Posted on by lgandre · 2 Comments

Day One: Kids at Play

benjamin
Me, Benjamin, and my super-cool Burma hair do. Try not to be jealous…

We arrived at our “hotel/resort” at 3:00 am. I guess you could call that the start of day one. We were just finishing about 36 hours of travel. I suspect it is safe to say that we were a pretty tired bunch. Especially since any sleep you get on planes can be chalked right up into the worthless category.

I had to be woken up at 12:30 pm. The pillow next to me was exactly how I’d left it. My bed was untouched except for the corner I had slipped into. I must have slept like a dead man. Don’t grudge me. I needed it.

Kids from Faith and Agape children’s homes were to arrive at the “resort” where we are staying about 2:00 so we tried to rally our group and get organized. We are a pretty diverse team—ranging in age from about 10 to 60 something. We have plumbers, carpenters, doctors, nurses, students, mechanics, teachers, pastors, a title searcher…and, of course, attorneys. (What can I say, we can’t all be skilled labor!)

Our plan was for all 100 kids to be seen by a doctor as well as to generally have a good time and be shown the love of Christ. The resort had some cool peddle boats and other activities and I had brought a few things for crafts and games including innovative pumps with biodegrable water balloons. The biodegrable thing sounded like potential genius and potential disaster but hey, life is boring if you aren’t willing to take some risks.

While we waited for the kids—who were about an hour late—I talked with Benjamin, one of the young men that works at Faith. He told me the kids had been so excited the night before, he had a hard time getting them to sleep. Benjamin looks like a kid himself—maybe 14 or so, but he’s actually been to Bible college in Burma and India, teaches at the Bible school nearby, is married, and helps with the kids at Faith…always with a smile on his face.

Everyone was quick to pitch in and help, so we divided into three groups and one headed for the clinic while the others went their various ways. I didn’t suspect we would have much trouble keeping track of the kids…turns out we lost whole groups…but that’s another story.

As the kids waited for the clinic, I stayed with them and intended to keep them occupied with some crafts and games. They had designated a nice space for us on a brick patio outside the clinic building. But the first thing to happen was rain. So, we ended cramped in a storage room/office for resort workers.

The second thing that happened was that we lost our translator.

And maybe it was because they were sleep deprived, or maybe because Benjamin had just been summoned elsewhere, or maybe because they were about to see the doctor, but the Faith kids seemed a little tense and quiet. It was harder than I remembered to break the ice with a sweet group of kids who haven’t a clue what I’m saying. And even though I recognized a number of their faces, I felt like I was starting back at zero trying to remember names. Aung Thun Kyaw and Siang Khun Tial just don’t stick in my head like I wish they did.

The kids in these children’s homes are generally from Christian families and are taught the Bible, but I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to share the gospel. Unfortunately, without the translators and with kids coming and go, some of my attempts were not altogether successful and others were just plain dismal failures. But, we have four more days, so we will just keep giving it our all.

I stayed in the hot storage room most of the afternoon, so I didn’t get to see all of the goings on, but from what I heard, the kids had a lot of fun in the swan boats while our team generally had strokes watching them and worrying that their life vests might be too big. And from what I hear, had it been the World Cup, the score would have been something like Burma 19, USA 1.

It took a while to get all of the kids through the clinic and it was dark by the time we gathered the groups to load the buses. Just as we prepared to say our goodbyes, the skies opened up one final time, giving us a parting drenching. We wasted no time swarming the small outdoor “restaurant” which was now devoid of customers. As we stood and watched the downpour in soft glow of the restaurant lights, the electricity went out. Then we just stood.

The lights flickered on and off a few times, but Pastor Khar had the idea of getting the kids to sing—so my final memories of the evening were 100 voices lifted up in praise to our God. Those kids sing about like they play soccer. Incredible.

And I’m sure all of the rain was just God’s way of helping me out with “bio-degrading” all of those little water balloon pieces. Thanks, God!

Posted on by lgandre · 10 Comments

You Are So Beautiful

They met at a honky tonk. He was fifteen. She was fourteen. And he married her only one year later.

Most stories that begin that way don’t end well.

And for a while, it didn’t look like this one would be any different. He had a drinking problem that landed him in jail repeatedly.

The couple had no money and the young wife found it increasingly difficult to bail her wayward husband out of jail. The only way she knew to get money was to ask her husband’s dad for a loan.

But even his own father was losing hope that his son would amount to anything and one day he told Lucy that was it. It was the last time. He would never again pay to bail his son out of jail. Don’t even ask.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before Willard was out working on a water well drilling site (where he would be for weeks at a time) and he got to drinking…and fighting…and once again landed himself in jail.

Lucy had no money. She had no way of making any. She didn’t even know anyone who could lend her any. Except one person: her father-in-law. And he had told her never to come back.

With fear and trepidation, she approached her father-in-law again. And he was furious. When he found the words, he told her, “Lucy, I told you I wouldn’t give you any more money to bail Willard out of jail. And I won’t.”

But he wasn’t quite finished. He said, “But…you deserve better than this. I’m going to give you some money, but not to bail him out. It is your money. You can do whatever you want with it. You can take it and go back to your family if you want. It’s your money and your choice.”

Lucy took the money.   And immediately went to the courthouse and bailed Willard out. Even though she didn’t know then that it was going to be the last time.

But while drying out in a jail cell away from home, Willard had realized his need for a Savior. He trusted Christ to change his heart and his life. He purposed never to touch another drop of alcohol. And he never did.

That didn’t necessarily mean that life was easy from that point on. Two uneducated teenagers living in the hills of Kentucky. Three of their five sons died in infancy.   And there would be plenty of other bumps and bruises, ups and downs. But they faced life together—both bright, hardworking, and willing to take risks—qualities that paid off at first in small ways as their entrepreneurial spirit provided jobs for many well-deserving Kentuckians…and even a few undeserving ones.

And that was only the beginning.

In fact, another thing Lucy never could have foreseen the day she scraped and begged enough money to bail her delinquent, teenage husband out of jail—was that he would one day be one of the richest men in Eastern Kentucky. Fortunately, not only one of the richest, but also one of the kindest, most generous, and most unpretentious.

In fact, I had the privilege of being there on their sixty fifth anniversary. They celebrated by eating bologna sandwiches with some friends in the lunch room of their drilling company. He wore his usual khakis and a collared shirt; she wore jeans and her signature long, blond ponytail—I never saw her without it.

And I’ve seen them give millions of dollars to schools, colleges, performing arts centers, and one of her favorite causes, Hope in the Mountains—a home for young women overcoming addictions.

That’s not to say they gave it all away. They spent some of their earnings on themselves and their hobbies. Any they had the right to. They earned it. It was theirs to invest as they chose. Fast cars, fast jets, or bologna sandwiches.

As the years ticked by, she began to have some aches and pains that slowed her down more and more. It was hard—even with her chipper disposition—for her not to show pain. But when someone would comment on how beautiful she looked, she’d give a mischievous grin and say, “Well, I can’t help that!”

I was also privileged to know them when they celebrated their seventieth anniversary. Yep, seventy years together. They celebrated by going to church and then to a local restaurant with their children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. Because they were rich in ways other than money.

This week, Mrs. Lucy Kinzer was laid to rest and Willard planned her service. The church was packed for the celebration of the life of this remarkable woman. At the end, a soloist sang, “You are so Beautiful.” The music box Willard had bought her for her last birthday—only a few weeks ago—plays that song. “You are so beautiful to me…”

As the last notes faded, Willard kissed her gently on the forehead for the last time. “The last ten years of our marriage were the best!” He had told us. And in that moment, I believed it. If you had been there, you would too.

It was seventy one years since he had first seen her dancing in a honky tonk. And the last decade had been the best. Because God redeems and rewards some of the least expectant lives.

So that’s their story.

Humble beginnings. Rocky moments. Bad days for sure.

But “You Are So Beautiful” was a fitting summary of the life of a young mountain bride sporting a blonde ponytail and an unquenchable loyalty—and a fitting climax to one of the greatest love stories I’ve ever heard.

After seventy one years, he still thought she was beautiful. But even as I type those words, I can see that sly grin and hear her fun retort, “Well, I can’t help that!”willardandlucy

Posted on by lgandre · 3 Comments

My Revenge

1eSOfG.AuSt.91It was no surprise.

In a very short period of time, shorter than my lifetime, the “gay rights” movement sold Americans the message that “gay rights” are “civil rights” and should be protected and respected on the same level as the color of one’s skin or the faith an individual chooses to practice.

This particular sin, which the Bible calls “Sodomy,” is now not only tolerated, but celebrated and—by some misguiding folks—considered the equivalent to the union God established to demonstrate His special relationship of love and faithfulness to the church. To be the foundation of the family. To be the fabric of society.

But, as I remind myself, the whole reason why Christians should care about this is the same reason why we do not have to fear or fret. Because there is a much higher authority than the US Supreme Court. And God is fully capable of defending His own rules. Justice Kennedy will not be writing the majority opinion for God’s court. And to God, it was just that by the way: an opinion.

But here on earth…what should our response be? As I pondered the crowds of jubilant protesters reveling in their momentary victory, I found myself grasping for a meaningful response.

I felt so helpless. And, in so many ways, disqualified from leading a charge for faith and family. Who would even listen? Who would care?

The only thing that will help us is revival.

But haven’t we made a lot of attempts at revival? Haven’t some of the best Christian leaders of our century tried unsuccessfully to stem the tide of society running amuck? Who could truly bring us to our knees in the stillness and quietness of hearts obedient to Christ?

I may not be able to light a fire of revival in our nation. But I am determined that there will be plunder. I’m determined that I can come through this more of a danger to complacency and disgusting lukewarm Christianity than ever before.

So here is my revenge:

I will love harder and give more; but most of all, I will worship more sincerely.

No more worshiping by rote. No yawning through church services half-heartedly singing words. No alternately thinking about what people are wearing, what is for lunch, and what the song-writer was prompting us to sing to our Savior. No more bowing my head to pray and drifting off into “to do” land—making lists in my head of what needs to happen that afternoon.

I will take more time to worship alone. With my phone off. The radio off. The TV off. I will take note of songs that are particularly meaningful to me. I will worship with Scripture. I will worship when no one is watching.

I’ll take everyone down the road with me that will go. And if that is zero, I’ll go alone.

I will look back and say, “Obergefell v. Hodges, that’s the day that changed me.” Five people handed down an opinion and it prompted me to turn up the heat on my Christian walk. It made me want plunder. It made me repent of sins I wouldn’t repent of before. Let go of selfishness I wouldn’t have let go of otherwise. Forgive people I didn’t want to forgive. But most of all, it made me clear the stage so I can worship.

I’m still imperfect and my zeal will fade with time, but every time someone tries to redefine “life” or “marriage” or change any truth Scripture, they will heap coals on the flames of my passion for Christ.  Let there be plunder!

At first, I was disgusted with the picture of the White House lighted up in rainbow colors. But now, I think it’s beautiful. Because the LGBT community can’t define the rainbow. God made it and He got to define it. He said, I have set MY bow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between ME and the earth… Genesis 9:13 (ESV).  Every time I see the rainbow, I will be reminded of God’s love and of His justice. And I will worship.

Because I have nothing to fear. God still loves. He is still just. And the rainbow is still a reminder that God is on His throne and a refraction of light cannot hit a water droplet without the heavens declaring His glory…And this humble soul doing its best to join them.

Let there be plunder.

———————

And…I have a few more ideas for revenge…and I would love to hear yours…

Posted on by lgandre · 1 Comment

Faithful to the End

cropped-cropped-img_2164.jpgWe were all shocked and saddened by the tragedy in Charleston this week. Lives taken needlessly; heartlessly. What a cruel demonstration of misplaced and unchecked emotion. What complete disregard for the sanctity of human life.

But today, that is not my point.

And we probably shouldn’t be shocked. Here is a young man who grew up in a world crowded full of movies where people pull out guns to get their way. To make their point. Or just to create excitement. He’s probably played thousands of hours of videos games where shooting is just a function of the thumb to get to the end goal.   All the fiction figures that die are laughable collateral damage that don’t matter. We live in a culture of extremely violent entertainment that gives little regard for the aftermath.

But that is also not my point.

After the initial arrest, this young man seemed to be almost enjoying his new found notoriety. He did something “important” by his own estimation. What sickness. What callousness. It makes me want to vomit. It also makes me want to figure out a way to keep him from the limelight since he seems to be a believer of the adage that no publicity is bad publicity.

But that is also not my point.

Perhaps we have farther to go with race relations in America than we realized.

But that is also not my point.

Here is my point:

I envy those nine faithful Christians.

They lost their lives in a mid-week church service. They had taken time out of their Wednesday to pray and study the Bible with other believers. Sure, they didn’t know they were risking their lives at the time, but they did have other things to do. They had lunches to pack. Classes to miss. Homework to finish. Kids to spend time with.

Even absent other responsibilities and demands on their time, I’m sure some of them were tired from a day of work. Some of them were tempted to catch the next episode of a TV show. One lady was 87; no one expects an 87-year old to get out and go to church on a Wednesday night.

That night, as they carried out their simple act of worship, they had a visitor. They welcomed him. They accepted him. Even though he was not “one of them,” they received him into their church and treated him as part of their group.

For these nine people, their last act on earth was simple; but it was an act of faithfulness. Faithful devotion to their Savior that brought them there that night; and a faithful witness that kept them there and caused them to reach out to a visitor.

While I cannot see their hearts, I strongly suspect that there are nine people in heaven that Jesus welcomed this week with open arms. Well done, good and faithful servant. You were faithful in the little things.

And that’s the part that I envy. I wish was me. I hope is me.

I hope that when my Savior calls me, He finds me faithful. Maybe doing simple things. Maybe worshiping in a little group. Maybe serving in a quiet way. Maybe eating a potluck dinner. But faithful.

Our church also had a prayer service that night. But I was out of town, so I wasn’t there.

Needless to say, I felt convicted by the lives of these nine. They motivated me to make and keep church a priority. Because if a gunman ever comes for me, I hope he finds me in church, not at home watching TV or scrolling Facebook.

We can all take some comfort in knowing that this young man failed utterly with his mission. He did not start a war; he brought a city to its knees. He did not cause us to hate; he spurred us to show love. He did not make us fear; he made us want to be faithful.

Therein lies what I hope that there is another unexpected consequence of his actions: that it drives us to church. Even if we’re never called to greatness or notoriety, we’ve been called to faithfulness. Let’s show it by showing up in God’s house. Let’s gather for prayer and worship. Let’s eat a lot of casseroles together. Let’s greet a lot of visitors.

If an 87-year old can get out on a Wednesday night, so can we. Coach…Librarian…whatever your story, let your life be made up of prayer, Bible study, fellowship with other Christians, and reaching out to strangers.

And when we die—because we all will—may Jesus say to us, “Well done, good and faithful servant” because we were faithful unto the end.

Go to church.  That is my point.

Posted on by lgandre

Sometimes Life Stinks.

Pastor Joel shared with us Sunday the story of Annie Johnson Flint.  I was intrigued by the snippet he gave, so I did a little further research…

Annie was born in New Jersey on Christmas Eve in 1866.  Unfortunately, her mother died during the birth of her younger sister when she was three.  Their father apparently didn’t believe he could properly care for the girls, so he left them with another widow.  But money was tight and the girls were never welcomed wholeheartedly by their foster mother who seem far more concerned about the wellbeing of her biological children.

Thankfully, a kind neighbor was able to find a new family for the girls.  Mr. and Mrs. Flint were devout Christians who truly loved the girls.  Shortly after they moved to the Flint’s home (when Annie was around six), their father died.

When Annie was eight years old, the family left the farm and moved into Vineland, New Jersey, When they reached their new home in town, revival meetings were in progress, and she attended. It was during one of those meetings that the Spirit of God operated upon that young heart and brought her to saving faith in Christ.

About the time she came to saving faith, she also began to take an interest in poetry.  She loved to read, and her new parents also taught her character and the importance of being hard working, self-reliant, and living within her means.  They gave her a healthy horror of debt and a powerful distaste for waste.

After high school and one year of higher education, she was offered a teaching position.  Her adopted mother was in failing health and she and her income were needed at home.  So Annie signed a three-year contract to teach at the primary school where she had attended as a girl.

By the time she was the second year into teaching, however, arthritis began to riddle her body.  She went from doctor to doctor, but it steadily grew worse until it became difficult for her to even walk. She had a hard time finishing her third year.

Both of her adopted parents then died within a few months of each other, and Annie and her sister were once again all alone in the world with very little money to spare.

Annie rented out the home and moved to a treatment center in New York hoping to find help and healing there. Unfortunately, when she finally received the verdict of the doctors, it was that she would be a helpless invalid. With her parents gone and her one sister also with frail health, Annie needed to hire someone to take care of her and she had no money to do it.

Sometimes life just stinks.

With a pen pushed through bent fingers and held by swollen joints, Annie began to write.  At first, she wrote without any thought that it might be an avenue of ministry or support.  Writing poetry provided a solace for her in the long hours of suffering.

Then she began making hand-lettered cards and gift books, and decorated some of her own verses.  Her “Christmas Carols” became popular. Two card publishers printed these greetings and this helped to get her foot in the door for publishing. It gave her the larger vision of possibly securing openings through some of the magazines, by which her poems could be a wider blessing, and at the same time bring some little return that would minister to her own pressing need.

Readers began to write of ways they had been blessed by her poetry, so in 1919, the first small booklet of her poems, “By the Way, Travelogues of Cheer” was published.  That became the first of seven, each being circulated more widely than the last.

Bingham (one of her publishers) said of her: One wonders how she could ever get a pen through those poor twisted fingers; but she was a beautiful writer, and a wonderful correspondent. Her letters were unique, bright and breezy, though written from her bed of affliction. They were as rich as her poems, and whatever the stage of her affliction, or however great the pain through which she might be passing, she always had a touch of humor that was refreshing. One of her great regrets in the after years was that the progress of her affliction made it necessary to dictate the messages to her friends and of course this added to her expense.

Even with her writing, life continued to be an exercise of faith, especially in the area of provision for needs.  She wanted to be independent and self-sufficient; she cut expenses everywhere she could and took in boarders for extra income.  But God chose to keep her dependent on Him for supply.  At times, she had to hire skilled nursing or make extra doctor’s visits which would quickly drain away her attempts as self-sufficiency into times of trial and testing.

Annie’s writing began to draw attention and from time to time, visitors.  While most of them were gracious and well-meaning, some adamantly claimed that anyone walking obediently with Christ would be delivered from physical infirmities and bodily sickness.

Annie listened, but after painstaking study and prayer, concluded that while God can and does heal in some cases, in others, He sees fit to leave the most triumphant saints with physical affliction.  God at times brings himself glory through weak earthly vessels saying only, “My grace is sufficient for thee.”

I have long loved this hymn, penned by Annie, perhaps at such a time as this.  When she was sick, broke, and criticized.  Annie knew grace.

He giveth more grace as our burdens grow greater,
He sendeth more strength as our labors increase;
To added afflictions He addeth His mercy,
To multiplied trials, His multiplied peace.

His love has no limits, His grace has no measure,
His power no boundary known unto men;
For out of His infinite riches in Jesus
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again.

When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
When we reach the end of our hoarded resources
Our Father’s full giving is only begun.

Annie’s biography concluded: No one but God knew what suffering she endured as the disease became worse with the passing of the years, and new complications developed. But through it all her faith in the goodness and mercy of God never wavered. There were many times, no doubt, when her soul would be burdened with the mystery of it all and the why and wherefore of the thing that she was called to endure. In that respect she was most human like the rest of us, but the marvelous thing is that her faith never faltered, and that she was at all times able to say “Thy will be done.” For more than forty years there was scarcely a day when she did not suffer pain. For thirty-seven years she became increasingly helpless. Her joints had become rigid, although she was able to turn her head, and in great pain write a few lines on paper.

On September 8, 1932, at the age of 65, Annie left her curled and crumpled body on earth for a new and perfect one in heaven.  The faith that had gently sustained her was made sight and she was welcomed in the precious arms of the Savior she knew so well.

But she left something else behind as well.  A simple legacy of hymns.  A testimony of grace.

His love has no limits, His grace has no measure,
His power no boundary known unto men;
For out of His infinite riches in Jesus
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again.

Sometimes life just stinks. That’s when He gives more grace. 

AnnieJohnsonFlint

Posted on by lgandre

Lucy, II

FullSizeRenderI already blogged about Lucy, here. And I didn’t plan to do it again.

When I heard the Bostics were going out of town for a week, I volunteered to watch her only because I knew I was, next to them, the person most familiar with her care. And besides, I’m uniquely suited to keeping her with me all day because all the people at my job are used to working in a zoo.

Lucy gets a bottle at 6:00, 10:00, 2:00, 6:00 and 10:00. So I picked her up last Saturday and I made sure she was fed at all the right times. The day passed uneventfully and Lucy went to bed in her bag— hanging on a doorknob in my kitchen. I went to bed that night relieved. We had evidently found our groove. No drama. No blog.

I was very pleased.

Sunday morning I work up to what sounded like a noise right outside my bedroom door. I soon dismissed it as my imagination, but seeing as it was 6:00 am and time to feed Lucy, I got up.

As I left the bedroom and headed to the stairs, I noticed something dark on a stair. What had I left on the stairs? Books perhaps?

It was Lucy. She had apparently gotten out of her bag, over the baby gate, out of the kitchen, through my living room, up the stairs, and back down. I knew because she had left a trail of small dark circles in her wake. Given the source, I call them Luberries.

I was not at all pleased.

Lucy, I informed her, you are done in my house. You are now strictly an outside pet.

Lucy2I have a sorry excuse for a backyard—just 14’x14’, but thanks to Charlie, it is barricaded by a 6 foot wood fence. Thanks to Christopher, it is reinforced with a roll of chicken wire. So, it’s basically impenetrable for a wallaby. I was very pleased.

Monday we seemed to find our groove again, and Lucy was quite sweet. She would come hopping up to me and lay her hand on my knee while I gave her a bottle. She enjoyed being scratched and petted and before long, all was forgiven.

That brought us to Tuesday. When I got to the office, I put her outside in a kennel so she could eat grass and enjoy the spring air. I checked on her every so often, but she was fairly safe inside the confines of the box, so I wasn’t too worried.

Until I went to check on her and she was gone.

Seriously. She was gone.

I ran outside—sure I was hallucinating. She was ten feet outside the back door. Had she been stolen?

I discovered that although the front door was still shut and latched, the kennel had a back door. And although the back door had been pushed up against the side of the deck, it was now several inches away and the door was open—just enough for a Houdini of a wallaby to squeeze out into the great unknown.

Fortunately, I found her in the parking lot. But finding her and catching her are two different things. I called for reinforcements and the next thing I knew, Tyson, Katie, and I were trying to extract a runaway kangaroo from the hedge. Same hedge. This feels like Déjà vu. I was not at all pleased.

That was Tuesday.

Somewhere in the night Tuesday night I was awakened by a clap of thunder. I could hear rain beating down on the roof like two fists on the bathroom door. I sprang out of bed. Lucy, my outdoor pet, was going to get soaked.

I ran out to the back yard in my bare feet and there was a bright flash of lighting as if God was taking a picture of me and the little gray animal streaking across the yard. She was making a squealing noise I hadn’t heard before. She was not at all pleased.

The flash was immediately followed by a ferocious clap of thunder. You probably think I’m exaggerating. But there is no exaggerating this. It was raining hard, thundering hard, and lightening hard and I was in my pajamas on my hands and knees under the grill cover trying to coax a scared little animal out of her refuge of grease and gas smells.

It was 3:00 am when I brought her back into my kitchen. I’ve been told that kangaroos like hot water, so I placed her in the kitchen sink thinking I’d get her warmed up, cleaned up, and calmed down all at the same time. I gently reassured her as I spooned warm water onto her back. Meanwhile, she was profusely laying luberries. In my kitchen sink.

I was not at all pleased.

Lucy was warm and dry and—in my opinion—ready to go back to bed, but her bag was still thumping around in the dryer. I was ready to go back to bed myself, but there was sort of nothing to do but hold her until her bag finished drying, so I settled my exhausted self into the rocking chair.

Julie Anne, who had been supervising this entire scene, sat near my feet. In the dimness, I could see her white head cocked as if giving me a strange look. Stop it, Julie Anne. I said in my firmest 3:30 am voice. I felt foolish enough sitting there crooning to a kangaroo in my wet pajamas.

Lucy started squirming so I headed back to the kitchen. In case she was getting ready to lay more luberries, I’d rather have them on the tile than in my arms. But Lucy instead headed straight for Julie Anne’s bowl and started eating dog food like a Marine fresh out of boot camp.

It’s 3:30 am! I admonished her. You aren’t supposed to be hungry. Her bag was basically dry and I was ready to put her away.

But Lucy was not interested in her bag. She was interested in dog food. Lucy, you may be from the land down under, but it is 3:30 am here. I do not want my night to end like this.

I was not at all pleased.

Should I give her a bottle? Should I let her eat dog food? I didn’t know. I was out of her formula and I had just paid a premium for supplemental kangaroo pellets; both were on a UPS truck somewhere between Minnesota and Charleston and they were not going to do me any good just then.

Fine. Eat the dog food. We’ll deal with it in the morning.

Well, deal with it we did.

In fact, if you’ve followed this blog long at all, you know that I am extremely unlucky with pets and their excrement. Wednesday was not an exception. In fact, my misfortune rose to new heights.

I’m not sure if it was the substitute formula I tried, the dog food, or just generally eating too much, but Lucy made quite a storm of her own. After I re-washed and dried her bag, of course.

I was not at all pleased.

If it sounds like I’m sparing you the details. It’s because I am SO sparing you the details. The details included rubber gloves, rolls of paper towels, and bottles of cleaner. Thank God for all of the above.

Never did one pray so hard for the UPS man.

I’ve finally officially finished the “hand off” of Lucy to her next caregiver. And I’m not saying I miss her exactly. But I am saying that over the course of the week, I did find myself observing her and thinking, isn’t God creative?

I mean, we start to take for granted the beauty of the scenery around us. We take for granted the fun in our dogs, cats, and kids. We look past the simple creativity in aquarium fish, wildflowers, and waves hitting the beach. But God’s handiwork is such a marvelous living proof of His goodness and His power. Sometimes, at least for me, it takes something we don’t see every day—like a small kangaroo hopping around our house to get a fresh perspective of the overwhelming majesty of our God.

I can just picture that first kangaroo hoping out of the first pouch and laying that first luberry. And God saw everything that He had made. And He was very pleased.

Posted on by lgandre · 2 Comments

Life’s Not Fair (Part II)

(If you missed the first part of this story, you’ll want to go back and read Part I)

Much to my disgust, the boys were completely over their concern for Blackie by the time I crawled out.

“That’s okay.” They said. “She’ll come back. She always does.”

Always does?

Why was this information not shared with me before I slid through slime?

But, as my mother taught me, Life is not fair.

That was the first cat incident.

The second cat incident happened the last day.

I was exhausted. I’m not gonna lie.

Nevertheless, I got up while the house was still quiet. I was determined that I was going to get showered, dressed, and have my devotions before anything else broke loose. That’s what real moms do, right?

I didn’t have my contacts in (a phrase which herein means, I was blind). This fact does great things for my ability to ignore the world. It is much easier to avoid distractions when you have only the faintest sense of sight.

And I wasn’t going to let anything distract me.

Nothing.

Not even that strange smell wafting into my bedroom.

Not even the fact that the strange smell was the dirty diaper kind of odor.

Not even the fact that the smell seemed to intensify as I headed toward the bathroom.

Whatever it was, I could deal with it after I was clean, my hair was dry, and I had read my Bible.

I brushed back the shower curtain and there, right there, on the white shower floor, was a large, brown pile.

Whitey. Apparently.

It took me a while (in my blind state and in unfamiliar territory) to rummage up proper cleaning materials. I was on my hands and needs scrubbing the tub when I heard a voice behind me.

“What are you doing?” Reformed 3-year old asked. He really was cute.

“Cleaning the tub.”

“Why?”

“Because your cat used it as a potty.”

“Why?”

“That is a very good question.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I understand. Give me a couple of minutes and then…”

“I’m dirty.”

That was the start of another day.

And the end of my plans.

It was that afternoon that the boys’ dad arrived back from his business trip. It had been three days full of competitions and heart breaks, but we had a lot of good times too. I had prepared food, done laundry, cleaned the kitchen, played games, chased a cat, slithered through slime, and now…scrubbed the tub. Needless to say, I had worked very hard not only to keep them changed and fed but also to let them have some fun.

But as their dad unloaded from his car, the five boys went running outside like so many starving sailors who had just spent decades marooned on a dessert island eating roots, slugs, and tree bark.

I was glad they were happy to see their dad, but I felt a bit betrayed as they inundated him with every detail of the days gone wrong and all the reasons why mom should be MAD!

I don’t think they mentioned one good thing from the three days.  Not one.

Tell Miss Danielle, “thank you.”  The dad ordered as I gathered my things.

The boys tilted their heads in my direction.  “Thank you,” they mumbled.

Then I drove off into the sunset.

Mom was right, life isn’t fair.

It was a few days later that the phone call came that put the icing on the cake.

It was the boys’ mom. The summary of what she had to say was this, “For some odd reason, my husband thinks it would be appropriate to pay you A LOT of money. I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?”

I didn’t really know what to say. I didn’t need A LOT of money, but I also didn’t know what A LOT of money was.  I think I said something like, “whatever you think, I was happy to do it.”

They did write me a check, I was well paid, and I was grateful to get it.  I didn’t remember thinking it was A LOT of money…And I was a broke law student making $7.25/hr. Anything should have seemed like A LOT of money.

But it hindsight, it was a good thing. It helped me get a better glimpse both of that mother and of life as a mother in general.

She didn’t think much of what I had done, but then, why should she? This was her life. She did it every day without a check. Probably without much thanks at all. And, had she just been through what I had been through, the last three days wouldn’t have stood out to her in the least. It was just life.

And it sometimes it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair that some of the toughest jobs earn the smallest paychecks. And that kids who should drop to their knees in eternal gratitude will instead blow off someone’s hard work.  It isn’t fair that cats will use the bathtub when they have a perfectly good litter box just inches away.

But life isn’t fair.

Thanks, Mom, for teaching me that.  Bet you thought it would never sink in.

And thanks, moms, for working a job that stinks sometime. And is never quite fair.

EPILOGUE

Blackie did come back (that same day, in fact!) no worse for wear.  The family are still friends although I should probably be wondering why I was never asked to babysit again.  All the boys grew up to be responsible members of society to my knowledge.  And no, this episode is not the reason that I am still single and childless…although it just might have something to do with the fact that I do not have a cat.

Posted on by lgandre

Life is not Fair

My Mother’s Day Post (Part I)

They asked me to babysit for their five boys while both parents were out of town for several days.

I was more than willing. I like boys. I like babysitting. And a few days off from my regular job sounded like a little adventure.

In case you don’t have a brood of boys of your own and have never babysat for one, I’ll summarize the experience for you:

For three days, everything was a competition.

Everything. Was. A. Competition.

It could be a game, it could be setting the table, it could be brushing teeth, but it was competition. That means there were cheers from a winner and tears from a loser.

More often than not, that also meant at least one angry boy stomping off in the middle of the competition saying, “You’re cheating! I don’t want to play with you anymore.” That was from the one destined, in just a few short minutes, to be pronounced the loser.

And more often than not, that would be followed by another pious-looking boy saying, “That’s fine. I don’t want to play with a cry baby like you anymore either.”  That was from the one destined, in just a few short minutes, to be the self-pronounced the winner.

Meanwhile, the youngest of the pack would be busy destroying the game pieces, unsetting the table, or eating the toothpaste. He was about three—old enough to know better, but as the baby of the family, he bounced back and forth between baby and big boy at his convenience.

That’s pretty much how the three days unfolded.

We played games. We read stories. We made meals. And I got to show off my mad mothering skills including the timely use of phrases like, “life isn’t fair” and “You need to do what I asked you to do first, then we’ll see.”

And I got to referee a lot. End a lot of competitions. Take a lot of losses for the team. Dry a lot of tears. Whew! They say girls are dramatic.

The only time I really remember having to exercise a serious dose of discipline was when I asked the three-year-old to come to me to go down for his nap. Instead, he ran.

I lunged for him, but he was a bit quicker than I thought. I had been losing a lot of competitions in the last few days to avoid tears and outbursts, but I knew just enough about parenting to know that I could not be the loser of this one.

Unfortunately, he knew the house and the hiding places far better than I. We were in the basement before I caught up with him and when I picked him up, he was screaming and crying as if I was cruelly ripping him limb from limb.

I don’t remember exactly what I did, but I’m sure the most serious part was my tone of voice. I do remember thinking that he was probably going to hate me and turn the rest of the babysitting experience into a miserable one.

Instead, I remember checking on him in his bedroom a little later, and seeing him curled up on his bed fast asleep. He woke up from his nap one of the sweetest, cutest, most obedient boys ever. Who knew?

So now having told you about the boys, I’ll tell you about the real challenge I faced.

The cats.

I don’t remember the names of either one for sure, but for some reason, “Blackie” is coming to mind, so we’ll go with that. We’ll call the other one Whitey, just for balance.

Blackie and Whitey were indoor cats. I found that out when we opened the front door for some reason and Blackie darted out the front door.

That started a mad scramble, a flurry of fear, and a chorus of yelling from all five boys. They were sure that Blackie was going to run into the woods and get eaten by lions, tigers, and bears.

I was less convinced of that that, but I was severely outnumbered, so we all went outside to find that Blackie had taken refuge under the porch. It was one of those long porches—almost the full length of the house—and Blackie’s outline could be made out between the lattice that extended from the ground to the porch floor.

“We have to get her!” the boys were exclaiming. “If she gets out and gets in the woods, my mom will be very mad at us!”

That’s it. They played the “M” card. A babysitter’s worst nightmare…Mom will be MAD!

We all coaxed and called, but it was a cat for Pete’s sake. Cats run their own schedules.

“I think she’s just going to stay under there.” I offered. “She’ll be fine for a while.”

“No!” They all agreed on something for once. “She’s going to run into the woods and get eaten!”

So I gave in.

“Who wants to climb under there and get her?” I asked, surveying the few feet that offered just enough space under the beams for someone to slide on their belly and get the dumb cat.

“We can’t go under there.” They chorus. “We aren’t allowed.” “There might be snakes.”

Why am I not liking this???  I mean, why have five boys if you’re not going to send one of them under the porch to grab the cat?

“Someone needs to get her.” They looked at me—all five of them with imploring eyes about to fill with tears. The fate of Blackie was weighing heavily on my shoulders. And I surely didn’t want Mom to be MAD.

So…I took a deep breath and I crawled gingerly under the stairs, calling gently to Blackie so I wouldn’t startle her.

She waited until just as I was about to reach her, and then…predictably, she jumped back. She still wasn’t far away—close enough to entice me just a little bit further.

Light was coming through the lattice, but not really enough to enable me to navigate the space cleanly. I slid through slime and spider webs. I slid through mud and moss. And every time I got close enough to grab Blackie, she would spring further away, luring me slowly the entire length of the porch.

I hoped that at least there, I would be able to act fast enough to corner her against the lattice, but no such luck. Blackie was through the lattice, across the lawn, and into the woods in one horrible instant— leaving me with nothing to do but slowly inch may way back through the mud, moss, slime, and spider webs and admit my defeat to five broken-hearted boys.

Major fail.

I will continue soon.  And it is a Mother’s Day post.  I promise.

Posted on by lgandre

What is it about Costco?

IMG_6824The parking lot was swarming with cars. So much so that I’m pretty sure the parking spot I eventually found was not in the same zip code as the front door.

But alas, I was here. I probably should be somewhere else, but I was here. So I wasn’t going to leave without accomplishing my mission. My mission being spinach, yogurt, and Cape Cod potato chips.

It was raining, of course, so I sprinted toward the door in hopes of staying somewhat dry. Huddled under the overhang were groups of ladies waiting for their fearless husbands to bring their cars to the entrance where they could unload their piled carts.

But… their husbands were taking an awfully long time. And, other than the overloaded carts under the watchful eye of these women, there was not a cart to be seen anywhere.

Actually, that isn’t true. I could see them. I could see the carts scattered around the various outskirts of the parking lot. Their tongues sticking out at me; their fingers in their ears.

I waited.

Then I took a deep breath and headed back to the other zip code.

Just call this Exhibit A in the list of evidence on why I shouldn’t go to Costco on Saturday afternoons.

For Exhibit B, and a reason why I should never go to Costco on any day of the week, you really need to look no further than my refrigerator. I have a half gallon of capers in there. Yes, capers. Capers. Those salty green peas that you use to make chicken piccata.

I guess if I’m ever accused of having nothing in my refrigerator, I can soundly defeat that accusation. Not true. I have capers.

So…what is it about Costco?

What would possess a single person who doesn’t cook to make almost weekly trips to a wholesale super store at which they check your receipt on the way out the door to make sure you’ve spent at least $100?

It isn’t the cheap gas. I long since gave up on their long, inflexible lines in effort to save $.25. Even worse, I have a little bit of a grudge against Costco gas. I pulled in one time and as I jumped out of my truck, a few dead leaves fell out of the floor board. This prompted me to pull up the mat and dump a half-teaspoon full of grit on the pavement.

That attendant was on me like white on rice.

You would have thought I was a teenage boy with six cans of spray paint for the way he accosted me and his withering look. It was a few grains of sand for Pete’s sake! Give me a dust pan; I’ll sweep them back up.

And it isn’t the free samples. I won’t say I’ve never eaten one. I won’t say I never will. But I will say I have an impeccable knack for timing my browsing in between the preparation cycles for anything that looks good. And besides that, I usually avoid them lest I feel guilty for trying something and not buying it. That’s how I came to have a box full of nasty energy drink powder in my cupboards for about two years.

And it isn’t the customer-friendly atmosphere. I have to say, I have long wondered if the sentries at the exit deter enough theft to pay two full time people to stand at the door with Sharpies. It is more likely to me that they deter customers too impatient to stand in line to pay money and then stand in line again to prove that you paid it.

So…I guess that would just leave the great prices on spinach, yogurt, and Cape Cod potato chips. And admittedly, Costco has a lot of lot of cool products. I like trying new things. And generally speaking, by the time I’ve reached the bottom of a Costco-sized bag or box or anything, I’m thoroughly sick of it and won’t be tempted to repeat my mistake.  So at the current pace, in about 88 years, I should be sick of pretty much everything at Costco and I’ll be able to kick the habit.

However, in the meantime, I’m thinking I’ll have to purchase a lot of spinach, yogurt, and potato chips to save enough pay for the capers and energy drink mixes…much less all of the items I’ve purchased to reach the $100 quota.

Good thing I have two good legs, don’t melt in the rain, and like chicken piccata.

Posted on by lgandre · 5 Comments

Lucy, the Kangaroo

Due to a series of events, I was elected to babysit for the weekend. Joseph dropped off Lucy and her bag of formula, bottles, and other doodads for the proper care and feeding of a baby kangaroo.

I just acknowledged my new charge with a wave—I was in the middle of an intense conference call with two other parties—one in Arizona and one in Pennsylvania. I was the official note-taker and trying to focus on the conversation. Lucy was in a little harness clipped to a tether fastened to the deck where I sat taking advantage of the outside cell reception, the spring sun, and the only clean secIMG_8845tion of the pollen-coated table.

Lucy has to be bottle fed every four hours. It is possible to mix kangaroo milk and take notes at the same time. Just FYI.

It was a few hours—yes, hours—into the telephone call when I looked over to see Lucy go hopping into the hedge. Dismayed, I noticed that the clip had come off her harness. Just a few hours and I had already lost my charge.

I did my best to make it seem like my head was in Pennsylvania helping solve the problems facing our clients when in reality, my head was in a hedge with one hand pressing my cell phone to my ear and the other feeling its way through the branches in effort to locate one small marsupial who blended perfectly with the sticks holding up the leaves.

If they could see me now…

I had read somewhere that if you overfeed a baby kangaroo they will get diarrhea. Well, Lucy and I were on the five-hour drive to Jacksonville later that day when she jumped out of her pouch onto the passenger seat.

It was then that I discovered that I had been over-feeding Lucy.

And before I could figure out what to do, Lucy had dragged her tail through the mess and jumped onto my lap.

I saw a cop slyly parked by a break in the trees and checked my speedometer. All I needed now was to try to explain to an officer why I was speeding through Georgia with a stinky kangaroo on my lap.

My car smelled like you might imagine it would smell under the circumstances. We had 100 miles to go. 

Needless to say, I was questioning the wisdom of my decision to take the little girl on a little adventure. If there isn’t a law against taking these things across state lines there should be.

Things got worse when I arrived to learn that my grandpa had a medical condition that would require an immediate visit to the doctor. I could just picture myself sitting in a hospital waiting room with my 96-year old grandmother bottle feeding a wallaby. Grandma hates attention.

But I didn’t have many options. Lucy tends to make friends rather quickly—and I had expected she would there at the retirement community—but the novelty wears off in a hurry, and…well…there was that overfeeding thing we were still dealing with.

My latest babysitting attempt was turning into a disaster.

But Lucy did charm my grandpa when I gave him her in a bag and a bottle—being very careful not to give her too photo (4)much. It got his mind off other issues temporarily and that was some redemption anyway.

And thankfully, we were able to get by with a fairly short doctor’s visit.

And the over-feeding thing did start to resolve, which seemed to give her a little bit more confidence.

While my grandparents napped, I saw one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen. One elderly gentleman in a powered wheeled chair, pushing his wife—in a wheel chair of her own—around the courtyard. He was singing aloud a song I didn’t recognize. I suspect he might have written it himself. As he was singing it. “I love you…” he was singing, “…from the bottom of my heart.”

I took a picture, but I was at such a distance it you couldn’t really see it. Not really. And a picture just didn’t do it justice anyway. It was one of the sweetest things I ever saw. Especially since it didn’t look like his wife was the least bit conscious of what was going on.

It was a few hours later when I saw the same gentleman outside in the parking lot. I wanted to meet him. And I had an idea. I had something that he might like to meet too.

I introduced myself and Lucy. He introduced himself as Dean and told me about his wife, Mary. She had suffered from Alzheimers for the last fifteen years.

Fifteen years.

And for the last ten, she hadn’t even known who he was. Her mind was gone but her soul was still trapped in this earthly body. And as long as it was, she was still Mary. And he still loved her. And he was going to serve her just like he had in the happy days when she had known and appreciated him.

Dean enjoyed meeting Lucy, but I don’t think she made as much of an impression on him as he did I me. I was just glad Lucy was there so I would have an excuse to meet this faithful man.

And, I suppose, if he can take of his sick wife from a wheel chair, I can bottle feed a wallaby.

Just not tophoto (5)o much.