Posted on by lgandre

The Value of a Woman (Part II)

This is a continuation of my last blog, so if you didn’t read The Value of a Woman, it won’t make much sense. You can just skip it…pick it up next time.

So…if nothing else, my last post taught me a valuable lesson. And some humility.

But before I get to that, I’m going to finish the thought.

As context, (because we love context) the Bible gives a unique history of women from the Creator’s perspective.

God said it wasn’t good for the man to be alone. So He made woman.

And He does seem to value her…more than 30 shekels of silver. Even above rubies.

God heard the cries of Hagar. He opened the womb of Leah. And Rachel. And Hannah. He restored to a widow her son on more than one occasion. He granted Sarah and Elizabeth each a baby in their old age. He provided a loving husband for Ruth. He saved Rahab and her family. He delivered a wicked ruler into the hand of Deborah. He sent one of His highest ranking angels to deliver a message to Mary. Jesus would release an adulterous woman and forgive her sin. He would take the time to reach out to the “woman at the well” despite the social taboo and her sordid past. God would write the sacrifice of Mary’s ointment into history. He appeared to Mary Magdalene personally after His resurrection.

In one of my favorite stories, Scripture tells us specifically that Jesus loved Martha and Mary. He even cried with them over their brothers’ death even though he knew he was about to do what men love to do: fix it.

God would later inspire Paul to write that there was neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female before God—all given the opportunity of salvation and the ability to approach the throne of grace.

So with God’s evident care for women as a backdrop, I had two possible answers as to why God would set a lower value on women’s labor.

One was the idea of reducing market incentive. Keep in mind that if a woman was sold as a slave or a servant, it probably wasn’t because she was getting the money. By setting a lower price, it would be less likely for men to see their daughters as dollars. Outrageous as it is, mercenaries have sold their own daughters into slavery from the earliest of times to the present. Perhaps by setting a low price, God discouraged this practice. A wife or daughter would be worth more to her family by contributing her industry directly rather than through her wages.

As an alternative (or possibly to cure potential abuse on the other side of the deal), perhaps God was taking into account the tendency of a task master to be determined to get the benefit of his bargain. If a purchaser pays 50 shekels, he is going to want to get his 50 shekels worth. He will push harder, expect more, and forgive less than if he is paying 30 shekels. Maybe the lower payment would make an owner more understanding of the other callings on a woman’s life–things that weren’t income generating for the master but are unique to women. Having kids, for example.

But as it turned out, my warm, fuzzy explanations are a bit unnecessary and maybe just plain wrong.

Here comes the lesson I mentioned: never blog about what you thought you heard while sick on your bed doped up on chicken soup and herbal tea.

The fact is that on further study to finish the blog, I realized that the scene I laid out in part one was not exactly correct.   The part about the values was actually a separate discussion sandwiched between two passages about the year of Jubilee. See Leviticus 25 and 27.

So while the discussion about Jubilee was correct and the idea of calculating values based on an upcoming year of Jubilee was correct, the passage which set the value of women at 30 shekels and men at 50 shekels (ages 20 – 60) actually had to do with people making a vow before God (chapter 27) and not the annual wage calculation of slaves (as best I can tell).

None of you called me on my mistake which is a little troubling since it was mostly men who commented on the last post and ya’lls brains are supposed to be worth like twice as much as mine. Just sayin’.

Some of my observations still stand, but the correct context does change the evaluation a bit. To make sure I got it right this time, I tried to look at some commentaries. The first thing I discovered was that I didn’t own a commentary on Leviticus 27. The second was that none of the online commentaries I found had anything helpful to say about Leviticus 27. Now there are two issues–1. why did God set different values on men and women; and 2. what exactly did He mean when He was talking about vows involving the valuations of persons? I can’t even quite picture the scenario in my head.

So, with regard to the first issue, I would proffer that while there probably is a practical explanation consistent with His character, all we know for sure is that God made men and women different and didn’t feel compelled to always treat them exactly the same. He loves and cares for both in His own sovereign way. He makes no apologies for his design or his decisions. He’s God and He really doesn’t have to explain himself to Hillary Clinton or anyone else. As an aside, everywhere Christianity has gone, the position of women had been elevated. I would rather be a Christian woman than…say, a Muslim woman.

With regard to the second one, perhaps my annual Bible reading is going to be enhanced this year by the peak in curiosity that is making me search out things like vows based on the value of persons. I’m hoping some of you with brains worth 1.67 times what mine is have figured this out.

And when you are sick, curled up in a ball in your bed listening to your Bible app, don’t compose blog posts in your head. It’s a really bad idea.

But I DIDN’T forget which helicopter I was in. Just sayin’.

Posted on by lgandre · 1 Comment

The Value of a Woman

image001Every other year, I make it a point to read through the Bible. This is my “every” year and being sick has helped the cause tremendously because—even though I could no sooner stare at a page of the Bible than run a marathon—I was able to listen to Exodus and Leviticus in large portions (compliments of my free Bible app.)

The people who complain about “all the Old Testament laws” were never sick on their beds listening to someone read the US Code. Or the Code of Federal Regulations. Or the Federal Reporter. Or the Internal Revenue Code. God condensed an entire country’s laws into a book a lay person could understand between cups of chicken soup and herbal tea. That’s remarkable.

Anyway…so here’s the piece that really got me thinking this time. In fact, I dare you to chew on this:

To give it context—God sets up the year of “Jubilee” every 50 years (roughly once in each person’s lifetime). During the year of Jubilee, every debt is forgiven and every slave is freed. The year of Jubilee gave everyone a new beginning as they would be restored to their lands; reunited with their families; and given a year off while the land had rest.

As further context, if someone was selling themselves into slavery to pay off a debt, they would count the value of a person based on the number of years left between the sale and the year of Jubilee. Apparently, there was no inflation in Israel’s commodity based system, and for a man, the value was 50 shekels of silver per year; and for a woman it was 30 shekels per year.

Interesting.

Talk about a wage-gender gap. The value of a man age 20 and up was 1.67 times that of a woman.

I’m no feminist. In fact, all the chatter of a wage-gender gap in current culture has never ruffled my feathers.

From what I’ve read, the more reliable studies show there is no wage-gender bias.

From what little I know from life itself, if you work hard and earn your keep, people will pay you. And if they don’t, one of the beauties of this great country is that you can go work somewhere else. If no one will pay you what you think you are worth, then chances are you are not worth what you think you are worth—whether man or woman. Pretty simple.

So back to Exodus. The price of men was 50 shekels. The price of women was 30 shekels.

That’s what God said.

I chewed on that for a while. Was it because the jobs that were available—tending fields and herding flocks—were just jobs men were better suited to? Women in those rolls weren’t able to keep up and it would take 1.67 of them to do what men could do?

This explanation didn’t seem quite right. Some women can out work some men in the field. God knows that.

Besides, surely whoever was out hiring servants also needed people to cook and clean and watch kids—things that women tend to excel at. It just might take 1.67 men to do what some moms do in a day. And anyway, in our culture, we’ve done a pretty good job of convincing ourselves that those things are just as valuable even if they don’t tend to pay as well.

If anyone ever had the ability to equal out the pay and settle that debate once and for all, it would be God right at that moment. So why didn’t he?

As a second thought—was it because of the law of supply and demand?   Were more women than men to be sold into slavery? Was the price lower so that women could find the security of a buyer? Men at the front of the store. Women on the clearance rack.

I thought about “Pirates of the Caribbean”—perhaps the most politically incorrect ride at Disney— portraying women being chained and sold on the auction block to drunken sailors and thieving reprobates. That just seems so outrageously inconsistent with the character of God. God is not an inebriated pirate.

So why the difference in value? Is God the sexist bigot that certain unbelievers would paint him to be? Has he changed since the days of Leviticus?

I thought about the well-quoted verse in Proverbs, Who can find a virtuous woman? Her worth is far above rubies. Apparently, that is what Solomon’s mother told him. And apparently, despite the fact that he probably had the rubies available to buy his way to the top of an eligible bachelor contest, he never found one. Or maybe he found several. We don’t really know. But at any rate, put in context, that statement appears to be some motherly advice and not an attempt to put a dollar value on a woman’s work.

Still, it just seems that there must be reasonable explanation consistent with God’s unchanging character.

And after mulling it over, I’ll tell you my conclusion. Next blog.

Posted on by lgandre

God of Every Story

Listen to Laura Story’s song “God of Every Story.”

You might find it unremarkable unless you understand it for what it is: her story. A newly wed girl whose husband was diagnosed with a brain tumor. A surgery that left him in good health, but not quite whole. A lifetime with a man who is not able to remember that he married her. That would be tough.

But God was not done writing their story and he held their family together. In 2012, they welcomed a baby girl into their family. And in 2014, their family expanded with twin boys. It is little wonder why she is not writing a lot of new music these days. Their house probably hums to the tune “the wheels on the bus…”

Their story is still not all told, but even the part we know now is amazing. Especially when Laura tells it in worship.

God of every story. The timing of this gentle reminder was not a coincidence. Just a few minutes before hearing that song, I had been on my way to work, minding my own business, when I had been suddenly struck with eminency of my own fears. The radio was tuned to a conservative talk station where I had been listening to Dave Ramsey rant the night before. Mind you, my commute is only about three minutes long. And in that three minutes, I expected to hear about Benghazi, Obamacare, or Common Core. But instead, the topic of discussion had nothing to do with politics and everything to do with the reality of my deepest fears. There. I heard it. I couldn’t unhear it.

I won’t tell you what it was because it isn’t the point—but you might be able to guess. It may seem silly to you. That’s okay. It isn’t your fear; it’s mine. It might mean nothing to you; you might be able to explain it away; tell me I’m foolish; or tell me you’re sorry for me. But you can’t make it go away. Only God can do that. And so far, He hasn’t.

God of every story.

When my faith is tested, I often let my fears rule my heart. I often take my gaze off my Savior and my feet begin to sink. But this time, I resolved I wouldn’t do that—I wouldn’t get caught in the storm of my doubts but instead focus on the proof of His love.

I looked around at the stories I’m seeing God write. In fact, scrolling through Facebook was like paging through God’s brag book. Budding romances…blooming families…the glory of God’s creation…good gifts in small packages! I saw my adorable nephew swinging on a swing; a friend of mine named Jaime loving her new baby—a story God is writing that I can’t wait to hear more of.

My eyes locked on a photo of pink ballet slippers, “It’s a Girl!” it boasted and I was moved to tears.

My cousin was told as a young teen that she would never be able to have kids. For the last 15 years or so, she’s believed that she would never be a mom. For a girl, that’s a big deal. And I suspect that even to guys who might have otherwise been a big part of her life—that was a big deal. But from what I know about Joelle, she was faithful. She loved the Lord even though she didn’t love the facts as she knew them.

A wedding was long in coming for her. Then about a year and a half ago or so, she got married to a man who had cancer. He had fought it in the past and he was getting ready to go through treatments again. They got married knowing that they didn’t know what the future would look like. Which says a lot about the kind of girl Joelle is.

And the doctors said because of his numerous cancer treatments, he also was not able to have kids.

And that’s why this post is such a beautiful thing. Because now there are three in their family. Three miracles: A wedding. A sustaining. And a birth. Because God is the God of their story and He saw fit to trust them with one of His most precious gifts. Regardless of what the doctors had to say.

Then there is me. What is my story? I don’t know exactly.

Perhaps I’m up too close to even see it. When people even ask me “what’s new?” I don’t know what to say. No miracles.

But I guess I could say what’s new is what God is doing in me. What’s new is letting go of fears. Peace in the storm. Love instead of jealousy. Kinder words. A cleaner heart. A life less driven by fear and more driven by faith.

It doesn’t sound exciting and it’s not, really. Not a thriller or a romance. There are no ballet slippers with that. A work in progress isn’t “new” I guess, but it just that—a work. A story still being written.

But when God finishes, I’ll write a song about it. And I suppose I’ll have to work hard to come up with a title since “God of Every Story” is already taken.

Posted on by lgandre · 3 Comments

On Being Overly Sensitive

I’m cringing as I post this. I’m cringing because I know, sure as getting spaghetti on a white sweater, that as soon as this posts, someone is going to do something to hurt my feelings. It’s the nature of the beast.   Blogging is like waiving a flag at trouble and saying, “I think I’m the expert on this, come find out!”

And to heighten the odds, I’m a girl.

But, regardless, while I have other ideas for blogs, the rest of them seem to need a little more runway. So here I go.

I’ve heard sensitivity called a virtue. And maybe it is. Maybe it is the one virtue that needs to go find all the lost virtues and trade places with them. Or maybe it just needs some major dilution–like one part sensitivity to twenty parts real life.

One of the best pieces of advice I was ever given was this: Be very hard to offend.

Unfortunately, I was well into my twenties before I understood the wisdom of that simple sentence. I cried a lot of worthless tears. For myself.

There are a few things in this world worth crying over. Worth fighting over. Worth agonizing over. Christmas cards are not among them. Birthday parties are not among them. Who says “Hi!” to you on the way in and out of church is not among them. Facebook is not among them.

If there are two ways to interpret something and one is highly offensive and the other is a reasonable explanation, choose to believe the reasonable explanation. Practice it on the little stuff.

Without trying to be demeaning–the good folks of Ferguson would have saved themselves a lot of precious hours of sleep if they had just followed that simple principle. Mind you, I’m not saying that racial prejudice isn’t real and tragic, just that behavior like what we saw contributed nothing to the cause of justice. Frankly, most white people like most black people. And those that don’t aren’t the least bit swayed by looting and protesting.

While I’m on the subject of race, Condoleezza Rice came to mind. She grew up in segregated Birmingham–the south of the south. Her family knew what prejudice was. They knew they had to work harder to gain respect and so they did. They did work hard and they did gain respect.

In her book, she recounts a time (after moving to Colorado) when a potential landlord turned her family down citing the noise from her grand piano that would disturb the neighborhood. The Rice family was convinced it was actually because they were black. And they were furious.

But it worked both ways. Not every black girl gets the opportunities Condoleezza got–internships, fellowships, professorships.  But I have to believe from her story that she got more attention than she would have if she had been white. People were eager to have a bright, hardworking person on their team but being a black woman made her stand out in a crowd of bright, hardworking people.

And as it turned out, she changed her major from piano performance to foreign policy.

As life went on, Condoleezza must have developed some thicker skin. Because she took some hits. She took some hits as Provost of Stanford–even from the black students. She took even more hits as Secretary of State. Because who doesn’t hit on an attractive, single Secretary of State? Eligible bachelors. That’s about it.

The point here is that you can spend your life being overly sensitive–worrying about who likes you and who doesn’t and why. You can pull away from people and places and activities because there are people who don’t like you, don’t appreciate you, or don’t see eye to eye with you. And you can be miserable. That’s up to you.

But if you prefer to avoid the misery, I would encourage you to ask two questions: 1 is there another, reasonable explanation for what happened? And 2. Is this a hill worth dying on? (Or at least, worth crying on?)  If the answers are yes, and no, then in the words of a famous princess, Let it go! Let it GO!

It’s up to you–you can spend your life fighting with a landlord over a piano, and lose. Or fighting with the Soviet Union over freedom, and win.

Condoleezza recounts a time when she looked over at President Bush, then out the window of Air Force One and said: “I’m awfully glad I changed my major.”

And, for whatever reason, one landlord had missed out on responsible, history-making tenants.  Her loss.  It’s was time to forgive the piano incident.

Posted on by lgandre · 3 Comments

I Decided to go without Sugar for a Week and Here’s what Happened

So…I saw an article in my Facebook feed several times called “My Family Decided to go without Sugar for a Year and Here’s What Happened.”  Or something like that.  I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention.  I tried not to pay a whole lot of attention.

I didn’t read the article.  I didn’t even click on the article.  I didn’t even hoover over the article.  I was afraid it would come to life like a horror movie trailer.

Because, essentially, I know three things about sugar: 1. It is in basically every food and food-like substance.  2.  It is horrible for you.  And, 3. I like it.

I really don’t want to know just how wonderful my life would be without sugar.  I just don’t.  Especially since sugar is pretty much a necessary ingredient in anything chocolate.  And if I didn’t have chocolate, I probably wouldn’t die.  But I probably would want to.  Badly.

Anyway, so with that introduction, I have to explain why I would decide to go a week without sugar:

I made it through Christmas okay, but as I returned to work, I found my resolve toward moderation failing me.  People were bringing in leftovers, gifts, and leftover gifts–most of which involved chocolate.  And lots of sugar.

I found myself consuming a steady stream of chocolate, chocolate cake, chocolate candy, chocolate covered Oreo balls, and chocolate chunks.  I’m sure I said no to something, somewhere, but I definitely didn’t make a habit of it.

Mind you, I was working out pretty steadily, so it didn’t catch up with me right away. But whether or not it was affecting my waste line, I knew it was going to have to stop.  And I decided to go without sugar for a week.

So, the first thing that happened is that I learned that deciding to go without sugar for a week is not the same thing as actually going without sugar for a week.

Yeah…about that…basically, I had a couple of false starts.  Thanks to that stubborn chocolate cake sitting in the break room.

But Saturday came around and I had no more excuses.  I existed on spinach, plain Greek yogurt, flax seed, and turkey.  I felt like such a good girl.

Then came Sunday.  I drowned out my strong desire to eat sugar with a big, fat fried chicken sandwich.  A much better choice for my health I’m sure than say, a chocolate kiss.

After the fried chicken sandwich, I had to drive to Florida and it was one of those afternoons that a nap sounded just delightful and a long drive sounded much less so.  I was drowsy, had a dull headache and a low gas tank, so I had to stop. I really did.

But I was good.  And instead of spending a few sugary calories on Zipfizz or other caffeinated drink, I resumed my drive and crunched on four hours worth of pretzels.

Monday dawned and I had another dull headache.  Maybe it was because of the long drive.  Maybe it was because I was sugar deprived.  Maybe it was because of the four hours worth of pretzels I had in my system.  Whatever the truth was, I felt yuk.

I have to confess to eating a few gingersnaps on Monday.  It was social eating and there was no chocolate involved, so it really shouldn’t count.

Tuesday…involved another fried chicken sandwich.

Wednesday…someone brought doughnuts to the office.  Two boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.  Cruelty, I tell you.  I had to walk by those doughnuts all morning.  But I did not eat one.  At first, I mean.

In fact, I walked by a lot of times without eating one.  Two boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts.  Hours went by before I even opened the box.  That should count for something.  Then came thirty seconds of heaven that earned me two long miles on the treadmill.

Thursday…I was good all day.  It helped that the leftover doughnut parts and pieces were looking less like people food and more like chicken food.

Friday…I did have some Baklava and honestly, it was worth the cheat.

But I didn’t eat any chocolate.

In fact, you haven’t heard me say the world chocolate for a long time.  So, I was still being good even if I did blow it a little bit.

Nevertheless, it was a loooooong week.  I think I’ve found the secret to slowing down the clock.  Decide not to eat sugar…or even just chocolate.  Time may fly when you are having fun but when you are trying to stay away from sugar, it flies DELTA (Doesn’t Ever Leave The Airport).  Feel like you’re aging too fast?  Decide not to eat sugar until your next birthday.  It will probably never come.

The reason I’m telling you all this is because I know–especially at the beginning of the year–there are a bunch of people out there who are also trying to eat better and/or work out harder.  And I know that it is not easy.  On Day 10, some people may have already given up.

So…I want to encourage you not to give up.  Even if it isn’t going perfectly.  Even if that doughnut box is calling your name.  Keep it up because we all know that a little discipline with our bodies is not only good for us physically but also good for us spiritually.

There are an unlimited number of tips, tricks, and products to try to make it easier, but at the end of the day, I figured you probably didn’t want advice from someone who blew their plan over gingersnaps.  So I’ll settle for being an encourager: Keep disciplining your body. I didn’t do it perfectly; I didn’t see extreme results; but I did accomplish my goal of getting back to moderation.

And if you discipline yourself, As a little added bonus, you’ll be able to stretch time.  And, if you choose, you can fill those long days with a whole lot of fun.  Like square dancing.

—

So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God. 
I Corinthians 10:31

Posted on by lgandre

Let’s Go Blue!

Law Enforcement Supporter (2)At the Bostic Law Firm, we are all about our clients.

We make friends for our clients. We make enemies for our clients. That’s what they pay us to do. And when we fight, we fight to win.  That’s why they hire us–because they think we will.

And frankly, most of the time, we do.  We try to out work the other side (Curtis), out smart the other side (Peter), or occasionally, just out spend the other side (me).

But while we’ll ask stupid questions for our clients, lose sleep for our clients, and miss family events for our clients; one thing we generally don’t do for our clients is take bullets. Our hourly rates just don’t cover the workers comp involved with that kind of lead poisoning.

And at the end of the day, if we find ourselves in a fight we don’t want to be in, representing people we can’t whole heartedly represent, or just without the resources or the facts to “bring it”–we look for a way out.

By contrast, between 100 and 200 law enforcement officers die in the line of duty every year.  If that doesn’t sound like a lot to you, start counting your family members. You can stop when you get to 200.

50,000 more will get assaulted and 14,000 will get wounded in the line of duty.

I have a friend whose husband was part of that last statistic.  In a matter of seconds, he became a quadriplegic.  The next chapter of his life was full of doctors, hospitals, home care nurses, medicines, infections, and eventually amputation and depression.  He died a few years later, but not before he and his family had been down a long, hard road.

I can give more examples–but the point isn’t so much the anecdotes as the general principal.  In a time when law enforcement has taken a beating, I think it’s time for us as citizens to show our gratitude.

There are 780,000 men and women in the USA who don a uniform every day.  We call them law enforcement because that is what they swear to do–uphold the law. They don’t get to pick their clients.  They don’t get to pick their fights.  They don’t even get to pick which laws.  And this world is just plain not Mayberry.

Perhaps to you, a job is just a job.  A client is just a client.  But to law enforcement families, generally, their job is a way of life.  It involves service, sacrifice, and danger.

So take a few minutes today to say “thanks!”  Start with the ones you know–a friend, a brother-in-law, a cousin.  And if you get a chance, reach out to a few you don’t know.  Pay for their coffee or stop them at the gym.  Say thanks.

Maybe we can make this county a little more like Mayberry after all.

Posted on by lgandre

My First Dance

It was my mistake. My bad.

I was visiting at Penney Farms—my favorite vacation destination—where 20% of the population is over the age of 90. Old people live in Florida; their parents live in Penney Farms.

My grandma has been laid up with wounds on her leg that have caused pretty severe pain, and my grandfather, now wheelchair bound, is pretty limited in how he can help her out.

So that’s how I made my mistake. I saw signs posted up all over campus advertising a square dance that evening. I thought I would be funny and suggest that we all go. It wasn’t that I needed something to do—If there’s one thing I didn’t need, it was something else to do.

Unfortunately, what I thought would be a funny idea was taken by my grandparents to be a great idea. For me. I said I wouldn’t go without them—thinking that would be the end of it, but it was not. I may be the only one of our little triumvirate with two good legs, but I do not wear the pants.

Grandpa was better than a secretary, reminding me several times including 15 minutes before and 5 minutes before. He was not about to let me out of this one. In fact, he instructed that I go inside and he would stay outside and watch from a distance through the glass doors.

So here I was, headed to my first dance. With my grandpa as a chaperone.

I don’t dance. I don’t know how.

My plan was to hide in the back as much as possible, watch a bit, and then sneak out and get some other things done that evening.

“We have a guest.” The caller boomed into the microphone after being prompted by one of the residents. The microphone was necessary—despite the rather small crowd—because, remember, these are folks in their golden years and hearing is no longer an asset.

“Her name is Danielle. This is her first time. We’re going to teach her to square dance.”

He proceeded to teach me to square dance via the microphone and my name—“Okay, Danielle…” and everyone would get to stand by and wait while he taught me the next step.

Most of the ladies had on skirts—some were “poofy” sticking almost straight out; some were matching with their partners. One lady was even complete with braids and a cowboy hat.   Everyone there was north of 50 and most were north of 75. But they were there to have a good time and have a good time they did.

As the caller called the various steps, he often sang along with the words and many of the dancers joined in. I found myself being promenaded by a half-skipping gentleman singing “Zippidee-doo-dah” with a big grin. What choice did I have but to have fun too?

At the end of every dance, everyone would look around and say, “Did anyone get hurt?”   And at the end of every two dances, they would stop the music and have a sit down break. During some of the breaks, one of the residents would get up and tell a joke or a story. This, one of them informed me, was the hot time in the old town that night.

And I had no doubt they were telling the truth.

Men were in high demand—there weren’t really enough of them to go around—so I felt a little bad that I got a steady stream of partners. This was no high school prom, though, and the other women were gracious—even sweet. I tried to sit a few out to make sure I wasn’t wearing out my welcome and one of the men sat out with me. We had just met for the first time.

Actually, this is at least the fourth time we have met for the first time—he has dementia. He asked a steady stream of questions while we waited and at one point asked me what I did. “I work in a law firm.” I said generically.

“You want to be a lawyer?” He asked, and then without waiting for a reply, he announced loudly to the group, “Danielle wants to be a lawyer!” I felt like an 8-year-old on career day. Apparently, he thought it was the best joke of the night.

The dance was just getting ready to start again when he asked, “where do you want to go to school?” but thankfully, the caller saved me from a long explanation by calling a Grand Square. I walked my four steps away, and left him hanging. We will have to start over next time anyway.

If you are ever hard up for compliments, I recommend hanging out with a group of people 50 years or so your senior. I was told how well I was doing and how quickly I caught on numerous times. The caller put it all in perspective though—“there are seven levels in square dancing.” He said. “This is level one.”

Earlier that day, I had been bemoaning the fact that I had forgotten the most critical part of my workout get up—shoes. It’s a little hard to run in boots and that’s all I had with me. God had just provided the perfect exercise for a woman in boots. Unfortunately, Caller burst that bubble too: “This is great exercise.” He said. “In two hours you’ll walk about three miles!”

Hmmm…Some people run a mile in four minutes. I would be walking a mile in forty. 1.5 MPH. That must be some kind of a record.

But forget the three miles…the two hours part! Shoot, this fun group of seniors was going to have me out way past my bedtime. But there was no escape. Pretty much every move I made was being boomed into the microphone.

But all good things must come to an end.   This one ended with “Love Me Tender” which Caller—who is also an Elvis impersonator—sang convincingly (as did my partner with dementia). Then we asked, “Did anyone get hurt?” and we had a round of applause to celebrate that we had a full two hours of fun and no one got hurt.

So as it turns out… if suggesting a square dance is the biggest mistake I make this trip, I should at least be able return to Charleston unhurt.   And, if nothing else, I’ve finally found some things I can look forward to about getting old and crazy: A chance to wear a poufy skirt to a party, singing Zippidee- doo-dah, and dancing with some of the nicest people on earth.

“Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.”
Proverbs 31:25

Posted on by lgandre

Top 10 Things I’ve Learned from Traveling

It’s that time when I add up mileage from the previous year. Here are a few thoughts from a weary traveler…

– Salad is meant to be eaten at a table.

– You can never have too many cell phone chargers.  (They are cheapest at Big Lots and will probably last till you lose them).

– There are two kinds of gas stations; neither have nice restrooms.

– There is nothing like endless miles in a car that brings out the side of me that eats gummy bears and sour patch kids alternately.

– There is a Golden Corral in Johnson City.  The Sunday afternoon staff knows us by name.

– Hotel work out rooms are never what they look like in the photos.

– If you are going to pack your curling iron while it’s still hot, you have to live with the consequences.

– Always pack your unmentionables first.  It is really a bummer to get where you were going without them.

– Rented books on CD from Cracker Barrel are a great way to pass the time.  And losing one CD from each book is a great way to waste money.

– You don’t get to keep the rental car.  That’s okay.  You probably won’t want to.  You know…by the time you wreck it and all…

Posted on by lgandre · 2 Comments

Are there any happy people out there?

Yes, it has been three months since I’ve blogged.  I pretty much gave up blogging.

But recently, some friends encouraged me to continue.  The type of friends that I’m honored even take the time to read my writing–much less miss it when it isn’t there.

One kind soul even took the time to ask if I was “okay.”  So here is the short story:

October and November were difficult months.  I’m not gonna lie.

December was peaceful, pleasant, and even fun.  But with the peace came sort of a spiritual “dryness” that left me really with nothing to say and definitely, nothing to shout above the din of viral videos, cute cartoons, pithy comments, family photos, Christmas music, personal notes, and far, far better blogs than I’ll ever write.

My theory is, when I have nothing to say, I should be quiet.

Then there is a competing theory that there is never a perfect time to write.  Life will always be messy in some respect or another.  Sometimes, I just have to do it. Even when it is easier to just be quiet.

Anyway, so in December, I was kind of a cautious happy, not a confident happy.  I tried to blog a few times, but I wasn’t quite able to pull it off. And this week, my spirits seemed to be in a steady decline and by Tuesday afternoon,  I would listen to anyone who would tell me a tale of woe.  And when anyone else would listen, I would tell my own tale of woe.  Pretty soon, I felt like one unhappy person surrounded by a world of unhappy people.  6 billion unhappy people is a lot of unhappy people.

And we would all say, “Oh, and Happy New Year!”  at the end of the tale.

Like suddenly, the clock would strike midnight and we would all reset to happy.

Seriously, though, I found myself asking, “Are there any happy people out there?”  The poor aren’t happy.  The rich aren’t happy.  Students aren’t happy.  Working people aren’t happy.  Retired people aren’t happy.  Parents aren’t happy.  Kids aren’t even happy.  How messed up does a world have to be for kids not be happy? 

I’m willing to wager that if I had been at Disneyworld on Christmas Day, I could have found for you boatloads of people singing the blues to “It’s a Small World After All.” If the happiest place on earth is devoid of people living happily ever after, what hope is there for the rest of us?

I read somewhere that the key to happiness in a relationship is the constant belief that the other person is better than you deserve.  The more I thought about that, the more I have realized there is a lot of wisdom in that simple statement.  Perhaps because, whether they realized it or not, the author’s conclusion was essentially the biblical principles of humility and gratefulness…with a touch of contentment.

I’m convinced that the same truth applies to happiness in life.  Choose to believe that your life is better that you deserve.  And that is the truth—whether you believe it or not.

I don’t intend to be trite—I know that some of us were created to think constantly, feel deeply, and care passionately (not only about our own hurts, but about others’ as well). It can seem cold and even irreverent to cast aside feelings of hurt for feelings of hope.

But, nevertheless, it is never wrong to embrace the joy that humility and gratefulness bring. So, I started to do something new this New Years.  Not a resolution, but maybe a new tradition.  I decided to write down one hundred things I was grateful for—one hundred.

Some came quickly…and in no particular order: New Kitchen cabinets. Working heat.  Ministries I get to be a part of.  Grandparents.  My Sunday School class.  The Bible.  A working car.  Dish soap.  My phone.  Salvation.  Julie Anne.  Photos.

Some brought to mind a negative counterpart…my health (but not migraines).  My paycheck (but not taxes).  But I put a lid on that: no list of things I’m not thankful for.

My resolve was tested before I even hit 20.  My day included poorly timed reminders that all was not well in life—or at least not the way I want it.  But when you keep in mind that what you deserve is hell, that kind of puts a different perspective on things.  Life is good when it is better than you deserve.

I got to 50 without too much trouble. Then I started again:   Roses. Indoor plumbing. Nieces and nephews. A hope of heaven. The USA. Our troops. Sundays.

I named people God has brought into my life; current and past. The Lanes—who let me stay at their house and drive their car for free for 8 weeks while I studied for the bar exam. My sisters and brother – who let me buy annoying toys for their kids. Candi Grinder – my high school yearbook advisor who told me I was good at graphic design. The Kinzers – Clients who have come to be special people in my life.

That brought to mind a story that I just have to share…I was in Kentucky by myself and the weather was an ungodly 1 degree. I needed to leave and I couldn’t get the car to start. It was bitterly cold—my brain was frozen and I couldn’t really think of what to do next.

Jerry Kinzer—one of the wealthiest men I know—happened to call and asked about something. I confessed that it wasn’t the best morning in the world and that I couldn’t get the car to start. Jerry could have done nothing at all. He could have said he was sorry. He could have given me the phone number of a tow company. He could have sent one of the 100 or so men that work for him to come and give me a jump.

But a few minutes later, he showed up in the 1 degree weather, hooked up the cables he brought with his ungloved hands and jumped the jeep so I could get on the road.

There are a lot of stories like that in my life. There are a lot of people like that in my life. And before I even got to 100—I was wholly convinced that my life is much better than I deserve.

Are there any happy people out there?

I don’t know. But there is at least one happy person.

In here.

Posted on by lgandre

Visibility is Terrible (Part 2)

But it was stolen.

And all we had to go on was that our computer snatcher had brown shoes, a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and a tight connection to Madison, Wisconsin.

Fortunately, that turned out to be enough. Just barely enough to catch him in the men’s room near his gate. You just can’t make this stuff up.

I was shocked to get it back in time to catch our flight…and even more so by the fact that some friendly Delta agents took the time to help us with the heist. God forgive me for all the ugly things I’ve said about Delta agents.

Proof that miracles do still happen. Kinda like the time that the bag of apples confiscated from me at security were returned as I boarded my flight. Only more so.

Anyway…that brings me back to this particular day and the fact that I didn’t have a boarding pass for my Dulles to Lancaster flight.

I arrived in Dulles with a few hours to kill; I planned to kill them by working. I had plenty of juice in my laptop which, as of yet, had not been lost, left, broken, or pilfered by followers of the Grateful Dead. Yes, same laptop. She and I go way back and all the way around the world quite a few times. Yes, there are more stories where those come from.

But before I killed too much time, I decided to go ahead and track down my boarding pass for the next flight. Upon surveying the screens, I saw that there was an earlier flight to Lancaster leaving right then and both were operated by a United affiliate I had never heard of before. Something about the Sun or the Sunrise…it sounded a little too close to “Lucky Airlines” for my comfort, but hey, I had my lucky laptop with me.

I was surprised to see four men standing behind a small desk at my gate. One of them wore an orange vest and the other three wore dark uniforms.

“I need to check in.” I said.

“Are you Danielle Walker?” They asked.

That’s a little weird.

“Do you want to get on the earlier flight?” Orange Vest asked in broken English. His name tag identified him as being from Trinidad.

“Sure…” It might just mean I end up killing the same time on the other end, but I believe in taking a seat in a moving plane when it’s available.

“We have to call to change your plans.” Orange Vest from Trinidad informed me. He dialed up a long number on a cellular flip phone and handed it to me.

The lady on the other end sounded like it could be his wife. Still in Trinidad.

“You want to get on the flight?” She asked me.

“Yes…”

“Fifteen dollar.” She said.

“You’re joking.”

“Fifteen dollar.”

Did she really think I was going to give my credit card information…over a flip phone…to Sunshine Airlines…in Trinidad???

One of the men at the counter said he was finalizing a report for the flight. “I’ll add you in by hand,” he said. And he started writing on a clipboard in pencil.

“How much do you weight?” Orange Vest asked me (emphasis on the “T”).

I looked around the uncrowded terminal. Hmmm… Maybe I should just wait for the next flight.

One of the men picked up my bag. “Probably 30 pounds.” He guessed. “Maybe 40.”

The men were eager for me to finish my phone call which ended in a fight between Orange Vest and the lady, and before I knew it, the four of them were escorting me outside. No boarding pass. No other passengers. Just me and the mafia, for all I knew.

“Visibility is terrible.” One of the men commented as he lowered two stairs up onto a small aircraft. “But I think we’ll make it.”

You can take a seat anywhere, the pilots instructed. That is, two of the men evidently were the pilots although it was stretching it to call them “men.”   They didn’t look old enough to be allowed to touch a razor. Orange Vest was the wing walker. The fourth man climbed in a different plane headed for parts unknown.

My one checked bag appeared on a seat next to me. What? A bag on a seat? Talk about breaking every FAA rule I’ve ever heard.

I’m pretty sure I broke a few myself when I put my feet up on the rear-facing seat across from me and pulled out my laptop. Ahh! No one to bust me for such crimes as putting my seat back before take off or not tucking a bag far enough under the seat in front of me.

One of the pilots did, however, give me a safety briefing and he managed to keep a straight face the whole time despite the fact that I was the sole passenger in an eight-seater plane with no oxygen masks and a ceiling so low, he had to do it sitting in the seat next to me. I nodded appreciatively as he pointed out the safety exits. I agreed to help in the event of an emergency.

As we pulled from the fog into the clouds, I started to really enjoy my private ride from Dulles to Lancaster. All the while, of course, wondering what kind of tax dollars were subsidizing this ride and enjoying the fabulous view from out my window[s].

The pilots, who were right in the cabin with me, put on their headsets and I reveled in the fact that I would not have to worry about another passenger stealing my computer. Of course, there were bigger worries—like whether two kids could land a plane in the soup, and what the lady in Trinadad was doing with my credit card info—but I chose just to sit back and pretend this was Air Force One. It isn’t every day I have my own crew to fly me to my destination on my schedule.

There was no red carpet rolled out when I arrived. No crowds. No photographers. No latte salutes.

But one of the pilots did pull off my check bag for me so I could claim it inside. Really, I assured him, that wasn’t necessary.

Even my imagination wore thin by the time I waited 30 minutes for my driver. He showed up in a green 1980-something Chrysler with crumbs littering the floor boards.

“Sorry.” He said with broken English and a broad smile. “Taxi broken.”

This is more like the travel I know and love.

“You like Ethiopian food?” He asked me as we zoomed past corn fields and Amish buggies.

“I don’t know.” I said. “I’ve never had it.”

“You should travel more. I take you to Philadelphia. They have good Ethiopian restaurant.”

“I appreciate the offer, but…I think I’ve had enough travel for one day.”

Only in America.

the view
They weren’t kidding about visibility…I took a picture so I could share the view with you!