Posted on by lgandre

Impressed

She was four years older than me and a whole lot smarter. Maybe not “off-the-chart smart” but definitely calculus and rubrics cube smart. Maybe she got that way from all of the books she read. While most girls were in to dolls and dress up, Erin was in to libraries and bookstores.

Erin’s reclusive reading habits came in handy because when my parents were gone, she would predictably curl up with a stack of library books. The rest of us could wreak havoc as we pleased and Erin would get blamed at the end of the day. Because, after all, she was the oldest and was supposed to be responsible.

People sometimes confused the two of us. I never understood that because while we did have the same eye color, she was Erin and I was Danielle. We shared a room for years and that only brought out the differences: I loved to decorate and rearrange the furniture while she preferred the Spartan atmosphere. I liked the window open. She liked the window shut. And so on.

Somewhere along the way, Erin took an interest in piano. And when she was 14, she became our church pianist. Which, admittedly, was not so much because she was a child protégé as much as just the simple fact that she was the only person in our church that played piano. It was Erin or nothing. And Erin quickly became better. Than nothing.

Erin more than rose to the challenge, because that is what Erin does. She never met a contest too big; she never did things the easy way. If we were all making quilts, Erin made a king-sized, hand-stitched quilt with a million pieces to cut and four times that many corners to match.

Not me. If there was an easy way, I was going to find it and then make it even easier. Which I think is an under-appreciated skill. But I’m getting off track…back to Erin and the piano.

For years, Erin would get up at 5:00 in the morning and play scales and exercises on the piano. Allyson would be doing aerobics. And I was probably sleeping.

Erin practiced hard—four hours every day. She became very good. I know because she always went last at piano recitals. Of course, that might have just been because the “rest of the students” included me and a bunch of kids like me. But nonetheless, she did get good.

Toward the end of high school, Erin was selected to go on a short-term mission trip to Romania. Erin spent hours over the next year learning to speak, read, and write Romanian—all for a three week trip. Like I said, she was not one to just “get by” or do something the easy way.

After graduation, she decided to get a degree in piano performance—which figures, because as I understand, it’s one of the hardest majors. In addition to all of the regular studying a college student has to do, musicians have to practice for ungodly numbers of hours every day. Good thing she was already broken in on the 5:00 am thing.

After college, Erin went back to Romania for a few years as a full-time missionary. All of her hard work on language study was put to good use.

Then, she decided to come back and get her masters in piano performance. And because she is Erin, and because she never met a challenge too big, she decided to get her master’s in piano performance at Bob Jones.

Now, you may think BJ is good, bad, wonderful, terrible…all of that is beside the point. The point is, BJ is basically the mecca of conservative musicians. Kids in Greenville are born playing piano. They are proficient at violin by the time they are weaned. They do intensive music theory classes in Kindergarten. They have private tutoring sessions instead of recess. BJ is Julliard for the small but talented percentage of the world that doesn’t believe in the rock beat.

Majoring in piano performance at BJ is kind of like racing in the Kentucky Derby. Everyone is good. That is why they are there.

Erin was good, but she hadn’t had the support of a gifted music community like most of the BJ graduates. She hadn’t had all world-class teachers growing up. And, she had just spent several years overseas teaching. But once she had made up her mind, she went for it wide open.

If college piano performance was no joke, graduate level piano performance was probably the music equivalent of the Marine Corps. At the end of the program comes the “performance” part—the senior recital: an hour of memorized music that BJ professors deemed worthy of their stamp of music wizardry approval. Songs are picked a year in advance and then practiced until Fur Elise and Chopsticks feel like a nice break.

Erin selected her music and practiced literally until her hands couldn’t take it anymore. She is smart, and she worked hard, but I know that looming recital was not something she looked forward to. Even after years of church music and college classes ad nauseam, Erin was not a natural at performing. Perhaps it was become she is more the left-brained, smart analytic than the right-brain creative, artsy, performer. She is great at lot of things, and she had the skill and knowledge; she just wasn’t the showy type.

Somewhere along the line, I think it was suggested to her that she consider majoring in church music or piano pedagogy. Which, as I understand, was the same thing without the hour of music insanity known as the senior recital. But, as I understand, the difference between the two was also like the difference between being a college basketball coach and a PE teacher.

And it just wasn’t like Erin.

So she worked hard. Very hard.

Not all of my family could attend her recital. But I drove to Greenville the day before and spent the night with her. She is pretty even-keel, but like anyone, she was nervous about her recital. In fact, nervous doesn’t seem to be the right word.

The BJ standard is perfection. And most BJ students hit it or come so close that all but the pickiest of professors believe they did.

And even though she had poured her life into it the whole program, I think she knew she wasn’t going to be perfect.

Mind you, this wasn’t just a handful of family attending this recital. This was going to be a room full of professors and other piano performance majors who were required to attend. Many of them had ten or twenty years of lessons from world class instructors under their belt. Most were natural performers—because the rest had long since been weeded out. If you were just “one of the pack,” you went and found something else to do before you hit the senior recital for your master’s degree in piano performance.

Something else meaning home ec, elementary ed, or working at Chick-fil-A.   You ain’t nothing in Greenville just because you can play piano, violin, cello, tuba, and percussion. You have to be the next Dino Kartsonikis (who appreciates only Bach and Fanny Crosby).

And Erin, for all her virtues, was not Dino.

And the pressure would have put a lesser woman (me, for example) in the crazy house.

But not Erin.

I was very proud of Erin the next day. She looked nice. She had chosen difficult pieces. She played well.

And she made some mistakes. Several actually.

She just did.

But she didn’t make excuses. She didn’t blame the stiff piano. Or her hurting wrists. Or her years of service in Romania. Or her nerves. She didn’t make a point to tell everyone how long and hard she’s practiced. How many set backs she’s had. How many obstacles she had to overcome.

She had done her best. And she let it be that. She didn’t try to criticize herself just to hear people argue with gushy words of fake affirmation.

Erin told me she thought by BJ standards her recital was a disaster.

If anyone thought that, they were mistaken. Yes, if someone had come to nit pick or criticize, I’m sure they could have found something negative to say about the performance.

But not about my sister.

She was courageous. She was gracious. And I don’t know if I have ever been more impressed with her. Or with anyone.

Erin had just poured her heart into a goal because she believed that the process of working for it would make her a better pianist, a better music teacher, and more than that—a better worshiper. She went for it knowing it wouldn’t necessarily make her better than the people around her.

Erin worked to please an Audience of One.

I think she proved it that day. And I have every reason to believe that that One was pleased.

And I, for one, thought it was beautiful.

I could not have been more impressed. Not with Dino Kartsonikis.

Posted on by lgandre

Yes, Black Lives Matter

I’m a white girl. Glow-in-the-dark white.

I can’t even get a decent tan…just burn and peel. Burn and peel.

But I was raised just east of Los Angeles—probably can’t get more of a melting pot of humanity than LA. Okay, so there’s New York City. But just the same, we went to an all-Hispanic church, hosted Japanese exchange students, had Thanksgiving dinner with our Romanian friends, and my best babysitting clients were black. And I loved them.

One night a dinner guest asked my dad if he would let his daughters marry a black guy. The four of us girls were pretty young at the time. I don’t know why he asked that; the idea of marriage was distant and unreal. Almost a bit ridiculous. But my dad answered his question. And I still remember what he said.

We were not prejudice, but we did notice differences—strengths and weaknesses that tended to be true of different people groups. Our black friends were not just smart, they were FAST! They dominated the basketball courts. The Asian friends were not only smart, but hardworking and disciplined. The Hispanic friends were not only smart, but their culture took life at a much easier pace. Time was a suggestion. Family birthdays and events were big deals. Their all-day parties took us a little by surprise at first but we realized once you are considered family—you don’t miss one for the world.

So…we were all listening when my dad answered the question. Would he let one of his daughters marry a black man?

“It doesn’t matter so much the color of his skin as the color of his heart.”

I remember not only Dad’s answer, but I remembered the principle. And it wasn’t an isolated statement—it was consistent with the way my parents lived their lives.

They taught us to use our heads. They even taught us to use the “D” word—to be discriminating. The difference was, they taught us to be discriminating about things that matter, like character. Not things that don’t matter, like race. Even those general tendencies we noticed about people groups were just that—generalities. People are different; their skin color did not define them. You best evaluate people by their hearts—one at time.

Race has been in the news a lot this year. And unfortunately, in Charleston, we are now trying to navigate through an incident involving a white cop and a black shooting victim. But I wish all of the people out there who think that black lives don’t matter to white people could see what I see.

Because we care. We are ripped up. Because no one—black, white, or “other,” should be gunned down in cold blood the way that it appears happened in North Charleston recently. I’m glad there was a witness. I’m glad there was a witness with a cell phone. I wish the incident had never happened, but since it did, I’m glad that we can take the opportunity to show that our loyalty is to justice and not necessarily to the cops, the alleged criminals, the white people, or the black people. We want the facts to be brought to a jury –and the jury to do the right thing.

We care because black lives matter. But far more than that, we care because all lives matter—because they are lives, not black lives, white lives, or “other” lives.

I want the Scott family to know that we are behind them. No need for protests. No need for looting. No need to lose precious sleep to convince us that this is an important incident that should be given due process. We want it every bit as much as you.

I’m a white girl and I want justice.

But then, it doesn’t matter so much the color of my skin as the color of my heart.

Posted on by lgandre · 2 Comments

Big Blue Nation

When I stopped to count it up, I realized that even though I’ve never “lived” there, I’ve spent somewhere around a year of my life in Kentucky. Mostly eastern Kentucky–which truly deserves its own acknowledgment and perhaps it’s own star in the flag.

It’s coal country, natural gas country, and four wheelin’ country; but the thing that seems to bring them all together is the way they love UK basketball.

In case you are not familiar–the Rupp arena seats 22,000 people and it will be sold out every home game. In fact, you probably can’t get a ticket if you weren’t born with one.

I’m not saying they are cultish about basketball. I’m saying they are what comes after cultish. It’s not like they have flat screen TVs playing the games at their wedding receptions–it’s that you don’t get married on game days. Not if you want your groom to show up.

Santa wears blue in Kentucky, and if you’re in Lexington on game days, you won’t see much besides blue.  I’ve never seen blue grass in Kentucky; I think it the country got its name from all the UK Fans looking at the world through blue sunglasses.  

Due to the generosity of some of our clients (prompted by an untimely scheduled funeral), we were blessed with tickets to a recent UK game. Tickets, we were informed, some of the locals would about shoot us over. 

The Rupp arena is strategically connected to both a mall and a hotel. So when the 22,000 fans descend on Lexington, the food court will be full of bright blue shirts. And if you are an out-of-towner trying to sneak in without getting shot, you can buy a blue shirt, sweatshirt, jacket, hat, pants, muffs, pajamas, or Hello Kitty doll.

This particular game was at 9:00 pm on a Tuesday.  It was cold and snowy and generally a terrible time to be out. And as we were entering the arena, people were outside in the cold wearing signs that said, “I need to buy tickets!”

It was tempting, but I put my game face on and we marched inside.  In our section, all the seats were held by season ticket holders. They know who they are sitting next to. In fact, they probably know about everything there is to know about them.

Consequently, the people next to us immediately recognized us at outsiders, but they were kind enough to let us pretend for the night.

I was a little surprised by the demographic of the crowd at first. There were a lot of middle age people and even more older folks.  I guess that makes sense–They probably have a little more time and a little more money on their hands. 

They kicked off the game with live music, fireworks, and a lot of enthusiasm from the crowd.  I did see a few empty seats in the nose bleed section, but not many for 9:00 pm on a school night.  Kentucky easily got the ball from the start–thanks to the seven foot center who made the other team’s 6 foot 9 players look like they needed to do some growing up. 

Most of the fans–at least the older ladies–think of the team as their sons.  And no one was allowed to say anything negative about their boys but them.  If the other team so much as breathed on one of “their boys,” they would threaten them with slow and painful death.  But if one of the boys missed a shot or a pass, they weren’t above letting the boys know what they thought of them and why.

The opposing team–Boise State–was undefeated so UK fans took special delight in watching them spend the night chasing the UK score. 

It was impossible not to catch some of the enthusiasm.  Maybe the blue from my shirt was bleeding into my veins.  I shouted “white” and “blue” and “go cats” with the rest of them.  We truly did have good seats–about 10 rows up behind the clear backboard– close enough to see just how young those kids were, but hopefully far enough that the players couldn’t hear the lady behind us yelling, “What’s the matter, ‘Pointless’?”  Put the ball where it belongs!”

 Nothing makes for a bad day in Kentucky like a mark in the L column.  I can only imagine the pressure those kids were under.  The quality of life of hundreds of thousands of fans lies on their ability to get the ball through the net. 

And maybe a year in Kentucky is long enough that I’m starting to take a little bit of ownership. Who knows, maybe it was my yelling “go cats” that helped them score those last few points…or my seal motions that caused the other team to miss theirs.  Either way, I was one of the happy faces coming out of Rupp arena at 11:30 at night. And Wednesday dawned a beautiful day in Kentucky.

Posted on by lgandre

5:30 AM

For various reasons, I had decided to go to the gym a little later that particular morning.

That meant I needed to get most of my morning routine done before the gym–walking the dog, washing my hair, and packing a lunch. I had just about an hour–enough time to do each of those things and get to the gym if I hurried.

I put a leash on Julie Anne and headed outside in the dark. I needed her to hurry up and do what dogs do.

But Julie Anne was in no hurry.  Or maybe the change in schedule had her a little confused. I steered us along well lit areas and she sniffed and poked and played and scratched and–at times–acted like she was going to take care of business–but didn’t. As the minutes ticked by, I began to get more and more anxious. It was cold. it was dark. I was in a hurry.  And I was remembering a man’s scream of “Help! Help!” that I had heard from the warmth of my bed a few hours earlier.

I do not know what happened before that. I do not know what happened after that.  But someone had been screaming not far from here not long ago. Julie Anne, please do your business so we can get on with this day.

Julie Anne sniffed a little more and I was hopeful. Anywhere will do. This whole grassy area is designed specifically for this.

She poked around.

Honestly, girl, this blade of grass…that blade of grass. They are all the same.

She kept sniffing.

See this bag, Julie Anne? I’m just going to pick it up anyway. It isn’t going to matter two minutes from now. Just do it. Julie Anne–

She suddenly stiffened and turned and stared intently at the darkness in the trees behind the little strip of town houses. Julie Anne– She still stood motionless.

I could hear those screams.

Whether they were real or from my dreams, I knew not, but I could hear them.  And I was staring into the darkness myself and starting to feel a little creeped out.  There were no other brave souls out with their dogs at that time of morning.

Julie Anne stood frozen.  Alert. She had no intention of doing her business anytime soon.  And I had no intention of being that girl that got murdered standing outside in the cold waiting for her dog to poop.

So I headed home.

I was a little irritated as we reached the safety of my little place.  A good 15 minutes wasted.  Nothing accomplished.  My tightly packed schedule was now all askew and we would have to go for yet another walk.  I didn’t know when.

Patience has never been one of my strengths. It requires too much humility.  It requires me to put other people’s needs and schedules ahead of my own.  Patience understands that my time is no more valuable than the person in line in front of me at the grocery store with 100,000 coupons.  It is subject to the law that requires me to sit at a woefully long red light when there is not another car in the same zip code.  Patience sees interruptions as opportunities to yield, and grow, and learn.

And patience requires faith–because to be patient, I must choose to believe that someone else’s way is truly better than my own.  When it comes to some people, that sometimes requires quite a bit of imagination.  And when it comes to God, it means being to content to accept what my finite mind cannot even imagine.

As I mentioned, patience has never been one of my strengths.  In fact, I was born in a hallway because I couldn’t wait for the delivery room.  My dad will tell you that I’ve been in a hurry ever since.

But God apparently is not content to leave me that way.  Hence, Julie Ann.  And plenty of other people and circumstances which shall remain nameless.

It is interesting to me that when Apostle Paul penned the great “Love Chapter,” I Corinthians 13, the very first attribute ascribed to love is patience.  Love is patient.

Love recognizes that sometimes another person needs a little time to come to their own conclusions.  Another person may have a different order for the same priorities.  They may have their own plans for the best way to redeem the time entrusted to them.  They require a different amount of rest and relaxation.

The next attribute of love in I Corinthians 13 is kindness.  And the more I think about it, the more I realize how tied together those two are–patience and kindness.  Kindness is really humility in action too.  Quite simply, it is caring about someone else’s feelings.

Kindness can mean the world to another person.  And it doesn’t cost a thing.

I figure the average person gets about 160 opportunities a day to work on  deficits in the patience and kindness department.  For me, that’s about one every six minutes I’m awake.  Some days more, some days less.

Some days those opportunities start at 5:30 am.  Some days I fail at 5:30 am.

But God, in the perfection of His love, doesn’t give up.  He faithfully peppers my life with opportunities to learn kindness and humility.

Thank goodness that love is patient.  Even at 5:30 in the morning.

Posted on by lgandre · 1 Comment

Happy Employee Appreciation Day!!!

First there was Mother’s Day. Which made sense. Because who, in their right mind, wouldn’t want a special day to thank mothers for their tremendous investments in the lives of the world’s most valuable resource? We don’t have to look far to stand amazed at all the sacrifices mothers quietly make from their mobile offices…a/k/a mini vans. Besides, with all that was going on in our country, President Lincoln needed a little positive PR.

Then there was Father’s Day. Which made sense. Because if the general course of life is not enough to thank mothers, then it shouldn’t be considered adequate for the head of the family who often serves as the primary bread winner, T-ball coach, lawn mower, taste tester, bed time story reader, and anchor.

Then there was Grandparents Day. Which made sense. Because even though all grandparents are either Fathers or mothers, schools across America recognized grandparents as a great source of guilt-based fundraising and Grandparents Day was a perfect time to tap into that resource with special programs, lunches, and other cool gifts.

Then there was national Teacher’s Day. Which made sense. Because there is a high caliber demographic of our society—some of whom are not mothers or fathers–that weren’t getting an annual supply of cards, chocolates, Starbucks gift cards, and soap-on-a-rope.

Then there was Administrative Professionals Day (f/k/a “Secretaries Day”). Which made sense. Because Administrative Professionals are often the people who get all the work and none of the credit. And it’s convenient to only have them expect a “thank you” once a year.

Then there was Boss’ Day. Which made sense. Because no one ever thinks to tell their boss thank you unless prompted by Hallmark. And most won’t even then.

And then there was Employee Appreciation Day. Which made sense. Because most bosses in this particular era of world history find themselves entirely confused about who their Administrative Professionals are. Believe me, this is quite a dilemma. And I bet there are bosses out there who didn’t get a card on National Boss’s Day solely because they got it wrong. After all, hurting people hurt people.

Mind you—I have skipped things like Memorial Day and Veterans Day—days when a percentage of our working population actually get time off, because those kinds of holidays serve an entirely different function. I mean, if you actually get a day off, you feel thanked and thankful. You don’t really need soap on a rope.

So…while I stand by my previous post affirming the importance of Valentines Day, I have to say that I think that all the days have pretty much been used up already.

If you don’t believe me, ask Google (actually, I use Duck Duck Go) and you’ll discover that yesterday you missed National Cheese Doodle day, National Multiple Personality Day, and World Spelling Day. That was just one day in World Orphan Week.

And today, in addition to being National Employee Appreciation Day, it is National Dentist Day, National Frozen Food Day, and Middle Name Pride Day. Who thinks this stuff up???

No wonder employees don’t feel appreciated. Having to share your day with dentists, middle names, and frozen food is pretty much a bummer.

And to make matters worse, most employers don’t even know its Employee Appreciation Day, much less, that it is the 20th Anniversary of Employee Appreciation Day. This is big. I think the federal government should start spending tax payer dollars on billboards and TV commercials so next year employers can be better prepared. They could raise payroll taxes a couple of percent to cover the cost so it doesn’t have to come out of our defense budget. And if they have any extra, they can also mention cheese doodles and frozen food.

The other thing I think we should do is start a Twitter campaign with epic tweets like this one:

RED – ‘Recognise Every Day’
67% of employees record they’d work much harder if they were better recognised by their managers. If your want your people to give your their best, give the best to your people. #recogniseeveryday

I hope that wasn’t your administrative professional. Because I strongly suspect she is one of that 67%.

So…in case your boss forgets or just doesn’t know, here is a heartfelt “thanks” for all you do.

I hope it means a lot to you.

And that it inspires you to give your best to your people.

Perhaps you can celebrate by going to the dentist, giving him your middle name, and eating frozen food.  It just makes sense.

Posted on by lgandre

God of all Comfort

A friend of mine called me unexpectedly. After we got through the small talk there was an awkward silence. I figured there was some reason why she would be calling, but whatever it was, she was having trouble getting it out. Finally, she did.  She was struggling with life–physically and emotionally.

So I tried my hand at counseling.

It was humbling.  It was humbling because I quickly realized I was not the Bible scholar I thought I was.  It was humbling because I realized my own reservoir of experience wasn’t deep enough to draw from in a meaningful way.  It was humbling because she seemed to give me more questions than I gave her answers. I found my muddled brain saying time and time again, “I don’t know.”

I cared.  I tried.  And sometimes, after our phone calls, I would hang up with a satisfied sigh–convinced we were almost through the darkness of her depression.  But it was like drawing chalk pictures on the sidewalk. Real life would hit like a rainstorm and wash my handiwork into a kaleidoscope of marred colors as nothing more than evidence that we had tried and failed.

One question she asked stuck with me. God is supposed to be our comfort, but I don’t feel at all comforted. And so people tell me God is my comfort, I just can’t feel it. But what good is comfort you can’t feel? Isn’t comfort a feeling?

I’m pretty sure I must have given my standard answer to that.

I don’t know.

But I trusted.  I knew God had rescued me from my own pit.  And I knew that there was a way out for her too.  I just didn’t seem to have the right words at the right time.  She seemed inclined to believe that people who tried to help her were just artificially filling in the vacancies God had neglected.  What was I to say to that?

David is, in no small way, my go-to author for these kinds of times.  David knew about depression and despair.  He knew what it was to be hated.  To be hunted.  To be overwhelmed.  To be pressured.  To be sick.  To be desperate.  To be broken.

In Psalm 69, he paints a compelling picture of himself sinking into a pit of quicksand.  He cried for help until he was weary, his throat was parched, and his eyes grew dim.

David was in pain.  The God of all comfort loved David dearly.  And David knew it.  He believed it.

But he did not always feel it.

So…what about my friend’s question?  What good is comfort if it doesn’t make us feel better?  Shouldn’t comfort make us comfortable?  Shouldn’t it take the stinger out of the pain?  If we’ve been comforted, shouldn’t we feel comforted?

After pondering this a while, I realized the answer will always require a measure of faith. Jesus didn’t promise comfort so we wouldn’t know pain. He promised pain so we would know comfort.

Jesus promised to send a Comforter soon after He promised tribulation, persecution, and pain. Then He promised to be with us until the end of the age.  The comfort is His work of grace to get us through this life glorifying Him by longing for the next.

Be of good cheer. I have overcome the world.  His words were words of comfort, not words of cure.

I’ll never forget the words of a lady I know whose husband of twenty five years had recently abandoned her for another woman after a long, secret affair. She returned my note of attempted encouragement with a card that said while she regretted the circumstances, she would not exchange “the sweetness of her close fellowship with Jesus” for anything.  God sent her comfort in the form of Himself and His Word.  She was happy despite the storm that would rage in her family for years.

But it doesn’t always look like that. 

I read the story of Darlene Diebler Rose, a young missionary wife who ended up in isolation in a Japanese prison camp during World War II. God sent comfort to her starving body in the form of a hundred bananas dropped off by a man she regarded as an enemy. God sent comfort by meeting her physical needs in a miraculous way.

But it doesn’t always look like that.

Apostle Paul needed comfort. He needed companionship to buoy his spirits and energize his faith.  Paul needed friends who would come and see him in prison.  Who would help meet his physical needs.  Who would act as his courier.  Who would pour energy into him so he could, in turn, comfort others who would in turn comfort others in their times of need.  2 Corinthians 1:3-7.

Most of the time, it looks like that.

Sometimes comfort is simple.  Ordinary.  It comes in the form of a friend–their caring touch or simple generosity. Imperfect, unromantic, but comforting nonetheless if we choose to allow their kindness penetrate the crust of our hurt.

Friends may be guessing at what to do and what to say–and getting it wrong much of the time–but comfort is no less from God because it comes at the hand of another person.  It is no less real.  No less biblical.  God can send a raven to deliver a meal, but He is more likely to send a church member, a neighbor, a friend.

In the end, my friend was able to look back on her time of depression as a time that equipped her more to be able to help others who face similar circumstances.  And I sure hope that, one day, someone asks her questions like “if God is our comfort, shouldn’t we feel comforted?”

If nothing else, it would comfort me a little.

Posted on by lgandre

Humility

I was looking for a book.  Not for me, for a friend. I pulled a few out of my bookshelf and perused them. I even read a few chapters of one that had a promising title.  But each chapter seemed like another lap around the same track.  After a few minutes, I had read enough.  Six times.

I opened another, simply titled “Humility.”  It had a “50% Off” sticker plastered against its face.  Probably the real reason why I bought it.  It was a deal.

It was Friday evening and I was doing nothing. So I started at the preface. And I read this:

“When I look back on my own religious experience, or on the church of Christ in the world,  I stand amazed at the thought of how seldom humility is sought after as the distinguishing feature of the discipleship of Jesus. In preaching and living, in the daily activities of the home and social life, in the more special fellowship with Christians, in the direction and performance of work for Christ–there is much proof that humility is not considered the cardinal virtue. It is not considered the only root from which grace can grow, and the one indispensable condition of true fellowship with Jesus.  The accusation that those who claim to be seeking the higher holiness have not always done so with increased humility is a call to all earnest Christians to prove that meekness and loneliness of heart are the chief marks by which they follow the meek and humble Lamb of God.”

And I kept reading. My friend didn’t need this book. I needed this book.

And despite his quiet, authoritative style, Andrew Murray held my attention and I kept turning page after page.  I wanted to read it all quickly. And slowly.  I wanted to see the whole picture and yet I wanted to be able to ponder each thought.

It was not a long book.  Still, not many people could write 124 meaningful pages about one word.  Unlike the first book I read, I didn’t feel like I was going round and round in a sea of anecdotes and suggestions.  I felt like Murray was just taking me step by step to a deeper understanding of the Scripture that teach us this elusive concept.

Here are a few key thoughts–discounted down to my own words:

Humility is the essence of discipleship.  It is a necessary ingredient of love, joy, peace, and patience–no, of every fruit of the spirit.

Humility is not about what we pray, what we sing, or even what we think.  Humility is how we treat others–difficult family members, irritating co-workers, and useless customer service reps.  Humility is the act of placing others above ourselves; of taking on the form of a servant.

Humility is rare and difficult because it requires the laying down of our lives.  It’s unnatural.   We repeatedly choose to believe the lies perpetuated by pride–that our happiness will come from standing up for our rights and being the center of our own worlds.

Humility brings eternal rewards.  Murray says it this way:

“He that humbleth himself shall be exalted.’  Jesus Himself is the proof of the truth of these words.  He is the pledge of the certainty of their fulfillment to us.  Let us take His yoke upon us and learn from Him, for He is ‘meek and lowly in heart.’ (Matt. 11:29).  If we are willing to stoop to Him, as He has stooped to us, He will yet stoop to each one of us again, and we will find ourselves equally yoked with Him.  As we enter deeper into the fellowship of His humility, and either humble ourselves or bear the humbling of men, we can count on the Spirit of His exaltation, ‘the spirit of glory and of God’ (1 Pet. 4:14), to rest upon us.  The presence and the power of the glorified Christ will come to those who are of a humble spirit.  When God can again have His rightful place in us, He will lift us up.”

It is not a thriller or a mystery, but I have already read it twice in the last two weeks and I probably need to read it about 600 more.  Humility has helped me tap into the root of grace and, in turn, let go of hurt, pride, anger, and jealousy.

I never did find a book for my friend, but for some reason, I felt compelled to share this one with you.  And if Andrew Murray’s Humility isn’t your style, I’ll also share this poem (attributed to Beth Moore) which paints a vivid picture of the alternative in every-day English:

My name is Pride. I am a cheater.
I cheat you of your God-given destiny…
because you demand your own way.
I cheat you of contentment…
because you “deserve better than this.”
I cheat you of knowledge…
because you already know it all.
I cheat you of healing…
because you are too full of you to forgive.
I cheat you of holiness…
because you refuse to admit when you are wrong.
I cheat you of vision…
because you’d rather look in the mirror than out a window.
I cheat you of genuine friendship…
because nobody’s going to know the real you.
I cheat you of love…
because real romance demands sacrifice.
I cheat you of greatness in heaven…
because you refuse to wash another’s feet on earth.
I cheat you of God’s glory…
because I convinced you to seek your own.
My name is Pride. I am a cheater.
You like me because you think I’m always looking out for you.
Untrue.
I’m looking to make a fool of you.
God has so much for you, I admit, but don’t worry…
If you stick with me you’ll never know.

Posted on by lgandre

#thedeathofpound

Some tweets make me want to cry.
Some tweets make me want to cry.
A friend of mine who is a math teacher says she was teaching symbols in her class.  She would draw it on the board and her kids would yell out the name.

So she drew “#.”

And her kids yelled “hashtag!”

Hashtag.  Of course # is a hashtag. Ten years ago, it was a pound sign, but to a ten year old, # isahashtag.

And while #isahashtag everything else #hasahashtag.

A parade #hasahashtag.  A church #hasahashtag.  A feeling #hasahashtag.  Life #hasahashtag.

Shoot,  I find myself often listening to an intelligent news commentator dressed in a $9000 suit sitting in front of three fancy cameras reading to me what Joe Smith tweeted from Wichita, Kansas.  #iranoutofthingsofmyowntosay

Did it occur to them that if I wanted to read what ignorant people have to say I would be on Twitter instead of watching Fox News?  #whyaretheypayingyou?

Whether or not I am a fan, I’m having to face the fact that Twitter is here to stay.  Or at least as much here to stay as any element of technology in our changing world.

And maybe Twitter does bring some good things to our world.  It levels the playing field.  Anyone can be heard.  In 144 characters or less.  If they have the right hashtag.  Sorry, I meant, #iftheyhavetherighthashtag

Or maybe it doesn’t level the playing field at all.  It isn’t about your money.  It isn’t about your education.  It isn’t about your looks.  But it is about your followers.  #otherignorantpeople

I might not know about the power of twitter if it wasn’t for my friend @debostic. 

But I do.

For example, Delta airlines (who may account for more of our business credit card bill than any other vendor) has little respect for our financial contributions to their quarterlies.  Between business, ministry, and personal travel, you’d think they’d at least stop showing me how to buckle my seat belt.  But not only do they have no respect, they have no inclination toward flexibility.  When you want to change a ticket, you are just a tiny speck of sand on the Delta airlines beach.  They will charge you hundreds of dollars more than you already paid to get on the same plane and eat the same pack of pretzels a few hours later than you previously planned.

So, Daniel tweeted about them.

And the next thing we know, Delta is bending over backwards to change tickets.  New flights were being scheduled.  Open seats were appearing.  And Delta was giving out frequent flyer miles like they were a hot potato.

So, apparently, while #Moneytalks, frankly, #Twittertalkslouder.

Then there was State Farm.

We are lawyers.  We were suing them.  We were dragging them into court on behalf of a compelling plaintiff in front of a jury of people who know well why we call it “Snake Farm.”  And they seemed to be treating it like the briar patch.

But a few good tweets and State Farm was ringing our phones.  They couldn’t write a check fast enough.

#alotcheaperthanalawdegree

And that’s just the beginning.  Companies like Toyota and Enterprise have a lot of concern for their social media reputation. More, in fact, than the actual implications of their actions, their repeat customers, or the signature on the bottom of a legal document.

#bigfail

Apparently, even though it is no longer a pound sign, # gives weight to words in a powerful way.

And in the end, nothing has really changed except that instead of the pen being mightier than the sword, it is now the pound that is mightier than the sword.

That is, the hashtag.

Posted on by lgandre

There Are Worse Things than Nothing to do on Valentine’s Day

I’ve had some terrible Valentines Days. I’m not gonna lie.

But there is at least one bad Valentine’s Day that I can finally laugh about. I’m over it. It just has just taken about, well, twelve years.

Our church had an annual Sweetheart Banquet.

The reason that matters is that this particular year, they decided to do things more informally and just have a dessert and a program. The program was to be put on by two couples that I knew were excellent musicians. Translated: It would be good.

Kevin was taking Allyson, so my sister Erin and I (we’ll share equal blame in this part of the story) thought that it would be really fun to go too. Mom and Paul we’re going to be out of town, so, good sport that he is, Dad said he would take us if we really wanted to go.

The next Sunday after church, Dad decided that he’d better put his plan into action. Just as Dad was ready to hand over the money for the tickets, I raced over to the table. I had changed my mind. What on earth had I been thinking? I didn’t want to go to a sweetheart banquet! Going as a family would be like advertising the fact that…well…never mind.

Dad had his money poised in the air, and the lady had the tickets also poised. Dad was buying tickets for the two of us girls plus my grandma and another friend of ours, Meg, who had happened to be sitting in church with us that day.

Dad said since he had already asked Meg, he really shouldn’t change his mind. I agreed and braced myself for an evening of feeling foolish sitting with my sister and grandmother eating dessert with a bunch of married couples.

Too bad Sweetheart Banquets hadn’t gone extinct prior to that year.

Later, at home, we had a big discussion. Erin had changed her mind too. Dad didn’t want to take Meg unless we girls were going, etc. We all groaned and travailed, but finally came to the conclusion that we would come up with something else to do and have Meg over for that. It was an unfortunate waste of ticket money, but anything was better than being stuck at that awful sweetheart banquet.

Before I was able to tell Meg about the change of plans, things got worse. She was so excited about getting invited to the Valentine Banquet that she announced it in Wednesday Bible Study. The news got back to us in the form of “So, I heard…”

It was too late to change plans. Everyone knew that Mom was going to be out of town and that we were coming—we were ALL coming—to the banquet. Oh, I wanted to die.

So the next Sunday, our youth pastor announced that the church would like to provide babysitting for the banquet. I poked Meg, who was conveniently sitting next to me, and asked her if she would rather babysit than go to the banquet. She hesitated, but said both sounded like fun. That did it, I ran to Pastor Steve afterwards and volunteered Meg, my sister, and I to help babysit.

Ahhh! The sweet taste of freedom.

Well, the dessert didn’t start until 7:30, so one of the girls at church invited us all over to come to her house first. Even better. We’d go to Leslie’s for dinner and then babysit. We’d get out of going to the banquet, have some fun, and make a little money in the process. Maybe I wasn’t going to have to dread Valentine’s Day after all.

That brings me to Tuesday. I was minding my own business when Pastor Steve gave me a memo about the Valentines babysitting. I glanced at it briefly and then let out a squeal. The babysitting was supposed to begin at 5:00 so parents could go out to dinner before the dessert. Now I had double booked myself.

So I talked to Pastor Steve about it. Surely he would let me come at 7:00.

Pastor Steve said that he wished he could let me off, but he only had one other person to babysit—a teenage girl with no experience. I couldn’t leave her stuck there by herself, so I would have to cop out on the dinner invitation.

Then I asked, innocently, “How many kids are signed up to come Friday night?” He handed me the list.

There were 36 names!

36 kids ages 6 months to 13 years for four hours among the four of us. I nearly croaked. We had 11 kids under the age of three. That alone would take four of us. He said he’d try to get more help.

Oh, the tangled web…I was just trying to get out of going to a Valentines Banquet and here I had just put myself, my sister, and my friend on the struggle bus.

Wednesday I talked to Meg again. Wouldn’t you know it, she was going to have to work Friday night! All this and she wasn’t even going to be able to come at all. I just wanted to sit down and cry.

But I didn’t have time to cry. I had to try to figure out what three babysitters were going to do with 36 kids for four hours. I was seriously considering getting married in the next two days so I could ditch the whole mess.

Things got worse. Erin said she saw enough of kids during the week. That put us down to two. I tried to do some recruiting, but most of the other single girls at church were also school teachers or else they had other babysitting plans. Pastor Steve was running into the same problems.

Thirty six kids. Two babysitters. Four hours.

This was February in New Hampshire–it was far too cold too take the kids outside even if we could control them once we were out there.  The church approved list of movies was far too short to be of any use. The large spread of ages made it difficult to try to plan anything meaningful.

I was getting an ulcer.  And I love to babysit.

Who invented Valentines Day and where does one go to file a complaint?

When all else fails, recruit Dad.

Like a trooper, my dad (who had taken my Mom out before she left town) said he’d help. Now we were back up to three babysitters. Whoohoo! 

So Valentines morning, I had to work for eight hours, teach a music lesson on my lunch break, make a fast run to Wal-Mart for activity supplies, and then came back to church for four long hours of 36 kids ages 6 months and up.

The point of this story—and there is one—is that I have a wonderful Dad. How many men do you know who would invite four girls to a Sweetheart Banquet, get dumped by them all, and then come and help babysit? I know only one, and I’m very, very grateful I do. As a return favor, I sweet-talked the church secretary into giving Dad his ticket money back.

As my memory has gotten dim, I don’t remember what they paid us. But I do recall that the donations jar was sadly neglected if not wholly unloved.

Just the same, I swore to myself that if I heard any of any single people complaining about their boring evening, I’d gladly provide their names to Pastor Steve for the next Valentine’s Banquet. Just so they can come to appreciate having nothing to do on Valentine’s Day.

Posted on by lgandre · 1 Comment

Sage Advice for Men at Valentine’s Day

So—since I seem to be able to peer at Valentine’s day from a safe distance, I thought I’d give a third party perspective of the Valentine’s Day dilemma. For whatever good that might do for the health of relationships—both foreign and domestic.

For years, I’ve heard bits and pieces of complaints from wives and girlfriends about what a neglected holiday Valentine’s Day is. For some reason, the 14th of February just isn’t treated with the respect that it rightfully deserves. What, with being a celebration of the life and martyrdom of the great St. Valentine and all.

On the other hand, men at various times and in divers manners gripe to me about Valentine’s Day being a conspiracy between Hallmark and the Babysitters Club. A perpetual battle of expectations in which there are no winners—only losers and quitters. Some have taken it upon themselves to battle Valentine’s Day like the bubonic plague on the payroll of the Russian mafia. A few misguided souls have gone so far as to also turn their bitter wives into artificial haters of Valentine’s Day as well.

Which is unfortunate, since St Valentine was a pretty good guy from what I’ve heard.

This puzzles me, because from my perspective, I think Valentine’s day is a gift to men. Easy points.

In fact, it’s like getting points for the shots you took during the warm up.

True, women expect something at Valentine’s Day. She expects it even if she says she doesn’t. She expects it even if she says “just save your money.” She expects it even if she’s not in the same state as you. Pretty much, whatever she tells you about Valentine’s Day, don’t believe her.

She expects you to do something. And that’s a bummer.

But here’s the gift part. Usually, romance is kind of like ice skating: you get technical points, and you get creative points. But in the end, it’s the creative points that matter. You could have all the technique down, land all your jumps, nail your spins, be skating at all the right speeds, and still be the little girl crying on the podium at the end of the day if you aren’t creative. Heartfelt. Convincing. If you didn’t pick the right music and put your whole soul into it, you’re probably going to lose.

That’s why we call it romance and not chess. The rules change every time. The pieces move differently every time. The judges love you sometimes; hate you sometimes. The crowds will forgive some major mistakes if they like your passion and your style, but they will not forgive boring.

That’s what makes Valentine’s Day such a gift.

You get a creativity pass. The date is already on the calendar. The stores are bloated with ideas. Greeting cards jump out and bite you when you walk down the aisle at the grocery store. Flowers.com has two dozen red roses for $24.99. Chocolate is sold in heart shaped boxes in all shades of pink and red. You can buy a teddy bear at a gas station. For men who completely fail to plan, they even offer child care at a local gym. And if you are hard up for things to say, you can get inspired by pre-printed messages on Necco hearts.

While, yes, there is a bar there that they do expect you to get over, it is set really, really low. Fail to get over it, and—well, that just puts you in a very small percentage of incompetent losers that get stuck on a speed bump. If you don’t do anything despite all that help from retailers, then, frankly, you deserve the wrath you are likely to incur. You are in a callous subset of loveless creation with cockroaches, pit bulls, and black widow spiders. Some would argue with me regarding the pit bulls.

So why are you fighting Valentine’s Day? If you’re looking for something to fight, fight muscular dystrophy. Fight child obesity. Fight racial discrimination. Fight extinction of panda bears.

But don’t fight Valentine’s Day. It’s a fight you won’t win and you will forfeit all of those easy points.

So…that’s my advice. It may not be of much help, but at least I can have the satisfaction of knowing that I did my part to make sure St. Valentine did not die in vain and that his cause is being championed by the noblest of men in the most predictable ways.