution? How could that woman be so cruel?

Muffin didn’t mean anything to her, and she didn’t care what Muffin meant to me. I got down on my knees and yanked the quilt around the tree.

Mrs. Messner’s quilt was the perfect accent, but I couldn’t appreciate it anymore. All I could think about when I looked at it was my 20-year-old grudge. I didn’t need that at Christmas.

As I folded the quilt back up, a new thought popped into my head. More like a command, really: Give the quilt back to Mrs. Messner.

Where had such a crazy idea come from? I would have laughed if I wasn’t so angry. Why should I give Mrs. Messner anything? I stuck the quilt back in the linen cupboard and chose another for the tree skirt.

The quilt’s a family heirloom. Surely she’d like to have it back. I couldn’t quiet the voice in my head no matter what I did. Since Mrs. Messner’s mother had died, I supposed it made the quilt all the more special to those who loved her. But giving it back would mean having to speak to Mrs. Messner.

I tried to imagine calling her. What would I say? I stared at the phone.

Wish her a blessed Christmas. The voice was hard to abide. So now I was not only supposed to do something nice, but say something nice too? That was too much. I vacuumed stray needles around the bottom of the tree. I finished decorating and put away the empty tubs. Thoughts of Mrs. Messner nagged at me.

I went back to the cupboard and took her quilt out again. The Christmas lights illuminated the careful stitching, a perfect 12 to every inch. A lot of love went into this quilt, I thought.

When Muffin disappeared, what hurt the most was thinking Mrs. Messner didn’t care how much Muffin meant to me. Was I doing the same thing with this quilt? It was made with a love Mrs. Messner could appreciate far more than I could. And it was Christmas, after all.

I picked up the phone and dialed. “Mrs. Messner?” I said when she answered. “This is Roberta. I was just admiring that lovely quilt your mother made. The one you gave me.”

I paused hopefully, but was met with silence on the other end of the phone.

“What do you need?” Mrs. Messner said. Couldn’t a single conversation with this woman be easy?

I took a deep breath and forged ahead. “I was wondering,” I said, “since your mother has passed on, if you would like to have the quilt back? The beautiful one she made.”

Silence. What more could I say? I’d done what I had to do. I braced myself for another curt reply. “Mrs. Messner, are you still there?”

“You can’t know what this means to me, Roberta,” she said. “I don’t own a single thing Mom made. I would so love to have that quilt again.” Mrs. Messner’s voice had a sweetness in it that I had never heard before.

“I’ll send it to you right away,” I said. I heard my own voice softening too when I wished her a merry Christmas.

I hung up feeling lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from my chest. For the first time in 20 years I thought about Muffin without fuming over an unlatched gate, a paltry reward and the dog collar I’d neglected to put back on. Perhaps my bitterness at Mrs. Messner had been inflamed by my own guilty conscience.

I wrapped the quilt in tissue paper and wrote on a holiday card: “Dear Mrs. Messner, Wishing you and your dear ones a blessed Christmas filled with nothing but love, Roberta.”

I packaged up the quilt and tucked in the card. I’d chosen one with an angel on it. Because that was not just any voice in my head telling me to consider Mrs. Messner. That was a Christmas angel speaking to my heart. And I would never forget the gift she gave me. The gift of forgiveness.

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The bedroom door opened at five the morning of October 31 last year. My 13-year-old daughter, Bethany, stuck her head in, her long blonde hair falling over her face. “Hey, you guys. I’m going out for dawn patrol.”

“Have a good time, Honey,” I said. “Remember, my surgery’s today. Keep me in your prayers.”

“Duh, Dad. You’re always in my prayers. Gotta go!” Dawn patrol—beach slang for an early morning run—is a big thing around our surfing household. Bethany went out most mornings, searching for waves, often with her best friend, Alana, and Alana’s dad, Holt. I joined them whenever I could.

There’s something totally pristine and magical about the water at that time of day. The beach is empty, the wet sand shimmers in the rising sun. It’s just you, your board and the waves. There’s a little more of a danger of sharks in the water too, but if you surf in Hawaii, sharks are always a threat—remote, but real. The sea is their home, and you just have to respect that.

My wife, Cheri, and I work hard to make a good home for our three kids—Noah, 22, Timmy, 17, and Bethany. We are a close, loving family with God at the center. But at heart, we’re basically, well, beach bums.

I’ve been surfing since I was 12. It was my first love. Cheri’s too. We’ve got saltwater in our veins, and so do our kids. There’s always sand on the floor of our house on Kauai’s North Shore, and a couple of towels drying on the porch out back. Are we rich? Not in dollars and cents. But we’re more than blessed when it comes to the things that really count.

I would have joined Bethany that morning, getting in a quick run before I had to be at work, if it weren’t for my appointment at Wilcox Memorial Hospital. All those decades of crouching down low to shoot the barrel of a big wave had taken their toll on my right knee.

“You’re due for some scoping on your cartilage,” my friend David Rovinsky, an orthopedic surgeon, said. “We’ll get you fixed up and you’ll be back on your board in no time. Who knows, you might even be able to keep up with Bethany.”

Yeah, right. No one could keep up with my daughter. I put Bethany on my board and took her out into the waves when she wasn’t even a year old. I bought her a surfboard when she was six. Right off the bat, there was something different about how she surfed. Bethany got a look in her eye when we were out there in the water—a kind of gleam that said: I want to be good at this. I want to be the best.

I’m a “soul surfer.” I do it for the pure joy I feel when I drop my board into a curl, the wave roaring in my ears like a jet engine. It’s a spiritual joy, to be so close to the beauty and power God has made. Bethany felt that joy too when she was out in the water. She loved the Lord, and she loved to surf. But she also set goals. Bigger waves. Faster times. She couldn’t wait to enter surfing competitions. I started to understand that glint in her eye. The flash and fire of a champion.

At a little after seven that morning I lay on an operating table. I’d opted for a spinal so I could be awake to watch the procedure on a monitor overhead.

“Okay, Tom,” David said. “Ready to star in your own reality TV show?”

David marked the spot on my knee where he would go in with the scope. Just then the door to the operating room flew open. A doctor stuck his head in.

“Dr. Rovinsky, we gotta have this O.R. right now! We’ve got a shark attack victim.”

My mouth went dry. “Who?” I asked.

“A thirteen-year-old girl from the North Shore.”

My gaze met David’s. “Stay cool, Tom,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

I tried to jump off the table. No go. My legs were numb from the anesthetic.

David came back. His face was pale. “It’s Bethany. We’re going to get you out of this O.R. and she’s going to take your place. We’ll do everything we can.”

A nurse wheeled me down the hall into a small recovery room and left me there, alone. The room was dark and still. Outside people raced toward the O.R., shouting instructions. If only I could get up and go to Bethany, hold her hand and pray. In my mind, I pictured Bethany in the water catching a wave.

My love for the ocean meant so much to me. To see my daughter love it too, to know she wanted to be the best surfer in the world, filled me with joy. But now that joy vanished. Was it my fault that she’d been attacked by a shark?

Stop. Cool it. Whatever happened out in the waves this morning, I had to remember that God had been there. He was here in the hospital too. With Bethany. With me. You’ve always watched over us, Lord. We’ve never come up against anything we couldn’t handle. Help us now.

The door opened. Noah. He walked in and threw his arms around me.

“Where’s your mom?” I asked.

“She’s outside, Dad. Everyone’s here.”

“Stay with them. I’ll be there as soon as I can get up and walk.”

Noah hadn’t said a word about Bethany, and I hadn’t asked. Something inside told me to stay calm, be patient. To trust in God—whose power was greater than my fear, greater than the sea, greater even than my love for my daughter.

A nurse came by. “Mr. Hamilton, can you wiggle your toes?” I tried. They barely moved. I slapped my bed in frustration.

“Hang on. Ten more minutes and you should be able to walk.”

Ten minutes later she came back. I got up and the nurse helped me hobble down the hall to another recovery room.

Bethany was lying in bed, her hair matted from the water, an oxygen mask over her face. Monitors beeped and blinked. My gaze followed an I.V. line down to her right arm. Bethany’s a righty, I caught myself thinking. They should put that thing in her left arm. All at once I realized what I was looking at. Where my daughter’s left arm had been there was just a mass of bandages.

The image was like a hard punch in the gut. But then Bethany turned her head and gave me a groggy look. A flood of relief and pure gratitude poured over me. My daughter was safe. Thank you, God.

“Hi, Dad,” Bethany whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been here the whole time, Honey,” I said. In fact, I had been right where I was meant to be all along.

Less than a month later, on one of those blindingly beautiful days that God saves for Hawaii, Bethany and I walked to the water. Under her right arm she carried her surfboard. She’d made a remarkable recovery, but I couldn’t help wondering if it wasn’t too soon to try surfing again.

Bethany waded in, hopped on her board and started for the distant breakers. I swam out behind, ready to lend a hand. Half of surfing is in the paddling. Bethany’s explosive stroke used to give her an edge in competition. Could she still do it? With only her right arm? Could she still surf like the old Bethany?

A wave broke. Bethany lost her board. She grabbed it just as another wave slammed into her.

“Do you need a push?” I shouted.

“No, Dad,” she yelled back. “I need to do this myself.”

I should have known better than to ask.

Finally, we got out past the breakers. A big wave came toward us. Bethany paddled and kicked like crazy, struggling to get positioned right. With one push of her arm, she leapt to her feet. Her board shot out from under her and she fell into the water.

Another wave. She paddled and jumped to her feet. Wham. Another spill.

Lord, what if Bethany can’t do this?

A third wave rolled toward us. Bethany looked over at me. For a moment, our eyes met. That’s when I saw it. That flash of fire. It was still there. The wave rose up behind us, ready to break. Bethany leapt to her feet. She caught it perfectly. I watched her ride the wave all the way to the distant shore.

I had been wrong to doubt even for a moment. Nothing was going to hold my daughter back, not from what she truly loved. There was no “old” and “new” Bethany. Just the daughter I had always known. The one with the God-given spirit of a champion. And nothing, not even a shark, could ever change that.

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