Posted on by lgandre

Visibility is Terrible (Part I)

I ran up to the kiosk and popped in my debit card. I was running later than I should have; and even later than that.

Enter the first three letters of your final destination, the machine said.

L-A-N I typed hurriedly.

It pulled up options from Lansing to foreign destinations I could only hope to go. Lancaster was not among them. I typed in the full destination. “We’re sorry, United does not fly to Lancaster.” The machine read. I looked at my confirmation again, but everything seemed to be in order.

I fought with the machine while the clock ticked. Finally, the machine gave up and told me to consult a service representative. I had to wait my turn.

The agent who finally helped me looked at the clock and gave me a disapproving look. I know. I know. Just please, please get me on this flight!

She handed me only one boarding pass–to Dulles–but I took it and ran. I would have three hours in Dulles to work it out. For now, my goal was to get through security and on this flight before it left me.

So far, not an unusual trip. Not unusual to fly. Not unusual to fight machines or be scolded by cranky customer service reps. Not unusual to stand in a long security line. Not unusual to be the last person to board a flight.

Since my first flight when I was 14, I’ve spent thousands of hours in air travel. I estimated that I’ve spent at least the equivalent of 83 24-hr days on nothing but air travel. I’m still basically cattle car status with the major airlines, but I recently achieved elite status on Bostic airlines. Which, incidentally, has the best food at the best prices.

Among my experiences is being stranded for about 24 hours in the airport in Beijing only to be placed on a connecting flight operated by “Lucky” airlines. (Who named that and who taught him English?). I’ve fallen asleep in front of my gate only to be woken up by “final boarding call. Passenger Danielle Walker please report to gate A3.” Seems the gate attendants were watching me and taking bets on whether I would wake up or not. One plane we were on crashed into a random set of stairs while taxiing and we all had to deplane and find some other way home. And, of course, there was the unfortunate day when I left my new computer at a security check point–never to recover it on this earth.

I remember as a kid being absolutely fascinated by airports and the whole business of travel–the coming, the going, the adventure. Slowly, the infatuation has worn off and while it remains a utility, air travel is a largely inconvenient one. Necessary, just not terribly exciting.

Following the lost computer incident, I’ve had two other “after shocks.” During my trip to NH this summer, our delay caused me to miss a connection. I spent about an hour and a half at the O’Hare haggling with machines and customer service reps live and on the phone before giving up and booking a room. It was about 11:30 pm and I wasn’t going to be able to get out until sometime the next morning.

I trudged with my bags down the escalator, through their “was-cool-in-the-80s” moving walkway, out through baggage claim, across 5 lanes of traffic and almost to the shuttle. Then I realized I was missing my computer bag. It had mysteriously escaped. And I wanted to cry.

I retraced my steps down the walk, back across the traffic, and back to baggage claim. But of course the TSA official would not let me back in. I tried to explain to him my problem with what little sanity I had left. “Go to the lost baggage counter.” He instructed me.

“You don’t understand.” I was choking back tears by now in what I knew was a futile effort. “This was not a checked bag.”

“Don’t cry.” He ordered.

That did it. I cried.

“Go to baggage claim.” He said again. He would not budge.

I stood in another line at baggage claim. Recounting to myself all the reasons why I was wasting my time and should instead at least be at the hotel trying to rest. And regain sanity. What could they possibly do for me at baggage claim? It was not a checked bag. I had carried it until…until whatever happened, happened. I didn’t recall ever putting it down.

Finally, it was my turn. I explained my plight.

“We don’t have anything to do with bags you carry on with you. Why are you here?” The lady asked me.

Good question. I didn’t know why I was there. Insanity taking over, I guess.

She made a few calls to make me feel like she was trying to help. A few other agents came over and she explained to them my dilemma and they all said the same thing. “Why is she here?”

I felt like a 10 year old trying to convince a teacher that I should get grace because my dog ate my homework. I was the one who lost the computer. I didn’t know where or when. And it wasn’t their problem.

Then, she appeared with it. My computer bag. It was all in tact. I don’t know how she did it and I was in such shock, I didn’t thank her adequately before she moved on to the next customer.

It was my very next trip that I lost my computer again. Yes, again. Curtis and I were working away on our laptops when the plane came in to land. As instructed, I turned my computer off and set it under the seat in front of me. We were in the first row of economy but the barrier between economy and First Class didn’t go all the way to the floor. So when was taxied to a stop, the computer slid out of sight and into the wild blue yonder of First Class.

Since we would be deplaning in just a minute and since no one in First Class would care about my old computer, I wasn’t too worried and while Curtis crawled on the floor and eye-balled it, I didn’t bother to inconvenience the passengers who were trying to gather their things and get off the plane. We would get it soon enough.

Unless, of course, someone stole it.

To be continued…

Posted on by lgandre · 1 Comment

Life Given

ceb family c and j small
Jenny & Curtis Bostic

I’ll never forget what attorney Curtis Bostic said to me on our first meeting.  “Wait until you meet my wife.”  He said proudly.  “I smacked that one out of the park.”

And when I met her, I knew instantly that he was right.

She was beautiful.  Not in a fake “Hollywood wanna-be” sort of way, but in a classy, contented sort of way.  She radiated a joy that was mature and gentle.

Two weeks later, I packed my suitcase and moved to Charleston.  My job started Tuesday and when I left the office Friday, the weekend stretched out in front of me and it hit me that I was in a new city.  All alone.

That was B.C. (before cell phone) for that matter, there was no internet or TV in the little home I shared with Miss Sandra—who worked all the hours I didn’t.

I don’t know why I checked the answering machine when I got home—no one I knew had the number, much less a reason to call.  When I did, however, I heard Jenny’s cheery voice inviting me to dinner.  She also encouraged me to bring “a pair of pajamas and a toothbrush” and spend the night.

I hesitated.  This was my boss’ family.  As to spending the night—I didn’t really know the Bostics and I was a little old for slumber parties.  But after piddling around the empty house for a few minutes, I found myself pulling the pajamas and toothbrush out of my suitcase.

I’ve often wondered since then if Jenny would have still invited me if she had known that I would stay the next five years.

But Jenny was gracious and hospitable.  She went out of her way to make me feel welcome in the family’s double wide which was neat, clean, and tastefully decorated.

The more I got to know Jenny, the more amazed I became.  She was intelligent, educated, and gifted—an excellent musician, fantastic cook, organized home-school mom, amazing housekeeper, and devoted wife.  She jogged faithfully and ate healthfully; yet didn’t criticize those who didn’t.  She worked hard; yet didn’t make others feel bad about taking time off or having fun.  In fact, despite her many strengths, she didn’t come across arrogant at all.  She always treated other people like she had all of the time in the world. Though she didn’t.

I remember one time shortly after that the she took me to downtown Summerville just for the fun of it.  She bought me a milkshake at the drug store even though (for health reasons) she could not have one herself and showed me some of her favorite stops and shops.

Jenny was probably up until the wee hours of the next morning making up the lost time on a Saturday—folding clothes and doing all the things that keep a household functioning.  But the pressure of those chores had not kept her from taking time with me.  It is humbling to think about even to this day.

Perhaps that is what I find so incredible about this dear friend.  Some people give from their surplus—not Jenny.  Some people give until it hurts—not Jenny.  Few people give until they have nothing left to give.  Even fewer still give beyond nothing left—but that is Jenny.  You’ll never know when you exhausted her limits because she won’t show it; she will just keep giving.

After getting to know her some, I thought I wanted to be just like Jenny—always joyful, always patient, always selfless.  But I wasn’t.  Not even close.  It frustrated me, but the more I tried the more hopeless it seemed.

Gradually it sunk in to me that the spiritual maturity is not inherited or won, it cannot be had for the asking.  It is earned.  Even a tree planted by streams of water will grow undetected—slowly, painfully, quietly.  Jenny had persevered through some storms in life—choosing joy over depression, forgiveness over bitterness, meekness over her own way.

Over the last ten years that I have known Jenny, my respect for her has continually grown. We have been on many trips together and at first it surprised me that she would bring along a book about being a godly parent, an excellent wife, or a better Christian.  She could have written all of those books and then some.  But that wasn’t her mentality—she was still growing and learning.

In fact, she hasn’t written any books that I know of; doesn’t have a full speaking schedule, a TV show, or even a blog.  From what I’ve seen, much of Jenny’s time during this season of life is filled with the thankless tasks of loading the dish washer, teaching reading, solving math problems, grocery shopping, scrubbing bath tubs, and driving kids to karate.

When I thought about her life, I was reminded of Mary and the costly perfume that she spilled on Jesus’ feet.  Many criticized the offering as resources wasted—a year’s worth of labor gone in a few short seconds benefitting no one but Jesus.

But Jesus saw the act of selfless worship as a great gift—so much so, that the God of the universe took the space to write it down in His short book so that her life and action would be read and remembered for years to come.  Her perfume was not wasted; it was given.

Likewise, a life given in simple, selfless ways is not wasted.  It is invested.

Jenny’s daily routine is not wasted to the five kids who call her mom or the husband who calls her “sweetheart.”  And it is not wasted to the hundreds—perhaps thousands of people whom she has taken time for, listened to, and encouraged.

I know many who would say that they are a better wife, a better mom, or a better Christian for having known Jenny Bostic and I would count myself in that number.  Her gentle, quiet spirit convicts and motivates me on an ongoing basis.

And I can’t wait to see the incredible things that are to come for a life so freely given and so gently sustained as Jenny Bostic’s.

Posted on by lgandre

Lord, Teach Us to Pray

What if the sole indicator of your spiritual health was your prayer gauge?

What if the only fuel for your spiritual engine was the steam from your prayer room?

What if the only offering you had to lay before a loving king was the incense of your prayer?

I was never good at algebra. But one thing I learned is the importance of isolating a problem. Instead of being daunted by a long string of numbers, narrow the equation down to the offending variable. And so often, when all is not well with my spiritually, I dig down only to find that I lack a healthy prayer life. Prayer is so elementary that I forget it is like the alphabet that makes up every meaningful word we will encounter for the rest of our lives. We will never graduate from the need for prayer.

In Sunday School recently, we were taught that prayerlessness is a form of pride. It is me thinking I can handle life on my own. Occasional prayer is using God as my life saver instead of as my boat. It may keep me alive, but it won’t keep me heading in the right direction.

Lord, teach us to pray

When the disciples went to Jesus and asked him to teach them to pray, it was not the urgency of a critical need that drove them. It was not because of some puzzling dilemma. When the disciples needed something or had a question, they asked Jesus. Any why not? He was God. And He was right there. He was eating, sleeping, breathing, and walking next to them. He had shown himself infinitely powerful and ridiculously patient. Was walking with Jesus not enough?

The disciples didn’t yet understand that Jesus would die and ascend back to heaven. They didn’t yet grasp the importance of the relationship with a God who was unseen. But they did understand something: Jesus spent time—serious time—talking with the Father. Somehow they knew the importance of that time to Jesus. It was not Jesus’ daytime TV fix. It was a powerful communion between Father and Son.

And so they asked him to show them to pray.

Many books have been written and many sermons preached over the simple prayer Jesus taught to the disciples. He wasted no time and no words providing for the disciples a pattern for approaching the gates of heaven.

But clearly Jesus didn’t intend for them to memorize those simple phrases and repeat them with rote discipline day after day. Paul’s writings are replete with prayers—none of which are repetition or patterns. David, years before Jesus came to earth, had earned a place close to God’s heart by pouring out his soul to his God—sometimes in song; sometimes in grief; sometimes in despair. Moses had forged a close relationship with God through some unconventional prayers which include songs of praise recorded for us to read thousands of years later.

Jesus modeled a prayer life that went far beyond the six or eight verses we call the Lord’s prayer. He spent days and hours. He retreated to the garden. He sent His disciples away. And when it was crunch time, he was incredulous that his disciples could not focus for even one hour. An hour of prayer to Jesus was like a penny to Donald Trump. Jesus had spent 40 days in prayer and fasting. And unlike me, when Jesus spent time in prayer and fasting, he was probably praying and fasting.

Forty uninterrupted days of prayer.

Lord, teach us to pray.

We don’t make time to pray because we undervalue it. If we understood it as unfettered access to the riches of God’s grace, as an appointment with the King of the universe, as a luxurious retreat into the safest of refuges, we would do it.

We would just do it.

We would ask God to teach us.

We would ask the Holy Spirit to help us when we had no words to say.

Prayer may or may not change the world. But it will change us. It will feed our faith. It will anchor our hope. It is the source of our joy.

The more I pray the more I am able to hold loosely the cares of this world until I find myself casting them on the Lord in faith that He cares for me.

Lord, teach me to pray.

 

Posted on by lgandre

When Are You Going to Cut Your Hair?

I stopped in to see a tenant. Johnny is a sixty-something African American gentleman who made a point to give me a lecture about not answering his call—which I had missed while meeting with some people about 15 minutes before.

Then he asked me about replacing the living room carpet.

Then he asked me about replacing the threshold to keep bugs out.

Then he asked me about the insulation and complained about his high utility bills.

Then he asked me about selling the house to him. That led to a long conversation—the repairs and upgrades. The age of the roof. The hot water heater. The HVAC. The duct work.

When we finished, I was exhausted. In fact, I felt like I had just been deposed. I was backing my car away when he chased me down.

Johnny: One more question.
Me: Sure, what do you need?
Johnny: When are you going to cut your hair?
Me: My hair???
Johnny: Yes, when are you going to cut your hair?
Me: You are asking about…my hair?”
Johnny: Yeah. Most people cut their hair in the summer.
Me: [Speechless]

I’ve heard it said that there is no such thing as foolish questions, only foolish answers. I would challenge that statement. Here are a few more true to life exhibits for my case…

By the hotel clerk:

Q: How many rooms do you need?
A: Two
Q: How many adults total?
A: Three
A: Okay, how many adults in each room?

Well, President Bush, there is one child who, evidently, got left behind.

This happened on a Thursday:

Q: When would you like your dry cleaning back?
A: Tomorrow?
Q: No, I’m sorry, it won’t be done by tomorrow.
A: Okay, how about Saturday?
Q: No, sorry, we don’t clean on Saturdays, we’re only open for pick up.
A: Okay, so I assume Sunday is out?
Q: Yes. A: Monday–
Q: No, Monday is a holiday so we’re closed.

So why did you ask me when I wanted my dry cleaning? Do you get some kind of kick out of telling me “no” four times?

And my favorite:

Q: Date of Birth?
A: 8-2-81
Q: Is that 1981?

Honey, if you can’t guess it to the closest 100 years, I can think of one job at the fair that isn’t for you.

So…I will rest my case and let you draw your own conclusions. I’m sure I’ve asked my share of dumb questions, but none are coming to mind right now.

Despite these—and others that I’m sure you could add—I would still agree that it is generally good to ask questions. It’s often how we learn. It is often the best indicator that we are learning.

Kids are usually good at this. But I think as we grow older, we tend to ask questions less.   I know we still have questions. Google sure gets a lot of use.   But people who come to my office frequently asking questions tend to be apologetic. “I hate to bother you, but…”

Jesus often used questions in his teaching. Of course, Jesus didn’t ask questions for His own benefit; He knew the answers. But sometimes He seemed to want to expose his challengers or to cause his listeners to think.

One of the most pointed questions of Jesus’ ministry on earth was answered with one of the most insightful questions ever asked.

In John 6:67, Jesus has just heard murmuring against Him, so he turns to his disciples and asks, “Will you also go away?”

Peter answers perceptively, “to whom shall we go? Thou hast the words of eternal life…”

To whom shall we go?

Peter recognized that to leave the Master meant to go from a greater thing to a lesser thing.  It is also interested that Peter recognized that his life with Jesus couldn’t be replaced by a return to fishing.  It wasn’t “to what would we go?” it was, “to whom shall we go?”

One disciple would choose that lesser life. And after betraying his friend for 30 pieces of silver, Judas would regret his choice, but it was too late. Soon, he threw away the very thing had seemed so appealing to him. Judas died friendless, penniless, and hopeless. His life after his choice to “go away” was brief and the money his traded the Master for was unsatisfying.

Judas doesn’t make the choice to “go away” attractive. Who would want Judas’ life after his betrayal? If you can call it that.

But what about the other eleven? They died too. But in the meantime, they were traveling evangelists—not rich and famous ones. They were beaten, imprisoned, and in some cases–tortured. In fact, tradition tells us that all but John were martyred for their faith and some in the cruelest of ways.  Beheaded, crucified upside down, flayed alive.

So what was really different? Judas died a traitor. The other eleven died faithful. But they all died.

To whom shall we go? Thou hast the words of eternal life.

Perhaps that is what makes Peter’s question such an insightful answer. Peter was still a work in progress, but he had begun to latch on to what is important—not comfort, or money, or fame, or even happiness.

The twelve were given an opportunity to leave an ordinary life for an eternal life. They would get to know the Messiah like no other people in history ever would. They walked and talked with the very Son of God. They would get to hear his words and some would even be chosen to record them for the rest of mankind to read and ponder.

The eleven would give their earthly lives away. They would live in discomfort; they would die in pain. But they would know beyond question that after this life comes another. Eternal life. And in that eternal life would be eternal rewards.

I suspect that if Peter was here today and I asked him if it was worth it, he would not hesitate. If I asked Him if I should remain faithful, he might even answer with that profound question:

To whom would you go? Only Jesus has the words of eternal life.

Posted on by lgandre

The ALS Ice Bucket Challenge

It was genius. No question about that. So much so that millions of people–thousands of whom previously thought ALS was plural for everyone*–have been pouring buckets of ice water on their heads grinning like they were the winning Super Bowl coach.

Zero overheard. Zero advertising dollars. One hundred million in donations. And world-wide awareness by a base so diverse that it includes Dave Ramsey, Matt Damon, and, probably, you.

They didn’t peddle the need. They didn’t peddle their vision. They didn’t make a movie that put us all in tears. They didn’t even make it as simple as pushing a button to give.

Instead, They came up with a mildly cruel form of torture. Then they encouraged friends to torture each other. And people loved it. Evidently.

Despite the nay-sayers and the water-wasting Sheriffs, I’ll just be honest. I wish I thought of it.

Think about it…$100 million dollars. How many muffins would you have to sell to raise that? How many silent auctions would you need to hold? How many garage sales raise like one one millionth of that number? It was pure genius.

By contrast, a few months ago, I was driving to church and I saw a handful of ladies sitting behind a table on a sunny lawn. It was a terrible location for a sale of any kind and their sign didn’t do much to paint a compelling picture. It was a pity stop, but I bought a watery cup of powdered lemonade. I asked the ladies what they were raising money for and they said this was part of an effort to teach their kids to work. I bought another cup of lemonade and a brownie because I believed in their goal. Still, I would be surprised if my $2 went far toward them recouping their costs of lemonade powder and brownie mix. A noble effort, But not pure genius.

Sometimes, even “hard work” gets us no where. A lot of good ideas go bust. And a lot of genius ideas produce mediocre results.

In fact, did you know that that they ALS Association also did the ice bucket challenge last year? Me neither. And it wasn’t like ALS actually originated the idea–I guess there’s some controversy over that–but the point is, it didn’t really work.

And then, it did. Beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.

So… they tried to trademark the idea. Which you can’t really do, but it is possible to trademark a phrase and they tried. According to their statement, they wanted to prevent “unscrupulous charities” for taking “their idea.” But perhaps it sunk into them that they hay day for ice buckets is going to be over soon and, anyway, their fair-weather fan base didn’t seem to appreciate their attempts. Regardless, they have withdrawn their trademark applications and Americans are free to freeze their brains for any cause they choose.

With all due respect to ALS and without grudging their fundraising success, there are some other great causes out there including Remember, which adopted its own twist on the ice bucket challenge. Remember supports persecuted Christians around the world and the whole cold-water-over-the-head thing seemed appropriate keeping in mind some of the Chinese Christians we met who started taking cold showers and sleeping on the hard floor after their conversions so they could start training for inevitable prison stays. I’m sure cold showers and floor sleeping would appeal to many ice bucketeers, but, alas, they are harder to video tape.

Personally, after spending seven or so weeks in remote corners of South East Asia during rainy season, I’m thinking it might be appropriate to do a mud bucket challenge. Or a mud soccer game challenge. Or just a mud sink challenge (it is just what it sounds like). Hmmm…I’ll keep chewing on it. Surely at some point I’ll come up with something.

In the meantime, if you light upon the next fundraising stroke of genius, will you call me first? I’ll give you all the credit, I promise. It doesn’t even have to be a $100 million dollar idea. I’d be content with like, millions, less than that. It just has to work. And you’d have the fun of joy of knowing you lit upon the second most genius fundraising scheme in all of history.

See, no pressure. I’m easy to please.

For this next fundraising challenge, I nominate Paul Walker, Daniel Bostic, and Amber Sommerville.

—-

*ALS: yes, southerners are known to use phrases like ya’ll. Some people find it necessary to pluralize their plurals with “all y’all.” Some people shorten it to “yalls” or just “alls.” And some people just can’t spell.

Posted on by lgandre

Hurting Deeply

Well, if you’ve noticed me walking with a slight limp, here’s the story: I was carrying in my groceries when my shoe got caught on the top of baby gate (doggie boundary dividing my living room from the kitchen). My arms were too full to even soften the fall, so one second I was quickly trying to unload the hot car, and the next second I was sprawled flat on the kitchen floor surrounded by lunch meat, five different kinds of cheese, peaches, and a pear tree.

Julie Ann felt bad for me in my pitiful state and came over to lick my face while I surveyed the damage to my knees and tried to untangle my feet from the gate.

It was a humbling moment in time.

And…It was funny the effect that simple spill had on my emotions. I was tempted to let my spirits crash right along with me. I could almost see all of my troubles lying in the heap of meat, cheese, and peaches.

And frankly, I have it pretty good.

I thought of the girl I had seen earlier that day parked in an empty corner of a parking lot crying her eyes out. I thought of another friend I had dinner with who is in serious physical and financial trouble. Another friend whose kids are struggling. Another who may lose her house. One who recently lost his job. One whose husband is dying. The list goes on.

I care. I even hurt for the girl in the parking lot whom I don’t know. Maybe she was crying because she broke a nail or woke up with a zit. But, hey, I know what it’s like to be ambushed by a baby gate and find yourself suddenly flat on your face  surrounded by all your troubles and being licked by a dog. It isn’t always the circumstance itself that hurts. The circumstance just reminds you once again that life hurts.

I know a lot of hurting people. Hurting deeply. And I feel powerless to help. I’d fix it for them if I could, but I can’t. I can’t bail everyone out of their financial problems. I can’t make people get along. I can’t heal their bodies.

I can’t fix it. I can’t fix it for myself and I certainly can’t fix it for others. I often even feel like my attempts at words of encouragement are kind of like an iceberg lettuce salad. Just filling space.

It sounds trite to try to give someone a recipe for happiness–even if I had one. If they choose, they can accurately point out that I have never been in their shoes. I don’t understand. Not really.

God provided for hurting people the best friend we could ever ask for. He listens. He cares. But unlike us, He never says, “If I could fix it for you, I would.”

Instead, He often says, “I could fix it for you, but I won’t.”

Even that hurts.

But it’s the truth.

And, in hindsight, I’m grateful to the people who spoke the truth to me when they knew I was hurting. They listened. They sometimes even cried with me. But they spoke the truth.

And the truth was this: humility, gratefulness, and joy are three of a kind. They like to hang together. When I am proud or self-centered, I won’t have joy. I won’t be happy. End of story.

I need humility. I need gratefulness. I need to see beyond myself and focus on what really matters. It won’t fix the circumstances but it will go a long way toward lifting my spirits and changing my outlook. It can turn me into an energy giver instead of a leech.

I make no effort to compare my troubles with the grave challenges some of my friends face. As I said, I have it pretty good. But as I learn to bear the burdens of my friends, I need to learn to listen, to love, but to speak the truth.

Sometimes, when I splat, it is time to stop and be humbled. Sometimes it is time to reflect and be grateful. Sometimes, it is time to move the baby gate (it is probably a bad idea to try to carry arm loads of loose groceries over an obstacle in flip flops).

And sometimes, when I’m hurting deeply, you might need to be the one to encourage me to do one or more of those things.

And no matter what I tell you or what excuses I give, be a true friend and tell me the truth.

Everything else is just iceberg lettuce.

Posted on by lgandre · 2 Comments

Ten Years Ago, Today

He was big, strong, and angry. And for whatever reason, he was chasing me. Chasing us, actually. I held one of my nephews in my arms and tried to keep from stumbling along the uneven ground while herding two more toward the safety that I hoped we would find somewhere in the trees ahead.

But I couldn’t shake him. I could hear the heavy falling of his footsteps right behind me, scaring me on. I clutched Silas tightly and put my head down to try to avoid a low hanging limb. Then all went black.

I woke up exhausted. The pounding of footsteps had been replaced with the soft pounding of my heart as it sunk in that the man was gone, my nephews were safe, and it was still a good 20 minutes or so before I needed to get out of bed to start my day.

As I lay in the dark, I remembered an observation Curtis had recently made—“Why do we talk about dreams coming true like it’s a good thing? When was the last time you had a dream that you hoped would come true?”

None came to mind.

Most of my dreams—that I remember anyway—have just enough real life in them that it takes me a minute or two after I wake up to convince myself that they didn’t happen. But when I do, my thought is always—Oh, good!

But we still talk about dreams. Chasing them. Following them. Believing in them.

Taken on the authority of Cinderella (the first movie I ever saw)—a dream is a wish your heart makes. Or perhaps, what we really mean, that your mind makes up.

But, I used to believe in them. Sort of.

Ten years ago today I said goodbye to my parents and boarded a one-way flight for Charleston. I had no cell phone then. In fact, I didn’t have a lot of stuff period. What I took with me was in the two suitcases that were free to check.

“Fasten your seat belt,” the flight attendant growled at me. But when I turned from the window and he saw the tears in my eyes, his voice softened considerably. “You ok?” I nodded, but I was too choked up to speak. Life would change for me that day. That was about all I knew.

I remember when Curtis interviewed me and he asked me about what I wanted to do with my life, I told him I would probably work 3-5 years. But when he asked me specifically what I wanted to do I thought about and responded, almost like it came from someone else, “the next right thing.”

I believed this was the next right thing.

Ten years ago today, I was given a new office and a new extension. I was put in charge of the computer “system” at the Bostic Law Firm (compliments of my prior boss who mistakenly told Curtis that I was a computer genius). Ten years ago, I was trained the way Curtis still trains people—give them a list and tell them to go do it. Figure it out. Sink or swim. I still have that initial “to do” list. On it are the words—“correct deficiencies in computer system and maintain/improve.” I still can’t cross that off.

Ten years ago tonight, my new church was vandalized and burned. Our pastorless congregation would meet in the fellowship hall for more than a year after that as we saved money to renovate. But the people at CHBC were kind and welcoming and it wasn’t long before Charleston would feel like home…plus 100% humidity.

Ten years ago, I had a dream that I was trying to strategically weave into a plan.

I wanted to work in the legal field long enough to feel like the time, energy, and money I had invested in law school was worthwhile; but still get married young enough to have ten kids—maybe twelve. Then, as a family, we would win the world for Christ. That was the dream, more or less.

The “plan” part came in because I knew that dreams alone don’t generally turn out the way you want them to…if at all. I didn’t trust my dream to Walt Disney or some mythical fairy godmother.

At the same time, it couldn’t be entirely a plan, because there were pieces of it I couldn’t control. Some things you just can’t make happen. But you can hope that God gave you a dream because it’s part of His plan.

Ten years ago, it seemed like my dream was coming true.

But it didn’t.

I’ve lived ten very good, very full years in Charleston. No complaints. It’s hard to measure exactly what ten years does to you. I have less courage now, but more confidence. Less drive, but more knowledge and skill. Less frugality, but more resourcefulness. Less stubbornness, more flexibility. Less passion, more maturity. Some things are even harder to measure in years… do I have more or less patience than I did then? I don’t know. More or less compassion? I’m not sure.

One thing is for sure, though, it didn’t turn out quite like I dreamed it would. Consequently, I find myself giving dreams mixed reviews. There is part of me that wants to say, Dreams? Bah, Humbug.

Dreams are fiction.

The fact is that true dreams—what we have when we sleep—are usually a lot of painful torture minus the happy ending. Conversely, the stereotypical “American Dream” is the happy endings minus the painful torture.

And the life the God plans for us is neither. It’s to walk humbly with our God. It’s to be conformed to His image. It’s every day grace. It’s the next right thing.

I’ve thought of a lot of happy endings for God, and so far, He hasn’t been interested in any of them. Because He is more interested in His glory. More desirous of seeing me passionate about the gospel. More inclined to drive me to do the next right thing.

As John Piper reminds us, God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in Him. Not ourselves. Not our dreams. Not our plans. In Him.

It is foolish for me to conclude that my plan is the best when I lack the ability to execute the plan. It is a waste for me to assume that my dreams should provide the direction for my life when my imagination is so small that I can’t even think God’s thoughts after Him.

In the shallowness of our human nature, we long to see our story unfold by building to a climax, then resolve with twist of predictable surprise. All is well that ends well—and we can shut the book with a satisfied sigh because everything happened the way that it should have in the end.

But God, as the author, may review our outlines, may consider our dreams, but in the end will scrap our work of fiction and glorify Himself with His own work of faith.  “I got this.  Do the next right thing.”

Ten years from now and ten thousand years from now, out dreams will probably be no more than a distant memory. But if we walk in faith we will still be able to close the book in satisfaction. That was a good story. I didn’t see it coming, but everything happened the way it should have in the end.

Posted on by lgandre · 1 Comment

Shoveling Coal

You gotta love the gym. Where else can you be updated on all the evils in the world all at once? TVs everywhere on every channel can give you updates from 6 points of view simultaneously. War in Israel. Chaos in Iraq. Mess in Washington. Mayhem in Detroit. Ebola in Liberia. Actors killing themselves.

Good Morning, America! It’s another day in our broken, messed up world.

You can turn off the TV, but you can’t turn off the problems. They are there.

So…what is there to do? What to do but put your head phones in and run. Run.

I can’t fix the Middle East. I can’t fix poverty. I can’t fix drugs and depression. I feel like I should do something, but what? And what would matter anyway?

Despite trying to shut it out, I can’t help but keep asking myself those questions while I’m running. Yep, I’m watching six TVs playing six different channels, I’m listening to something else on my headphones, and at the same time, I’m trying to solve the world’s problems in my head. It’s little wonder I’m exhausted before I even break a sweat.

This morning, my phone was playing Kisses from Katie, the recent story about of young lady who is trying to “do something.” She moved to Uganda after high school where she has adopted 13 children and helps provide for 600 more through a non-profit organization called Amazima.

I have a lot of respect for Katie Davis and what she is doing to show the love of Christ in a destitute corner of the world. However, although she is investing her whole heart into the lives of needy orphans, she too confesses that she feels some days like she is trying to empty the ocean with an eye dropper. Every little drop takes resources, but it is just a little drop in a sea of sickness and poverty. Even with her every effort, the world doesn’t look much different in the grand scheme of things.

Katie opined that God didn’t create more people in the world than He provided for. And that’s true. Her conclusion was that those with more should share with those with less. And we should.

But I don’t think that’s the whole answer.   How many billions of dollars in aid has the US poured into remote parts of the world and what do we have to show for it? We can pump billions of dollars into the Middle East and Africa—as we have done—and it will still be a mess. In addition to giving nationally, we can give individually. But it’s kind of like dropping 8,000 meals on a mountain hiding 40,000 refugees…a good thing; but how long can you go on 1/5 of a meal?  

Katie has also worked to help Ugandans “help themselves” which is a good thing, but I noticed that, like many organizations, Amazima primarily derives its support from people who are in the US or by selling handmade jewelry to people in the US.

Stick with me here; I’m trying to solve the worlds’ problems and it takes a little time to explain.

We can’t all quit our jobs and move to Uganda. Because if we did, we would simply be one of the far too many starving Africans. We could all quit our jobs, move to Africa, and try to find work there, but that seems a little silly seeing as we had jobs here that we are probably better trained for and adapted to than what we might find in a village in Buziika. Not only would we all need Amazima, but there wouldn’t be an Amazima because there would be no one to give.

So the end result of that plan to fix the world has everyone starving. Cross that one off the list.

So, what to do about the world’s problems?

I’m convinced of a few things: We should stand with Israel. We should fight against radical Islam. We should try to help the sick and feed the poor. But frankly, more than anything, I believe that we should live ordinary lives. Go to work. Take care of our families. Shovel coal.

Hear me on this.

What the world needs is not another leader. Not a movement. Not an aura of peace. What the world needs is healthy families working hard and providing for themselves and others.   At the end of the day, that is what works. That is what stamps out poverty. That is what cures AIDS. That is what diffuses conflict. That is what would solve most of the policy debate in Washington.

If people around the world understood the concepts of family and hard work, it would go a long way toward solving the evils in the world. Of course, those are both biblical concepts, so most of the world is going to try to find a more modern way to achieve a peaceful, prosperous existence. But they won’t.

Some of us may travel to distant countries. Some of us may start organizations. Some of us may be leaders. But most of us will do the most good by showing the world that family and industry work— husbands and wives who love each other providing for their own and then a bit extra—create the most successful nations.

That means, for some of us, the most important thing we can do is to shovel coal. Go to work. Be productive. Come home. Take care of the people God has placed in our lives. It isn’t glamourous. It’s not exciting. It wouldn’t be a good plot for an Indiana Jones movie. And apparently, it isn’t good fodder for the morning news.

Don’t be ashamed to enjoy what the blessing of God and hard work have given you.  Share what you have. Give till it hurts. But enjoy the fruit of your labor.

Some of us have an eye dropper. Some of us have a coal shovel. If you have one, don’t rip on the person who has the other; cheer them on. We may not win over the rest of the world, but we can keep from becoming them only one way—working to provide for ourselves and our families and just a little bit more.

Posted on by lgandre

33 Under 33

“Meet the millennials. They are 33 and younger. They are all on Twitter. And they are bringing innovation to the wide-ranging work of the kingdom. Behold, they are doing a new thing.”

The cover story of Christianity Today features 33 young people that it claimed have “picked up the baton” and are leading today’s church. It is a diverse group in every respect. There are singers, bloggers, theologians, advisors, teachers, and you name it all else. One has prayed with President Obama; one was elected as a state representative while a teenager.

My name was not among them. I guess because I am not on Twitter.

But there was a name and picture that I recognized. In fact, I remember her as a skinny junior higher preaching to sparse classroom on national policy she didn’t know much about. We were both involved in the same home school debate league in California many eons ago. Long before Twitter.

Her oldest brother and his debate partner handily delivered to me and my debate partner our first loss and would later go on to win the national championship in Washington D.C; beating out her next older brother and his partner in the final round. And so it was, that she apparently had a whip-cracking mom and came from a good gene pool.   Shoot, they probably invented Twitter.

Anyway, in the years that have gone by since then, she has matured into a gorgeous woman who is a mover and a shaker in the pro-Life movement, sometimes posing as an underage unwed mother and consequently exposing some of the evils of Planned Parenthood. You should follow her on Twitter.

I read each story with interest. The article intimated the world has changed and young people are uniquely suited to effectively seize opportunities the changes have created. “The Millennials.”

There was a comment on the online version that was something to the affect of… “Where is the article about 60 over 60? What about those of us who have been faithful longer…” At first, it seemed like sour grapes to me. But maybe he was right to encourage a balanced perspective. It isn’t all about youth and technology. Any anyway, perhaps it is premature to call a 17-year old state rep a “church leader.”

Now, entering my “Jesus year” as the article called the ripe old age of 33, I’m just old enough to remember life before computers and cell phones. When we got our first computer, it was a big event. And our first computer game was a “P” maneuvering the black screen obstacle course of = [ and – with increasing speed. You had to not only navigate with the up and down arrows, but also periodically hit the space bar to jump over a moving 0 that threatened to snuff out the life of “P.” Not X-Box exactly, but it could probably hold its own against Angry Birds.

When I was a teenager, my family had one e-mail address. When Erin went to college, Dad got her a purse-filling cell phone brick because of her commute. There was no reception along much of the commute. And there was no such thing as Twitter.

On the other hand, I’m just young enough to have sort of “grown up” with Microsoft—typing my book reports into Word, designing newsletters in Publisher, and creating spreadsheets in Excel. I transitioned from DOS to Windows like a duck to water and loved doing research on the internet instead of the tedious card catalogs at the library (even if you did have to put up with the screeching noise of a computer connected to the World Wide Web). I was considered fairly computer literate. Until Twitter, I guess.

As an aside, sometimes people do still ask me for tech help. I was babysitting a few months back a four-old brought me his ipad that he was watching a movie on. Thrusting it into my hands, he said, “How do I get it in HD?” Hey, at least he didn’t ask me why I wasn’t on Twitter.

Being roughly the same age as this impressive lineup of Christian leaders made me ask myself a lot of questions. What did they do that thrust them into the forefront? Am I doing everything I could be and should be doing for the kingdom? Is it just God’s sovereignty that some of us will be considered leaders while some of us will pass through our lives on this planet earnestly but quietly? Is it possible to be salt and light in such a way that our names aren’t known and our faces aren’t seen, but God is pleased nonetheless? Will these people stay faithful? What will this list look like in 30 years? And, of course, why am I not on Twitter?

As I have pondered this feature many times, I have found myself both grateful for and challenged by these examples. And for every one that was featured, there are thousands of others that have not “bowed the knee to Baal.” Simple people navigating through the hurts of a broken and sick world still singing the praises of our Savior. Moms raising another generation of warriors. Dads holding down the fort and perhaps sometimes, drawing a line in the sand and saying “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”

And God, in His sovereignty will pick some of those faithful followers and give them audiences before kings; have them face giants; or put them in high places. A Lila Rose will take on a Planned Parenthood. Amazing.

Meet the millennials. They are all under 33. They are all bringing innovation to the wide-ranging work of the kingdom. They are all still under construction. They all still need the wisdom of mature Christians who were around before the age of technology and who can see past “diverse opportunities” to cling to absolute truths and faithful obedience.

And they are not all on Twitter.

Posted on by lgandre · 2 Comments

The Other Side of Jealousy

I call it “In your face-book,” she told me. “I hate Facebook.”

I nodded, absorbing her reasons not to post updates on a given topic.

She didn’t say it, but I had to guess that perhaps her abhorrence of Facebook was at least partially related to the fact that God had not yet given her the desire of her heart in the form of a baby.

God knows that I know it’s impossible to get on Facebook without seeing “in your face” reminders of un-motherhood: pregnancy announcements, birth announcements…babies, grandbabies…videos, photos…funny sayings, cute faces…pajama pictures, pool pictures…ultrasound shots…maternity photos…My Little Pony cakes—you name it. Kids unapologetically brighten up the world and lighten up the Internet. And I’m glad they do.

Just the same, I could understand why my friend might avoid Facebook like the Gaza Strip. It was a constant assault on her deepest pain. Everyone else has what she doesn’t have. And it hurts.

It wasn’t Facebook’s fault exactly; deep down—deep, deep down—the problem was jealousy. I don’t know what it is about jealousy, but we do not want to call it that. I suspect jealously has worn more nametags than just about any other sin.

Admit it or not, of all the people who have told me they quit Facebook and of all the reasons they have given, I suspect that jealousy is the one unnamed deactivator of many an account.

Because other peoples’ lives tend to be perfect on Facebook. I confess there have been times I clicked through someone else’s photos and thought, She has everything: she’s beautiful, married to a good man, wonderful kids, nice house, nice vacations… and eventually closed the screen with an overwhelming sense of discontentment. My life stinks…

I’ve struggled with jealousy. It has chewed me up then spit me out in worthless chunks like a redneck, tobacco, and a country road. In fact, there have been full weeks—months—years—when the only times I wasn’t struggling with jealousy was when I had given up completely. It can still ruin a good day quicker than my alarm clock.

I know I’m not alone. I remember times when two of my friends confessed to me that they were jealous of me. I wanted to laugh. But they were serious. These were painful confessions for them.

I wanted to laugh because both came at particularly low times for me. I knew if they really, truly knew my life, they would be anxious to take their own set of troubles and go home. If they knew the tears I cried, the pressures I faced, and the mistakes I’ve made, they would probably be whistling on their way to work—thank God, I’m not her!

And when it comes right down to it, I wouldn’t trade with them either. Not even with the gorgeous girls with successful husbands and adorable kids. Not the movie stars; not the world-class musicians; not even the ice skaters.

There will always be someone out there—probably on the edges of my circle of friends—who is prettier, funnier, nicer, smarter, richer, and just happier than me. They will be young and interesting when I’m old and boring. They will be available when I am tied up. They will think of the right thing to say when words have failed my completely. They will make friends when I can’t even make hot chocolate.

But now that perfect girl is affecting me less.

I have a wonderful life. In fact, I am richly blessed beyond what I can ever deserve.

But that is beside the point.

The point is that I am learning the truth about jealousy. If you are jealous of someone, you either don’t know them well enough or you haven’t known them long enough. The fact is, their life either has troubles or will have troubles. Serious troubles. And unless they have chosen an attitude of gratitude, they probably think their life stinks too.

On the other side of your jealousy is a hurting, confused, lonely, and even scared girl that you just don’t know yet.

I thank God that even though I will always struggle, I’m coming to the realization that jealousy is me believing the lie that I would be happier if my life were different; when in reality it would only be…well…different. In the process, God has freed me to see Facebook as God’s brag book—budding romances, happy families, new opportunities, God’s creation, and, of course, God’s amazing gift of new lives in small packages. As friend after friend has gotten married and had kids, I’ve been able to genuinely say, “I’m so happy for you!” Because I am.

Just the same, if it causes you to stumble, or if you just don’t like it, there is no harm in staying away from Facebook. And unless you are truly ready for war, this would be a good time to stay out of the Gaza Strip.