Posted on by lgandre · 2 Comments

All I Want for Christmas…

30 years…how could it be that long?

I finished writing my first children’s book, The Jolly Jeromes, Christmas of 1995.

My sister, Allyson, drew some pictures of each of the characters to illustrate it; and I spent hours formatting each of the ten chapters on our home computer.  We edited multiple drafts; but I kept getting confused so I don’t think all the errors ever got fixed. Reading it was a little like completing a school language assignment. 

Erin and I literally spent days and nights printing out the novel on our small laser printer.  Double sided printing was quite a pain as it had to be fed through twice; and the glossy paper kept jamming in the printer and wreaking havoc. More than a few tears were shed trying to coax those pages out of the printer.

Nonetheless, we found a book binder that did a sewn, hard back binding of the book for $5 each.  We ordered a whole 25 copies— quite the major investment. 

If you have a copy of that limited edition work of fiction, you are close friend or family. Not only because there were ever 25 copies in print, but because it’s been 30 years.  Only a true friend would keep a child’s work that long.  In fact, I haven’t even been brave enough to read it myself since then. 

Everyone was encouraging though, and after the books were gifted that Christmas, I thought surely I would write a second children’s book.

And I…didn’t. Well, I didn’t and I did. But mostly I didn’t. 

Until now. 

And I’m reminded that times have sure changed.  Not only the price of hardback binding. Everything has changed. 

So here I am to introduce you to my second children’s book, A Cell Phone for Christmas. The story of a fifth grader who desperately wants to find a phone under the tree on Christmas morning…and whose parents don’t think it’s the right time for him to have one. 

This book is dedicated to my daughters, especially the power-button-loving one who would gladly trade me for a cellphone and not ask for change back.  And, of course, to my loving husband who knows the joys and struggles of parenting low-to-no screen time kids. 

This time, as much as I’d love to gift you a book, I’m hoping you will go on Amazon and buy it so that you can leave a review.  In this digital selling era, positive reviews are everything. Okay, almost everything. So… if you like it or love it, leave a review. If you don’t like it or hate it…you can just send me a private message, and I’ll send you your money back. Deal?

In all seriousness, if you are a parent or know a parent who appreciates resources that respect your authority and affirm your desire to shepherd your children by guiding their use of technology, this book is for you.

If you have a child, grandchild, friend, or library that could use a unique Christmas gift, I hope you’ll consider A Cell Phone for Christmas. Just think of all the fun you can having telling them you”re giving them A Cell Phone for Christmas. 

Maybe, just maybe, we can sell enough to motivate me to publish another…this time before the world changes. 

Posted on by lgandre

Have you ever tried the kale salad from Chick-Fil-A?

I didn’t think so. 

For all the cars wrapped around the building and pouring into the street and people buzzing in and out, I bet they feed more left over kale salad to chickens than they do fresh salad to people.  I mean, when was the last time you hear someone say, “Let’s go to Chick-Fil-A.  I’m craving a kale salad”?

But today, I tried the kale salad. 

I know what you’re thinking…did Charleston run out of weeds…particularly thistle and stink weed that you would find it necessary to pay a $2 up charge for kale?  Especially when you could have had hot, salty waffle fries?

In my defense, I didn’t realize there was an up charge. Probably because I was placing the order while driving down the road (a practice which is arguably worse for my health than salty waffle fries…but I digress).

Anyway, I felt like I deserved the Nobel Peace prize or something as I sat…

and sat… 

and sat…

and sat in the drive through line. 

I’m sure the long wait wasn’t because they had a surprising order for a chicken sandwich.  No, No. They were inside rooting around for kale. And not just kale. Kale and cabbage to make a salad for the starving customer in the white SUV. 

Kale and cabbage?  I mean, what could possibly go right? 

Who thought of mixing greens that taste like a scrub brush with wisps of rubber and calling it a salad?

Who thought of putting it on a menu and offering it as a replacement for hot, salty waffle fries?

Who thought they could get more money out of it than fried potatoes?

I may never know. 

But I made that person happy today. And strangely enough, they made me very happy. 

The salad was surprisingly good. I mean, for rubber and scrub brush and all.  So much so, that I will probably order another one some day—Even though it means waiting in a Wendy’s length line while paying Chick-fil-A prices. 

But I’ve been on mission lately to find some good salad recipes…and having a growing appreciation of the challenge good salads present, I feel that credit must be given where it is due: and that is to the courageous person that put kale and cabbage on the menu of a fast food chain alongside waffle fries, chocolate chip cookies, and a peach iced lemonade.

And then added an up charge. 

And then making it good enough that a customer was glad they paid it. 

That person…that person right there deserves the Nobel Peace Prize. 

Posted on by lgandre

Remembering John McArthur

Dr John McArthur is more than just a name to me.  

Growing up in southern California, we sometimes drove the two hours to his church on Roscoe Blvd on Sunday evenings to hear him preach.  That’s right…two hours there, a two hour sermon (it seemed!), two hours home.  As a kid, the most I could hope for (besides getting to watch the magic pulpit rise out of the stage) was a stop at Carl’s Jr so I could get something off the .99 menu before we started the long drive home. 

But it was a different kind of food that motivated my dad to make that kind of investment of time and energy on a Sunday evening during a busy season of life when he already had a grossly long daily commute during the week.  

I can still hear the rustling of pages each time he would say, “open your Bibles…”. As young as I was, I remember some of the times that he preached a whole message on 2-3 words of a verse. And it wasn’t because he was making up stuff to say. His sermons might be narrow, but they were always deep. 

It wasn’t just at his church though, I often heard his voice streaming in our car over the radio or by cassette tape.  Yep, those small plastic rectangles with yards of tape wound up inside…we had cases of those with his name on the front and the words “Grace to You.”

Sometimes, we went to Grace for Christmas concerts where got to hear musicians like Christopher Parkening and Jubilant Sykes and sometimes, the perky voice of Joni Erickson Tada.  One night, we had to park in a neighborhood sort of nearby because Steve Green was in concert. It was standing room only for families like us who came screeching in late and had to park in a different zip code. 

And while I’m thinking of Steve Green, one Sunday happened to be the church’s 35th anniversary and Pastor McArthur sang a solo, “Find us Faithful.”  A song that became one of my all time favorites. 

Once in a while, I’ve heard people criticize McArthur as too dogmatic or too this or too that. I remember reading some comments during COVID that made it sound like he had gone off the rails. But each time I actually investigated myself, it seemed I found what I would have expected to find: McArthur studying the Bible and applying it directly and reasonably to every day life. I don’t know everything, but I do know He stood for God’s Word. He believed in its inerrancy, sufficiency, and relevance for the world today. 

I have a few especially memorable moments that involve John McArthur.  But the one that stood out to me the most came when I was about 21. We had moved thousands of miles away by then and the trips to Roscoe Blvd had stopped. But somehow, I came across one of those white cassette tapes and a message called something like, “Finding God’s Purpose for your Life.”

As a young, single person trying to navigate my way through law school and life in general, the title especially peaked my interest. I lay on my bed and listened, eventually jotting some notes on an index card. 

Give me some grace here because it’s been twenty plus years (and I’ve lost the index card), but my memory is that he suggested you write down a list of interests and abilities you have—you might call them gifts God has given you.  Then narrow that list to things that you can particularly use to further the kingdom of God. Then narrow that further to a one-sentence statement on what your life should be about. 

This I remember with crystal clarity: He said his was “the exposition of Scripture to the glory of God.”  That was his mission.  

Looking back over the 86 years of his life, there can be little argument that he stayed true to that mission. That was, in fact, what his life was about. 

I saw it as a ten-year old watching him at a microphone singing:

 “Oh, may all who come behind us find us faithful.  

May the fire of our devotion light their way.  May the footprints that we leave lead them to believe; 

And the lives we live inspire them to obey. 

Oh, may all who come behind us find us faithful!”

I saw it as a twenty year old writing notes of my own on the 3×5 card thinking about what I could do to bring God glory. 

I would be inspired again as a roughly thirty year old when a friend gave me a copy of his book, Slave. The first few chapters are really, really good…Maybe I will go finish it. 🙂

He inspired me to be faithful. 

The fire of his devotion lit the way. 

His footprints led me to believe. 

The life he lived inspired me to obey. 

But it isn’t about me, of course. 

His mission was the exposition of Scripture to the glory of God. May that be true of me as well. And may all who come behind my broken, wandering, faltering steps end up at the cross. To the glory of God. 

Posted on by lgandre

One year ago, Today

I waited 43 years. Almost. 

And when it finally came, the day felt surprisingly ordinary. 

I woke up in a largely empty house—most of the furniture had already been moved.  But I still made the girls load the dishwasher. They thought that was cruel and unusual considering what day it was. But a dirty dish is a dirty dish…even on your wedding day. 

The weather was about ten degrees warmer than promised just a few short weeks before. Not a welcome turn of events for my very Charleston wedding. 

The engraved glass bottles with bamboo lids that we had planned to fill with ice cold tea and lemonade as a gift for our guests had been exploding as they were filled. We had to give up on that particular party favor even though it killed me. I guess that’s better than killing unsuspecting guests. 

Curtis was exhausted from the weeks leading up to the wedding that he had spent trying to give Peaceful Way a face lift. He had been painting, trimming, fixing, oiling, moving, cleaning, sorting, and generally wearing himself out physically and emotionally. Because that’s what hard working men do sometimes. 

Our venue had refused to let us finish some of our set up and decor…I’ll leave that for another day. But I felt bad for a friend who had donated considerable time and energy trying to make the huge tent into a beautiful space only to be told she couldn’t carry out her plan.  

I had stayed up until midnight re-writing the seating chart and a speech for our reception. 

All that to say, it didn’t feel exactly magical. 

But as Curtis and I often said to each other, “this is real life.”

And when it comes down to it, I’d rather have the rugged beauty of the real than the imaginary beauty of a fantasy life. 

Maybe that’s what 42 years in boot camp will do for you. 

My sisters and bridesmaid friends were wonderful. They prayed with me. Cheered for me. Let me feel special in their own ways. All of them are seasoned wives and mothers and fairly unflappable. Thank goodness. 


Because the disappointments were not entirely over as the clocked ticked closer to ceremony time. A vendor let us down. A few of our special effects didn’t work in the end. My ring-bearer nephew almost made me turn into a bridezilla when he refused to do what he was told. Some of our technology went AWOL.  The programs I worked so hard on never got handed out. Two of our friends left the wedding sick from the heat. 

Someone told me, “a year from now, you won’t remember all the things that went wrong.”  

Guess what?  It’s been a year… and I still do. 

But that isn’t all I remember. 

Not at all. 

I remember the beautiful sound of the voices of the group “Selah” carrying across the lawn singing “Before the thrown of God above, I have a strong and perfect plea…”

I remember taking my dad’s arm and getting ready to walk down the aisle in front of four hundred of our friends and family—some who came from across the country and some who came from around the world. 

I remember handing my bouquet to my sister and taking Curtis’ strong hands. 

I remember him looking into my eyes and singing to me, “You make me Better.”

I remember meaning every word of the vows I said. 

I remember him picking me up and feeling like it might have been a good idea for me to sew tread on the back of my wedding dress just in case. 

I remember smashing cake in Curtis’ face because…there were a bunch of people watching and I felt like I had to do something. 

I remember the coolness of the reception hall and the calmness of violin music. A wave of peace washed over me. Hopefully no more guests would be going home sick.  

I remember getting up to say thanks and feeling very, very blessed for the community that had stood beside us through this huge transition in life. 

I remember sharing the words from our processional, “And should this life bring suffering, Lord, I will remember; what Calvary has bought for me, now and forever…God, You’re so good. God, You’re so good to me.”

I remember having peace in my heart as the sunlight faded and the final hugs were given.  

Because I never felt like this day was about me. 

And this is real life.  

And God was good. 

The pictures lie. I’m kinda glad they do. It’s fun to page through an album and see a beautiful day on the bank of the Ashley River forty two years in the making. The picture of Curtis holding me under a mossy oak turned out to be my favorite—we were both genuinely smiling (and he would never drop me).

But I guess I feel the need to post this disclaimer along with the pictures because I want to tell the brides and brides-to-be out there to enjoy their “real” and not live for the fantasy.  

Marriage is real life.  Whether your wedding day feels magical or not, sooner or later, real life will set in. You can choose to focus on the frustrations and disappointments or you can choose to be thankful for the good.  You will have both, but your life will take on the flavor of which ever one you focus on. 

One year ago began the most beautiful season of life yet. I meant every word when I said my vows.  I mean every word of what I’m telling you now. 

I love my real life. 

God, You’re so good.  You’re so good to me. 

Posted on by lgandre

Palm Sunday in Jordan

Marka Church began promptly at 11:00. The sanctuary was full and beautiful decorated with palm branches and flowers. A guest musician from Egypt was leading worship together with the youth from the school—all Iraqi refugees in Jordan waiting resettlement other places around the world. 

Worship was enthusiastic!  I translated via an app where I could.  But it didn’t take an app to understand the voices of praise being raised together before the throne of God. People were standing.  Hands were clapping. A full hour went by as we worshipped and no one seemed to mind. 

They asked Curtis to preach and the local pastor translated for him as he turned to the story of Jesus riding into Jerusalem from the book of Matthew.  There, Jerusalem, swollen for Passover to ten times its normal size, welcomed the man they thought was a prophet who would save them from their Roman rulers. 

But God had sent Jesus for something far greater than that. He was God come to save us all from our sins. 

Many “hallelujahs!” Came from grateful hearts.  They needed no translation. 

After Curtis preached about 20 minutes, they worshipped again. This time, the kids and youth joined us waiving flowers and branches. I’m fairly certain in the US, the fire marshall would have had something to say about it as they filled the stage and marched through the aisles. 

“Hosanna!  Hosanna!”

What a beautiful sight!  And what an honor to lift our voices with people from Jordan, Iraq, and Syria in praise to God. 

When the service was over, we said our long goodbyes.  It’s only been four days working with these people but they’ve left a lasting impression on our hearts. It’s been a mix of all kinds of experiences—I think we’ve learned more than we’ve taught and grown more than we’ve been watered.   And we’re thankful.

What a good God—spanning continents, centuries, languages, occupations, and age groups. And what a good Savior—coming to earth to save people knowing they would reject and crucify Him.  What a beautiful time of celebration leading up to the climax of Christianity as we celebrate the Messiah. 

Hosanna!

Posted on by lgandre · 1 Comment

Christmas Alone – 4

Part Four – A Celebration of Christ

As they were nearing home, Patrick was getting hungry. He had an idea. “What if we go to Dennys for lunch? It’s not like your cooking, of course, but there’s someone there you should meet.” 

“Sure… actually, do you mind if we swing by and get Gram? She’s probably through most of the ritual mourning and tired of being home by herself.” 

Betsy was kind. He liked that about her. So even though he didn’t love the idea, he agreed. It was Christmas after all. No one should be alone. That was the whole reason he was going to Dennys to begin with. 

“She was such a good cat.” Gram said as she got in the car. Not ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’ or even, ‘Merry Christmas.’ 

“I’m sorry, Mrs Little.” 

He meant it. Maybe Betsy was rubbing off on him. 

“I thought you should meet Chandra. She’s the lady that tried to help save Sunshine and got us connected with Dr. Snyder.”

Patrick wondered for a second if he shouldn’t have said that. Mrs. Little might be angry at the vet for not saving her cat. But she sniffed a few times and nodded. 

To their surprise, Dennys was a madhouse on Christmas Day. The place was loud and the hostess informed them there would be a 20-25 minute wait. The vestibule was packed and any time the door opened, a cold blast of air numbed the senses. 

Two young boys sat on a waiting bench. One was engrossed in an iPad while the other was driving a remote control car between the customers. They had clearly been there a while. 

Patrick was questioning whether his idea was a good one when he caught a glimpse of Chandra, carrying two trays of food and nearly tripping over a tray stand that was draped over her arm. 

He waved at her and she nodded recognition but the distraction cost her. Right then, the boy with the remote control car sent it racing directly in front of her. She swerved to miss it and in the process, one tray tipped, sliding plates of pancakes and chicken fingers onto a nearby table. Not the reception he had anticipated.

The car was not seen by the customers; but they were clearly not pleased.

“Rory!” Chandra snapped. Then she turned around and started to apologize to the family whose food had just been dumped on their table. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The manager quickly appeared on the scene and said some things to Chandra that Patrick couldn’t hear. Chandra started to walk toward the vestibule and Patrick thought she was coming to say hello.

“Hi Chandra. I wanted to tell you thank you for your help and try to give you some company today. But it looks like you’re pretty overrun. Merry Christmas to you, though.”

“It’s not a Merry Christmas.” Tears were welling in her eyes. “I’m going to lose my mind. My kids’ dad and his wife and her kids all got a surprise trip to Disney from her parents.  They flew out this morning. My parents had left town a few hours before that. Of course, I couldn’t take off, we’re short staffed as it is.  My neighbor who sometimes watches the boys is sick. So my boys have spent their Christmas sitting here.” She gestured toward the two boys on the bench. “This place has been busier than the mall on Black Friday.” She looked desperate. 

The mall! Patrick had another idea. 

“This is my friend Betsy and her grandma. We’re just kicking around this afternoon. Why don’t you let us take them to the mall? We’ll let them ice skate or watch a Christmas movie or something.”

Chandra turned around toward the scene she’d just left. The manager was trying to smooth things over while the bus boy cleaned up the mess. Then she surveyed the three of them. 

“Well…yes. I-I think I have to say ‘yes.’  Let me just get your number real quick. We’ll connect as soon as I get off.”

“We’ll take good care of them, I promise.”

Chandra hurriedly introduced her boys, Rory and David before bustling back to work. 

“I hope this is okay?” He turned to Betsy and Gram. “I guess I should have asked you first.”

“Goodness no!” Mrs. Little was quick to answer. “You don’t have to ask us. Kicking around with these boys at the mall sounds like great fun, doesn’t it Betsy? I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve ice skated.”

Patrick tried to picture Mrs. Little in ice skates, but he could not. Regardless, her mood seemed to have improved considerably.

She kept talking as Betsy helped the boys get their coats on and pack away their toys. The gaggle was soon stuffing itself in the Tesla. Mrs. Little had to sit up front while Betsy made the boys comfortable in the back. They seemed instantly at ease with her and glad to be getting out of Denny’s. 

“Sure, you can have one.” She heard Betsy say and he looked in the rear view mirror. The boys were helping themself to the cookies Mrs. Little had given him on Sunday. Evidently, the box had been found. 

“What a strange Christmas.” Betsy’s words from earlier echoed in his head as they found a parking space and slushed their way inside. They satisfied their hunger at a soft pretzel stand next to the rink. 

“Thank you.” David was polite enough to say.

“Is this better than sitting at Denny’s?” Betsy asked, fishing for a smile. David shrugged, but Rory nodded. “I hate that place. It smells funny.”

Soon, Betsy was lacing up skates and the four of them were bobbing their way around the oval while Mrs. Little looked on, sipping a cup of hot tea and smiling. 

It was a strange Christmas. Patrick had not opened a single gift. He had not had any good meals. He had not spent even one minute with family. 

And yet… and yet it was a good Christmas just the same. It was made up of the simple love and kindness that all good Christmases should be made of. 

Christmas is, after all, a celebration of Christ. What could be a more fitting celebration of Christ than meeting the needs of the prisoner, the widow, and the fatherless? 

He thought back to that moment a few short days ago when he had stood staring at that wall of paint chips. He had felt so alone then… so different from the way he felt now. Reagan, David, Rory, Betsy, Mrs. Little, and Chandra. Even a short time could turn new faces into friends when he chose to think of others instead of himself. 

Patrick’s phone rang and he tried to answer it. “Hi Mom… Yes… in fact… Can I call you back? It’s loud in here and… No, I’m not painting. I’m with some friends… I’ll tell you about it later. Love you. Merry Christmas to you too.”

When the Tesla pulled back up to Mrs. Little’s home, the lights were coming on. Patrick was pretty sure there were more fake snowmen in her yard than there were real ones in all of Colorado but he didn’t care. He tried to think of a reason to stay, but he knew Marley really needed to be let out. Sometimes it stinks to own a dog. 

“Thanks for a great day!” Betsy said as she jumped out. And then, “You know, we never did paint that bathroom.” 

“You promised to help.”

She nodded. A tiny gleam in her eye. “I’m looking forward to it.” 

“Me too.” He agreed. 

And he meant it.

When he got through the door of his own home, Marley was howling. Patrick didn’t blame the little guy. 

“Okay, okay. Don’t worry, I’m taking you on a walk,” he said while clipping on his leash. Marley wasted no time tugging him toward the door.   

As soon as the cold blast hit, Marley turned around as if to give Patrick a reproving look.  “Hey, don’t give me that. Even Mom said she hoped I wouldn’t spend Christmas alone.”

Marley didn’t stop raising a fuss until they reached the hedge and he had relived himself.

“Feel better now?”  Patrick asked his furry friend. Marley immediately busied himself with sniffing into the hedge.  “C’mon, really?  It’s 25 degrees out here!” Patrick continued his monologue aimed at Marley, but Marley was intent on something and not to be dissuaded.

Marley started barking again and Patrick leaned over to see what had him worked up.  

“What in the…?”

Tucked in a small hole in the hedge was a pathetic looking white cat. There was no collar. It was thin and shivering.  Even with Marley’s excited barking, it didn’t try to run. 

Patrick’s mind processed quickly. He didn’t recognize this as one of the neighborhood cats. He couldn’t leave it outside in this cold. He couldn’t expect it to get along with Marley. A plan was forming.

Thirty minutes later, Mrs Little’s phone gave a ding. She had a text from a blocked number. 

“Your Christmas present is on the porch.” Is all the text said. 

Betsy opened the front door and returned carrying a large box. A cat head soon popped up over the side—a warm bath and can of tuna had done wonders.  She had a tag around her neck that read, “My name is Snowflake. But you can call me Sunshine if you want. Merry Christmas.”

“That Patrick!” Mrs Little said, without missing a beat. “That was so thoughtful!  I knew I picked a good one for you.”

“Wait…what?  Gram, what are you talking about?”

“Well, you know. Some things need a little encouragement.”

“Gram!”  Some pieces were falling into place. “Did you…did you feed Sunshine that chocolate on purpose to get Patrick over here?  I thought that story seemed really strange.” 

“You might say I made the cookies easily accessible.”  She replied.  “You said it yourself, Sunshine needed to be put down.  And I needed a way to get you two together. Patrick wasn’t eating my cooking.”

“Gram!  You beast!”

“I didn’t actually plan to take her to the vet, just keep Patrick here with me somehow until you got home; but he got it all set up. It worked out in the end though.  He’s happy, you’re happy, and even Sunshine is happy.”

“Gram!  Let’s not get ahead of ourselves! All we have is a vague plan to paint a bathroom. That’s it.”

“Nonsense.  In fact, he couldn’t have gotten far. Call that boy and tell him you’re cooking.  Christmas is a celebration of Christ. We’re not done celebrating just yet!”

“Gram, you’re a mess!”  Betsy protested but she reached for her phone nonetheless.

And that is the story of Patrick’s Christmas—a wall of paint chips, a cat, a dog—a simple day filled with kindness. 

And that is why, when he pulled into his driveway the final time, he said to Marley,

“This was the best kind of Christmas.”

And he meant it. 

Posted on by lgandre

Christmas Alone – 3

Part 3 – A Strange Christmas

“Patrick?” Betsy’s pleasant voice greeted him over the phone. “Hey, I hope it’s okay that Gram gave me your number. I just wanted to let you know that we won’t need a cat sitter today after all.”

“Oh…okay.”

“Turns out Sunshine wasn’t able to survive the stomach pumping. So… yeah… I do feel a little bad about giving Gram a hard time yesterday. Sunshine was as stiff as a board this morning.”

“Oh… wow… I’m so sorry…”

“Yeah… me too. Anyway, I think Gram is going to stay home and mourn for the cat so I’m just going to drive down and back myself. I should still be back around lunch and I’ll help with the bathroom if you haven’t finished.” 

“Okay, yeah… that’s fine.” Patrick was struggling to find words to say. “You know, if you wanted, I could drive down there with you.   I mean, to give you some company for the drive…if you wanted…”

“Are you sure? I mean… I’ll come help paint either way.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Patrick didn’t want to admit that he didn’t really feel confident starting the project without her. And truthfully, he actually liked the thought of getting to know Betsy better… even if it meant a trip to prison. 

Maybe Betsy was anxious to see Reagan. Maybe she was in a hurry to get gone before Gram changed her mind and decided to join them. Either way, she quickly jumped in as soon as Patrick pulled up to the curb. Her hands were empty except for two cups of hot chocolate. She gave one to him. 

The conversation flowed easily as they headed south. The roads were clear and relatively empty. Patrick didn’t ask about Reagan, but he did slowly learn other pieces of Betsy’s story.  Betsy was the oldest of the family and Reagan was the youngest. She didn’t say, but Patrick guessed Betsy was mid to late twenties.  Reagan was the youngest.

Their dad had worked mostly in offshore drilling so the family had lived all over the world and traveled extensively in between the frequent moves. 

“I didn’t know my times tables but I went in every Egyptian pyramid and snorkeled in the Mediterranean. I lived on three different continents before I knew who Abraham Lincoln was. Mom called it homeschool, but it probably bordered on truancy.”

“I bet you learned a lot though.”

“You know, we did in our own way. And we were a close family. Mom was a good mom— I didn’t mean to give you a different impression but I guess she is what you’d call a ‘free spirit.’ The closet she came to cooking was pouring batter in a hotel waffle iron. She couldn’t be bothered with things like housework.”

“I guess if your dad was in the oil and gas industry, she didn’t have to?”

“Well, I didn’t understand it at the time, but basically it was feast or famine. Dad would make a lot of money while he worked on a specific job. But sooner or later, the contract would run out and he’d get laid off. We usually ended up back in Denver living with Gram and Grampa for a few weeks or months until he got another job. Then we’d be off again.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes… I guess so. I didn’t know any different. I enjoyed traveling enough that I kept it up during college and even taught English in China for a few years after. I’m kinda burned out on it now though. Most of the family is in Texas, but Denver is the closest thing I have to meaningful roots.”

“Is that what brought you back to Colorado?” 

“Well… yes and no… I just came here in August when… well… Reagan got in trouble.” Her voice kinda faded out and Patrick surmised she didn’t really want to talk about that. “But I have a lot of happy memories in Denver, so it might not be a bad place to settle down. Besides, I think it’s good for Gram to have someone nearby. Hard to tell if my family will stay in Dallas. Dad’s still in the oil and gas industry… and I guess he always will be. I don’t think he can afford to retire.”

When they arrived at the detention facility, Betsy took over. She knew where to park, where to enter. “Don’t bring anything.” She instructed. “I’d just take your ID out of your wallet and leave the rest.” She did the same. 

Betsy had clearly done this many times. She smiled at the detention officers and called many of them by name as they went through the reception and screening. She seemed confident, but Patrick saw her eyes well up once or twice. He pretended not to notice. 

Reagan was a copy and paste of Betsy. Slightly younger and taller, but he wore her same cheerful expression despite the ugly prison garb. He gave Betsy a hug and then turned to Patrick.

“This is a friend of Gram’s.” Betsy introduced him. It led into the story of Sunshine’s sickness and sudden death. 

“Good grief, how long has that cat been alive?” Regan asked. “I don’t know if I even remember life before that cat. In fact, I’d probably believe you if you told me BC stood for ‘before cat’.”

“We may be confusing her and cats before her, but Gram definitely always had a cat when we came to visit. It always seemed weird and nasty to us because in most of the world we had been, animals don’t live in people’s houses.”

“Remember when we were in Egypt and I begged Mom to let me keep that puppy I found?”

“The one that eventually bit you?”

“Yeah… that was the only time I remember her taking me to a clinic of any kind.”

“This Christmas will probably go down in Little family history as the year Sunshine had her sunset.”

“Like the famous Christmas of the suitcase!” The two of them laughed together and Betsy explained. “We didn’t typically get gifts for Christmas.” She began. 

“Other than our stockings, which always had candy and a toothbrush.” Reagan interjected. 

“Right. We didn’t have a lot of stuff period because we moved so much. Anyway, when we traveled, Mom’s rule was, you pack it, you carry it. We each had a tattered backpack. We would go for weeks on just what we could carry in our backpacks. No lie.”

Reagan nodded agreement. 

“One fall she had us take a particularly grueling trip that went through like twelve European countries. We were going through all these picturesque little towns climbing castles and bell towers— stuff that might have been fun except that we were all carrying twenty pounds of stuff on our backs everywhere we went.”

“Mom had us in a different place every night so there was nowhere to leave our luggage. Those packs sure got heavy by the end of the day.”

“We whined and complained so much that evidently we wore her down. That Christmas, there were three big boxes wrapped and waiting for us on Christmas. We all got a small rollerboard suitcase.”

“We thought we had won the lottery.” Reagan reminisced. “Suitcases on wheels! I remember mine was blue, yours was green, and Sophie’s was pink.”

“The worst part though was Mom never really let us use them.” Betsy mused. 

“You can’t take rollerboard suitcases up bell towers!”

“Remember how frustrated she used to get paying a Euro every time we needed to use the WC?”

“Yeah, she used to try to get us kids in for free.” They both laughed. “When they wouldn’t, she’d tell us to hold it… ugh. That was miserable.”

The conversation wandered a little until someone gave them a signal that they had five minutes left. Patrick excused himself thinking the two of them might want a few minutes alone. “I’ll get the car warmed up.” He offered, and no one argued. 

When Betsy came out to the car, it was clear she had been crying. He didn’t know what to say, so he turned on the radio and the two listened to Christmas music in silence as they headed back toward Denver. 

“I hate goodbyes.” She finally said as her sole explanation.  It was quiet again until she mused, “Such a strange Christmas.  Thanks for coming with me though. Reagan’s world is pretty small right now. I think it was fun to see a new face. He said you should come again sometime.”

“I’d be glad to.” Patrick said. And he meant it. 

(fourth and final installment coming soon!)

Posted on by lgandre

Christmas Alone – 2

Part Two – A Cat Named Sunshine

Christmas Eve brought more frigid weather. There was no fresh snow in the forecast, so all indicators were that it was going to be a gray Christmas. Occasionally, a car would slush by out front, but for the most part, all was still. 

Patrick turned on the TV. He tried to get lost in music. He scrolled Instagram. It definitely did not help to see what everyone else was doing today. 

He tried to call his dad, but Mom answered.

“Patrick!  We miss you, honey.  What are you up to?”

“Projects around the house.”  Patrick tried not to sound as lonely as he felt.

“I hate it that you’re there alone. What are you doing tomorrow. Will you be with Ben?”

“No. His in-laws are in town. What’s Dad up to?”

“He and Jake are out smoking pork butt for dinner tonight. I’ll tell him you called.  Christy is making her famous cheesecake.  I’m about to take the boys to the mall. They want to get something for their mom.

His family felt very far away. 

“I sure hope you find someone to spend Christmas with.”

Patrick mumbled some reply and the two said their goodbyes. The talk about food though was making Patrick hungry. Maybe even a bit hangry. 

He surveyed his food options. He could defrost a pound of ground beef and make himself a burger or he could open a can of soup. Not exactly smoked pork butt and cheesecake. He glanced at the paint can. He would start… soon… just as soon as he could find something decent to eat. 

He hopped in his car and started to drive. Not many places were open for lunch on Christmas Eve. And there were even fewer in which he would be seen by himself on such a day. He soon passed the mall which was heavily decorated for the occasion. Signs boasted an indoor ice skating rink, movie theater, and last minute shopping. If his family were here, they could have passed a happy afternoon just puttering through; but by himself, it didn’t seem worth the effort to find parking. 

“Dennys it is,” He grumbled, eyeing the “Open” sign glowing in the window. It was nearly 2:00 p.m. and he felt the need to settle on something.

A thin girl with a frizzy braid came to the table. It was purple. At least some of it was. A string of earrings went up her ear lobe. She had long, gaudy nails. Patrick wasn’t sure exactly what color you would call them. Obviously fake eyelashes curled around her eyes. The saddest part was that she probably would have been a pretty girl if she wasn’t trying so hard. “Chandra” was printed on her name tag. 

“Are you just passing through?” She asked, attempting small talk. The room was fairly empty so she was probably bored. 

“No, I live here.”

“Have any plans for Christmas?” She tried again. As if eating alone at Dennys did not make it obvious his calendar had a lot of space on it. 

“Well, I’m going to paint a bathroom. Does that count?”

She gave a quick laugh. “I guess that beats what I got. My kids are all with my Ex. I live with my parents, but my dad is working today and tomorrow they leave for a cruise. So I’m just waiting tables through the holidays for extra cash.”

“I’m sorry.” He felt like something more profound or encouraging was in order, but he couldn’t really think of anything. 

“I’m sorry you have to paint a bathroom.”

“It’s okay.” Patrick didn’t want to sound like a charity case. “I’ll take the meatloaf and mashed potatoes.” He said it quickly to change the subject. 

Patrick was further saved from small talk by the ringing of his phone. He quickly answered it.

“Is this Patrick?”

“Yes?”

“Patrick. This is Mrs. Little.”

“Oh, hello Mrs. Little.” Patrick tried to hide his disappointment. He had no idea how she got his phone number and was pretty sure he wasn’t glad.

“Patrick, glad I got you. I hope you are having a good Christmas Eve!”

“You too. Uh, thanks for the goodies by the way.” He added, hoping she would not ask how he liked the baked goods. He could not honestly remember what he had done with them after he got in the car yesterday. 

“Patrick…I’m so sorry to ask you at this last minute. I just couldn’t think of anyone else. My cat—did you know I have a cat?”

“No ma’am.”

“My cat got into my kitchen this morning and I think she ate a couple chocolate cookies.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Little.”

“I’m really worried about her. She’s acting strange. I feel like I need to take her to the vet. I think she’s having a seizure.” Her voice wavered and Patrick could tell she was close to crying. 

“I…see.” Patrick knew what was coming next and he was wracking his brain trying to come up with a good excuse. 

“I hate to ask you…do you have plans this afternoon? You know I don’t drive…”

“Uh…” Patrick was not eager to get involved. “I guess we should check around and see if the vet is open… I mean… and maybe I could do some quick research and see the effect of chocolate… I… I’ve never heard of chocolate being bad for cats…” His voice faded out. 

As Patrick was feebly trying to find a gracious way to avoid spending Christmas Eve driving around town looking for an open vet, Chandra came up behind him.

“I don’t mean to eavesdrop.” She started. “But chocolate is toxic for cats. if you need a vet, I’ll call my dad for you. He is a vet and his clinic is not far from here. I’m sure I can get you in.”

“Uh, okay…” It seemed there was no escaping this. 

“I hate to see a cat suffer. I’ll ask the kitchen to pack your food to go.”

So much for his quiet lunch. Patrick got Mrs. Little’s address while Chandra headed back to the kitchen for food. When she emerged, she had a bag in one hand. 

“It’s all settled! I just called Maisy, that’s the front desk lady. They’re expecting you. Here is a card with the address. And here’s your food. I put utensils in there for you.”

Patrick tried not to let his aggravation show. Chandra was clearly trying to help. But the process of driving an old lady and a sick cat around town made painting a bathroom quite appealing.  Unfortunately, it seemed he had no choice. 

The dramatic exterior decorations of Mrs. Little’s house seemed to fit her and her big squishy hugs. Lights, tinsel wrapped bushes, and blow up Christmas decorations swallowed the tiny yard and threatened to burn the neighborhood down. 

He stuffed the last of his lunch down and was about to hop out of the car when the front door opened and Mrs. Little came tottering out struggling to carry a softshell carry case. 

He sighed to himself and then jumped out to help. 

“Thank you, Patrick. Thank you so much. Sunshine is so sick. I really didn’t know who to call or what to do. Anyone else I could think of would be busy with family on Christmas Eve. Thank you for doing this!” She reached out to give Patrick a big hug. 

“Let me help you with that…” he reached out to grab the cat, but his escape and evasion plan didn’t work. She was almost crying but that didn’t stop her from talking or from engulfing him in her vice grip. He finally stopped resisting for a second before pushing back. “We’d better hurry. They’re expecting us at the vet.” 

At least there was hope of getting this over quickly. 

Two and a half hours later, as Patrick and Mrs. Little pulled back up to the heavily decorated home, he was surprised to see a small black Mazda in the driveway.

“Oh, Betsy’s home!” Mrs. Little seemed to light up a bit. I’m glad. That girl works so hard. She needs some rest this evening.”

“I’ll carry the cat in for you.” Patrick was thankful the ordeal was almost over. Sunshine had needed her little cat stomach pumped. They had told them to keep a close eye on her for the next 48 hours or so, but for now, she seemed to be sleeping quietly in her carrier. Maybe thanks to being doped up, Patrick wasn’t sure. 

The inside of the house was similar to the outside. Every flat surface was covered—both vertical and horizontal.   Cheap figurines, faded prints, paper garlands, and plastic bows seemed to be the decor of choice.  It was as if she had robbed the dollar store. 

Except one thing. 

When he saw the glistening Christmas tree, he stood and just stared for a second. 

He was no decorator by any stretch, but even his untrained eye could see that it was beautiful. It was a real tree with a simple, tasteful scattering of glass and velvet bulbs in muted tones. Elegant white lights gave them a radiant glow. A garland of brass bells tied it all together and at the top there was a spray of white and gold poinsettias that complemented the scattered bulbs. It looked like it belonged in a fancy hotel lobby. 

Mrs. Little must have seen him eyeing the tree. “Betsy did that. Isn’t it lovely? Sunshine got into my box of Christmas ornaments and got sick…it was a gross mess. I didn’t think we’d have a tree this year, but Betsy went out and bought those to cheer me up. She gets a discount of course on anything she buys at Home Depot…Betsy! “We have company.”

Betsy!? Home Depot?

Patrick connected the name with the girl he had met the day before at the paint department. As she entered the room, he was glad Mrs. Little had tipped him off because she didn’t look anything like he remembered. She was wearing white jeans and an olive green cabled sweater which somehow made her look a little taller and thinner. She was still wearing an apron—this time with a plaid print. Her curly hair was in a soft bun and she had a spoon in one hand.

“Oh good!…Oh, hi!” She recognized Patrick instantly. “How did the bathroom turn out?”

“Well…”

“He took me and Sunshine to the vet this afternoon.” Mrs. Little interrupted. 

“I see… I got your message and managed to get off a little early but when I got home and you weren’t here, I figured you found another ride and I started dinner. It’s almost ready.”

“Patrick, why don’t you stay and eat with us?”

“Yes, please do! We have plenty.”

Patrick would have declined, but frankly, it smelled delicious and the meatloaf he had stuffed down the hatch in the car hadn’t really satisfied. Besides that, he could see past Betsy into the kitchen and it was a bright clean respite from the rest of the cluttered house. 

Another plate was added to the table that had been cleared of the clutter disease infecting all the other surfaces. Hot dishes started arriving. Betsy had made a chicken piccata with fettuccine. Cheesy garlic bread.  Grilled asparagus. Caesar salad. 

The taste did justice to the smell in every way. And the last time Betsy emerged from the kitchen, she had small ramekins with chocolate soufflé—hot from the oven with a small dusting of powdered sugar on top. 

“This is amazing!” Patrick said. And he meant it. 

“Thank you!” Betsy glowed. “I love cooking!” She laughed. “In fact, sometimes I feel like I sell paint to support my cooking habit!”

“She got the baking gene from me.” Mrs. Little chimed in, vying for some of the credit. 

“But I think the rest of the credit rightfully goes to the Food Network.” Betsy retorted. “Mom raised us on yogurt and granola bars. I was so fascinated to see people actually applying heat to food and using knives, pots, and spices!”

She changed the subject back to baking. “It’s true, Gram was always the baker of the family. We baked together any time we came. Even now, we have to negotiate for time in the kitchen during the holidays.”

The conversation turned into the happy retelling of a Home Depot employee Christmas party where everyone was challenged to bring a dessert representing their department. Betsy had found little party favor paint cans and filled them with different colors of pudding—vanilla, chocolate, raspberry, and pistachio. 

She had also given a friend in flooring the idea of square sugar cookies with edible transfers on them that looked like an elaborate tile backsplash. Someone in lumber had brought a gingerbread house. 

Betsy’s whole face lit up as she explained the entry that really won the day. “Someone in lawn and garden brought a sheet cake that they had decorated with a layout of the whole department. It was amazing.It had little miniature trees and plants, a pile of little edible rocks, mulch, the whole deal.”

Patrick actually enjoyed listening to the pratter. The conversation soon turned though as Betsy asked, “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow… I’m actually going to try to paint that bathroom.”

“Betsy should help you. She doesn’t just sell paint. She’s a good painter.”

“Well, wish I could.” Betsy mused. “But I’ll be going to Colorado Springs. That will take a good chunk of the day.”

“What time are you leaving?” Mrs. Little asked. “I don’t want you to have to go by yourself, I’ll go with you.”

“But what about Sunshine, Gram? Didn’t you say you have to closely monitor her for the next few days?”

“I’ll just bring her along.”

“And leave her in the car, Gram? It’s supposed to be in the 20s tomorrow.”

“Maybe I can find a warm place to leave her.”

“And what if she isn’t feeling well, Gram? Do you really want to drive to Colorado Springs and back with a sick cat?”

As she talked, Patrick’s respect for Betsy grew. She had opinions, but her tones were thoughtful and not disrespectful. 

And just like that, Patrick heard himself say, “I can drive you both. The Tesla has a pet mode and it can keep a cat warm… or I can stay in the car with her.”

A cat?

Had Patrick really just offered to drive three hours to Colorado Springs and back to spend Christmas with an old lady, her granddaughter, and her sick cat? He didnt even know where they were going or why. 

“That’s kind of you, but…” Betsy started to reply. 

“That’s a great idea!” Mrs. Little jumped at the suggestion. “That would be so nice.”

“Gram, I just have this image in my mind of sick Sunshine vomiting in Patrick’s Tesla… and what if she dies, Gram? Are we going to drive around Colorado on Christmas with a dead cat in the back seat?”

Something about the whole scenario struck Patrick as funny and when Betsy let out a little laugh, he couldn’t help joining in. 

“Betsy!” Mrs. Little was appalled at the suggestion but the laughing was contagious. She let out a chuckle or two before acting offended and huffing over to check on the slumbering feline. 

Betsy got up to clear the dishes and Patrick started to help. “I should feel bad about what I said but honestly…” She laughed again quietly, “I feel bad for that cat. It has had at least eighteen lives. I’m pretty sure it’s blind, deaf, diabetic, anemic, arthritic, and…” Betsy had to pause to think, “going bald!” 

“I heard that!” Mrs. Little snipped from across the room. “You can add hurt feelings to her list of hurts. How would you like it if someone talked about you that way?”

“I’d be too dead to care, Gram. You know that the vet is keeping Sunshine alive because you’re financing his retirement. You spend more on that cat than you do yourself!”

“This was a different vet, Betsy!” Mrs. Little was not fazed by her granddaughter’s opinions and Betsy let it go, chuckling to herself while she made one final plea, “At least let the poor thing rest on Christmas!”

Betsy disappeared into the kitchen with an armload of dishes. Mrs. Little made it a point to hurry over to him. “Betsy’s just embarrassed because she’s going to Colorado Springs to visit her brother tomorrow in the detention center.”

Patrick was so surprised he didn’t know what to say. 

“I heard that!” Betsy’s voice came from the kitchen, mimicking her grandmother’s earlier retort. She appeared back in the doorway. She still hadn’t lost her good nature although the awkwardness of the situation wasn’t lost on her. 

“I’m not embarrassed of Reagan.” She said simply. “And if Patrick wants to come, he’s welcome, of course. I’m sure Reagan would enjoy meeting him. But I think Patrick volunteered to be kind without understanding what he was actually offering.”

“No one should be alone on Christmas. Not you. Not me. Not Patrick.” Mrs. Little retorted. “We should all go together.”

“Well, Gram,” Betsy’s tone was still respectful, “some people might rather be home alone than going to prison to see someone they don’t know with the paint lady, her grandma, and a sick cat. Just sayin’.” And she disappeared again. 

In the end, it was decided that Gram and Betsy would go to Colorado Springs in the morning and Patrick would stay to watch the cat. When they got back, Betsy would come over and help Patrick paint his bathroom. Perhaps Patrick’s Christmas paint fairy dream really would come true.

The drive home that night seemed so different from the one he had made two days before. He was very intrigued by Betsy and could not help trying to put the puzzle pieces together. How did a quality girl like her come from a granola bar eating mom and a high-maintenance grandma? And why was her brother in jail? He wished she had told a little more of her story. But for today, it had been fun just to have a good meal and a pleasant conversation. And perhaps, tomorrow, there was hope to see her again… and paint a bathroom. 

Posted on by lgandre

Christmas Alone

Part One – Home for the Holidays

The party promised to continue for some time, but strangely, Patrick had the irresistible urge to sneak off and head home. He didn’t feel much like celebrating. 

He noticed Ben, the other “Best Man” collecting his wife and their flower girl daughter. They were headed for their car as well. 

The deed was done. Jeremy was married at last and Patrick’s face muscles were exhausted from the 2,000 photos he’d been subjected to. 

He waved at Ben before jumping in his Tesla and peeling out of the hotel parking lot. Ben had an obvious excuse for leaving early—two small kids and another on the way.

If Patrick needed an excuse to leave early, Marley was his fall back. Marley had been in a crate since 10:00 a.m. Approximately 2,000 pictures ago. Maybe even 12,000. 

Chances were, he didn’t need an excuse. No one would really notice or care.

The drive home was depressing. This event wasn’t a surprise; it had been on the calendar for a year. But now that both of his best friends were married, Patrick felt especially hollow. 

The red glow of the stoplight was innocent enough, but it reminded Patrick that Christmas had arrived. 

Today was December 22nd. Patrick should be in Maine right now getting ready to enjoy the holidays with his parents, sister, brother-in-law, and nephews. 

But no, he had elected to stay in frigid Denver for the holidays. Jeremy’s wedding had been the driving factor. Trust Jeremy to pick a highly inconvenient time to tie the knot. 

Originally, when thinking through his plans, it seemed like it would be too much to try to fly across the U.S. two days before Christmas. And besides that, Christmas had the audacity to hit on a Tuesday—super inconvenient for someone who couldn’t take more than a couple of days off work.

At the time, he figured it would be simple to just hang out with friends for a few days over Christmas and actually enjoy some rest instead of fighting his way through crowded airports, eating junk food, and risking weather delays during his few precious days of vacation. 

But right now, as the red glow of the stoplight changed to green, Patrick was regretting that decision. For a split second, he wondered if a ticket to Augusta could still be bought. Jeremy would be on his honeymoon in Florida. Ben had invited him over, but Patrick had heard enough of his evil mother-in-law stories that he fully intended to stay away from Ben’s house until the all clear was given on Thursday. Besides, it was always chaos at their house anymore. Gone were the days of kicking back and watching an entire Broncos game uninterrupted. 

There were other friends, of course. But most were traveling or spending time with their families. Some had invited Patrick to tag along. But he was tired of tagging along. 

So that’s why he would be alone for Christmas. Well, he and Marley would be together. Four-legged company is still company after all. 

Sunday morning Patrick willed himself to church for the late service. The sanctuary was beautifully decorated—unlike his stark house. But it just seemed to serve as another reminder that he was missing Christmas. Nevertheless, he dragged out what he could of his smile. It was still exhausted from the day before. 

“Merry Christmas!” Fellow church goers waved at him across the sanctuary. He waved and nodded. 

Mrs. Little bustled over and pushed a box into his hand that held promise of baked goods. Before he could get away, she had engulfed him in a giant hug. How he hated those squishy hugs. She was about as wide as she was tall and had a high drama personality that seemed to seesaw quickly between laughter and tears. 

Thankfully, he was saved by another acquaintance. 

“Do you have plans for Christmas?” Eric Cate asked him.

“Y-Yes.” He stammered. Not really sure what plans he was alluding to. Doing nothing, he told himself later, is a plan. 

He exchanged awkward greetings with Mrs Faber. This would be her first Christmas without her husband who had recently passed. Patrick wanted to be kind but he wasn’t good at thinking of things to say in the moment. 

As he navigated toward the exit, an idea came to him… it was something to do anyway. Patrick stopped at Home Depot. Since he purchased his home four years ago ago, the hall bath had been painted an awful, Pepto Bismol pink. It would seem that now was as good a time as any to give it a fresh coat of paint.

The momentary uplift of having a project to tackle dissolved after a few minutes of perusing the wall of paint chips. Patrick once again began to feel himself giving in to the funk that had been pecking at his emotional well being. 

Alone. He was trying to do this project alone. 

There were hundreds of colors. More than a hundred shades of the color white. Funny how little things became so big in moments like this. He did not know what to choose. He did not know who to ask. Jeremy and Anna were good with this sort of thing, but it didn’t seem like the thing to do to call friends on their honeymoon to ask what color paint to buy. 

He picked up a few colored pieces of cardstock. How hard could this be? Really. How hard is it to choose a neutral color to paint a bathroom?

But what if he didn’t like it? What if it clashed with the trim…the flooring…the other wall colors…?

This was why he was still living with Pepto-Bismol pink. In fact, this was demonstrative of why a lot of things in his life went the way they did. Thirty-two felt like a strange no man’s land between college and life. 

Determined not to be defeated by a relatively simple decision, Patrick grabbed a chip and headed toward the paint counter. 

“How can I help you?” A lovely voice asked and Patrick looked down. A cheerful reddish face was looking up at him. Her orange apron had the name “Betsy” in cute black Sharpie lettering. The “e” had been turned into a smiley face. 

“I-I’d like to buy some paint.” He heard come out of his mouth. 

“Okay. We sell paint.” She said with a laugh. “What kind do you need?”

“Uh. I don’t know.”

“What are you painting?” 

“A bathroom.”

“Okay, so interior. You probably want a satin or a semi gloss…”

Patrick felt himself being led through a series of choices. Type. Brand. Amount. Putty. Sand paper. Brushes. Rollers. Dropcloths. Soon, he was loading $120 worth of stuff into the passenger seat of his Tesla. But he had a small sense of victory. He had bought the paint. 

It was probably too much to expect two victories in one day. He did not actually intend to start putting paint on the walls. Truth be told, he had never painted a room before. He would never admit it, but he was intimidated to start. There may or may not have been a deep down hope that a secret paint fairy was going to show up in the night and apply the paint. 

But he did carry in his purchases and set them by the bathroom door. Marley was very proud of him and came bounding with his approval. Or maybe he was just anxious for a walk. 

Patrick checked his phone a dozen times. It was strangely silent. For the rest of the world, the holidays had begun. Other people were doing whatever it is they do on Christmas Eve eve. He kept fighting emotional gravity but it was hard not to feel very, very alone. 

He tried not to sound entirely pathetic when he talked to his sister and nephews a little later. But there was a slight choke in his voice that was difficult to hide. He blamed it on the brisk walk with Marley in sub zero weather. 

He checked flights again. The soonest flight he could get was tomorrow and the series of flights available would make it a 16 hour journey through Atlanta. It made no sense. 

He was stuck. The two days that had seemed like a great opportunity to rest and relax now seemed like a punishing sentence with a bathroom as a jail. 

How different life would be with a family of his own. Singleness was freedom and desolation all in one package. 

Patrick had made a few attempts in the past to find the right girl. It had felt a lot like those moments at Home Depot staring at the wall of paint chips, but with much higher stakes. 

That was then. Now, at thirty-two, there were not so many options. There was not a Home Depot for life. 

To be continued…

Posted on by lgandre · 3 Comments

Thanksgiving

There is a rule—maybe even a law—enforced by unseen, unnamed powers that says that one should not decorate for Christmas before Thanksgiving.1

I know, I know, many good men have broken this law and gotten away with it. Maybe even you. But it is a law engraved on my heart and enforced by my conscience if nothing else.  And those are the laws I tend to follow…no matter who decreed them.

So…that’s why I feel compelled to write a full confession. You see, this year, due to travel plans, I must decorate now or never.  I am going to do my best to convince you 1) not to follow my bad example; and 2) that I have, in fact, celebrated Thanksgiving in my heart and home before I so much as opened a red plastic tub.

So here I go…one small way I will express my gratitude. Because I’m a very thankful girl. And this year–of all years–has beautifully displayed the resounding kindness of God.

Those who know me from afar might say, of course she would say that. In 2024, she got married to a wonderful, godly man after a (nearly) 43-year wait. She lives in a beautiful place. She has everything she needs. She’s gotten to travel around the world. She has two beautiful, miracle-gifted girls. She is healthy. She has friends.

And you would be right.

Those who know me up close may recognize that this has been a year of intense pruning. Painful refining. Some of my securities and comforts were taken away. Some of my identity and areas of control were exchanged. Some friendships have been strained.  Some routines have disappeared.  God has exposed ugly layers of pride, selfishness, and impatience.

It’s been a tough year.

But again and again through it all, as my own sinfulness was made plain and acknowledged, it’s been forgiven by a tremendously merciful God who keeps pointing me back to the gospel.

That’s why I’m so thankful.

God’s abundant kindness toward sinners is always on display. But sometimes, we choose not to see it. Perhaps not intentionally.  We are just too busy or too blinded by our own self-righteousness.  In our pride, we get to thinking we are living the life we deserve or something less…when, if fact, it is much more…abundantly more.

I see God’s goodness through tears and changes this year.  God has patiently humbled me.  I value relationships more and I care about routine less. I hold stuff—all those things—in a more open hand knowing it isn’t mine. None of it is mine. I see my own sinfulness more clearly and His grace and mercy more abundantly. Our all-knowing, all sufficient God who lends us life for a season gives us more and better than our wicked hearts deserve. 

That’s why I can say, with a thankful heart, God, You’re so good.

Finally, I feel it’s important not to run over Thanksgiving not only because my heart compels it but because Scripture commands it (not the holiday, but the concept!). The book of Psalms alone tells us to give thanks 37 times. Apostle Paul commands it in his writings another 40 times. Jesus is recorded giving thanks to the Father seven times.

Paul describes depraved sinners in one of the most sobering passages, Romans 1, listing unthankfulness together with the sin of idolatry and leading to God “giving them over.”  It’s a terrible thing to be given over to a reprobate mind.

So for this reason, I like to stop and give Thanksgiving space and time in our home and our year—before we hang lights, wreaths, and stockings. Well, that and the belief that the Thanksgiving police are going to get me and lock me up for good. Still feels a little wrong. I did tell myself I would simplify this year…but alas…two wrongs don’t make a right.

Psalm 107:1-3 (ESV) – Oh give thanks to the LORD, for He is good, for His steadfast love endures forever!

  1. It follows, of course, that you one should not listen to Christmas music before Thanksgiving…but I’m not going to bring that up…I’m not really looking for a fight. ↩︎