Posted on by lgandre · 4 Comments

A Year Ago, at Christmas (Part 1)

Woodstock, Vermont at Christmas

Could it really be that it was only one year ago? 

Julia opened the package and was surprised when she pulled out a porcelain heart ornament.  She studied the happy couple forever memorialized on its front.  Her own eyes greeted her.  They were bright and shining.  You couldn’t see Stuart’s eyes in that particular pose, but his strong arms were engulfing her and his gaze was directed to the glittering stone on her left hand.

She had picked out the ring, of course.  They had made payments on it for months; in fact, he had worked a remodel job on the side over Thanksgiving weekend so they could get it paid off in time.  Julia had had her heart set on a Christmas engagement from the time she was a little girl.  Clearly, there were many Hallmark movies involved.

She had picked the charming town of Woodstock, Vermont.  Well, Stuart had officially picked it, she had just planned and hinted and planned and suggested.  If a light dusting of snow could have been scheduled, she would have done that too.  But it turned out that she didn’t need to; God had sent it as if to show His blessing on that happy Christmas Eve moment.  What a perfect day that had been.

Perfect doesn’t mean all went as Julia planned, of course.  Just like a gemstone needs a few imperfections here and there to show it isn’t a fake, those tiny flaws are what gives an engagement character and turns a simple event into a story.   

Stuart and Julia’s perfect engagement had had one especially notable mishap.  When Julia had turned to see Stuart kneeling in front of the iconic covered bridge, she realized that as many times as she had planned and dreamed of this moment, she had never figured out exactly what to say.   She had picked the background.  She had coached the photographer on what angle to shoot from.  She had even chosen the time of day based on the lighting and cloud cover.  And yet, she had not figured out what to say.

“Yes” seemed like far too weak of a response.  Far too common and ordinary.  But, for lack of options, she had said it anyway.  And, when words continued to fail her, she had followed it with another “yes…yes…YES!”  Then, because the only word she could think of still didn’t seem to be enough (despite being repeated multiple times), she had flung herself at Stuart who was rising off the nearly numb knee that had been so bravely placed on the icy walk.  It wouldn’t have been a problem except that Stuart, who was not expecting her to try to jump into his arms, and who was still awkwardly trying to obtain his balance, had slid on the ice bringing them both down with a mighty splat.

Julia’s burgundy dress and white fur shawl had tangled and twisted in such a way that would have made getting up difficult even if the walk had not been slippery, but there was no real harm done.  So, when the two had finally found their land legs, and when the ring had been properly placed on Julia’s fourth finger, they were both laughing.  They laughed about it for days afterward…the big ”yes…yes…YES!”    And then the epic splat.

Stuart was such a good sport.  Never had Julia been more sure of herself than when she gave that “yes.”  He was a squared-away Army captain.  Quiet and confident, healthy and muscular. He was good with people—especially kids.  Best of all, he loved Jesus and he loved her—even with her all her OCD intensity.  Yes, Stuart had been worth the wait.  The long wait.  That part of Julia’s life hadn’t gone quite as planned; but at 31, she still felt that there was time…just enough time to make her dreams of motherhood come true…three or four times over.

Julia pulled out her phone to glance through the photos of that day again.  Perhaps she should have picked one for their Christmas card.  The engagement photos were more Christmasy; but a wedding photo had just seemed more appropriate.  The wedding had been on an equally glorious day in May—a day that had been picked out long before the December engagement. 

The couple had tied the knot in Florence, Italy with a handful of family and friends.  Stuart had a full three weeks of leave and they had made the most of it—visiting many of the European highlights.  Julia had scoured many a travel blog and read every review until their plans had been refined and polished down to where to eat breakfast and when to catch a train.  They had spent some time at Lake Como, the Dolomites, and Rome before flying over to Paris and finally London. 

It was a dream wedding and a dream honeymoon. By the time it was over, their bank accounts were drained to dust, but alas, they concluded it was worth it.  They were both young and strong and willing to work to build them up again.

Julia noticed the time and glanced out the window to see Stuart making his way up the driveway.  There was no snow tonight.  Just a bitter chill that seemed to linger day after day in this dark, lonely place. 

Stuart had a shopping bag which he perched on top of the plastic tub of ornaments that was sitting on the floor.

“I got your lights.”  He saw the ornament she was holding.  “Looks like you got the package from my Mom?  She said she sent something for you.” 

Julia wrinkled her nose the tiniest bit.  She should have known that ornament was from her mother-in-law.  Stuart’s Mom was…hard to describe.

Stuart must have seen the look on Julia’s face.  “She’s trying.”

Ah, that was the word.  “Trying.”  Stuart’s mom was always trying.  It seemed like she was always trying to worm her way into things.  If there was one good thing about the assignment at Fort Drum, in northern New York, it was that it was a world away from Stuart’s parents. 

Julia nodded and made her way over to the bag he had set on the tub of ornaments.  Last year, she had decorated the tree immediately after Thanksgiving.  She was in a fifth story apartment in Fayetteville then and she loved to look up each time she pulled into the complex and see a square section of golden lights shining down as if to say, “Welcome home!” and “Merry Christmas!”

Her apartment had been full of good smells and sounds as she and her roommate, Chandra, baked their way through two issues of Southern Living and one of Magnolia Home.  Even with the knowledge that she had a wedding dress to fit, she had gained 5 pounds last December alone.  And that was without the sourdough bread.  Oh, don’t get started thinking about that sourdough bread, she told herself.

“These aren’t the right lights,”  Julia observed looking into the bag.  “These are the really pasty white kind.  They’re too…too…sterile.  Like were trying to light a department store.”

Stuart didn’t respond.  Julia wasn’t sure if he hadn’t heard her or if he just didn’t care, so she continued.  “I like the ones with more of a gold tone.  You get more of a warm glow.”

“Okay.  I got you.”  Stuart’s response was a bit testy.  Julia wasn’t quite sure why.  She was just trying to explain why they were the wrong lights.  She avoided reminding him that she had been specific as to what kind she wanted before he had left.

He did seem to understand, though, because after a moment, he replied, “that’s all they had left.  I went three places looking for the kind you wanted.”

“That’s why I wanted to order them.”  She reminded him.  “So you wouldn’t have to do all the running around.”

Stuart seemed even more annoyed.  “Look, exchange them if you must.  I wanted to have them tonight because I have to work late the rest of the week.  If we don’t decorate that tree tonight, we shouldn’t bother.”

Julia stopped.  Probably not a good idea to pick an argument with a cold, hungry man.  To his point, it was already December 21st.  And yes, he had told her he had a lot to get done so he could take off some time at Christmas.

She had already set the table and had been doing her best to keep dinner warm.  She quickly started pulling the pots off the stove.  Admittedly, it was nothing like Chandra used to make.  Last year, Stuart used to come join them for dinner most nights and a few Southern Living recipes may have made an appearance in those meals as well.  Julia loved to decorate almost as much as Chandra loved to cook and the result was some tables that looked like they belonged in a magazine of their own.  Those were some happy winter nights.  

Stuart’s mind must have been elsewhere too, because the silence hung between them for several minutes until they had said grace. 

“How was your day?”  Julia finally ventured.

“Fine,”  Stuart replied.  And then, as if sorry for his shortness, “How are you feeling?”

Julia felt a few tears welling up in her eyes; but she tried not to let them take over.  Stuart dropped his eyes down to his plate.

Silence again.

How much things can change in one short year.

Check back tomorrow for Part 2.

————————————————————————–

Want more? Find last year’s Christmas story here.

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

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. ↩︎
Posted on by lgandre

Love Comes Softly

Our story is an unusual one.

But as it has unfolded, I can only look back and say, “God’s hand was in this.” Not that I always perfectly followed His will; not that I had faith every step of the way; but that only God could author a story that takes bitter things and makes them this sweet. 

Ours is a “love comes softly” story. 

Curtis and I met nearly twenty years ago when I came to work at the Bostic Law Group. He was happily married with five well-behaved children. I was fresh out of law school simply looking for a return on my investment in a law degree.  When he interviewed me, he asked what I wanted to do be doing in the next 3-5 years and the answer that came to me was, “doing the next right thing.”  But what I really hoped was that in the next few years, I would be someone’s wife and soon thereafter, a mother. 

Over the years, the next right thing—as best I knew it— was a mix of a lot of hard work; episodes of fun; and great opportunities for ministry.  But even though I always enjoyed what I did, I had always had to fight for contentment as a single person.

As one year rolled into the next into the next, I could feel the dreams of a family slipping through my fingers. My attempts at relationships were confusing and painful.  I tried.  But as the clocked ticked, it started to sink in that despite my God-given desires, it did not seem that marriage was going to be in my future.

But slowly, I began to feel God’s peace in the “letting go” of my dreams.  Even though life wasn’t shaping up the way I had wanted it to, God could be trusted. He gives good gifts.

As I looked for ways to honor God in my singleness, my heart and doors we open to children through foster care.   Eventually, God forever changed “me” into “we” through the miracle of adoption.  God allowed me to become “Mama” to two beautiful girls.  It has been an adventure…single parenting is not for cowards.  

Even in parenting, for me, love came softly. 

Meanwhile, Over the years, Curtis and Jenny became both friends and family. Our relationship was not just employment and the related travel but included church, ministry, and just doing real life together. 

Jenny had been diagnosed with cancer long before I met the Bostics. And though the disease was frequently in our thoughts and prayers, she always seemed able to rebound from setbacks and the way she ate healthfully and exercised diligently…she seemed invincible. It didn’t take much to believe in our hopes and dreams that she was going to “beat it”…maybe outlive us all. 

But a year and a half ago, it became clear that God was calling Jenny home.  It was a dark time. It was terribly difficult for Curtis, as he bore (and still bears) the grief of losing his beautiful partner of 35 years, the glue of his family, and his life as he knew it.  It was very painful for me because I was losing my dear friend, my connection with my “Charleston family,” and my life as I knew it.  

Those months were a blur.  But as God began to lift the clouds, we realized that we were still doing life together. We were still giving our lives to the same priorities. We still involved in the same ministries.  We still worshipped the same Jesus. We still loved the same friends. We still enjoyed working side by side…And we both wanted to be married. 

Which makes it sound so simple. 

In real life, blending families is not simple.

Our first conversations were hurtful. Our first date was awkward. The first person I told was not happy for me. Some of our “firsts” would be hard to identify at all. How do you put a beginning on a relationship born out of a friendship and partnership of twenty years?  

So…when a friend described it as “love comes softly” romance, I had to agree. For us, love came softly-and slowly, and sometimes even painfully.

But it did come. And we are oh, so happy. 

Is it still awkward at times?  In a word, yes. Curtis does and always will love Jenny. In a different way, so will and so will many others who were privileged to spend time with her. I’m so thankful I knew her. I’m so thankful that I learned from her. I’m thankful that I was loved by her—it takes the sting out of “second” for me.  Knowing her kindness and character helps me understand why those close to her are fiercely loyal. 

Our relationship may have come too quickly for some people. I know it came too slowly for others. Too loudly. Too quietly.  Real life is much more complicated than the movies. 

If that weren’t enough, it’s challenging dating in front of your kids. I don’t wish that on anyone. Just sayin’.

But as the months have unfolded, both of us have had a growing conviction that this is the “next right thing.”  And we are so thankful for the wise counsel, kind words, and encouragement of many, many godly people who know us well.

In this new season…I fall in love with Curtis every time I listen to him share the gospel—which is often.  When I see him be gentle and kind.  When I watch him play with children. When he dreams big—and then gives big. When he works hard.  When he makes me stop working. When he leads worship in a way that causes us to lift our eyes to heaven and see Jesus is better, fuller ways. When I see his passion for Bible teaching (especially in its historical and geographical context!).  When he takes time each day to share something he learned from Scripture.  When our gifts seem to fit. 

That is why, when he got down on his knee on the hill overlooking Galilee and asked me “To the glory of Jesus Christ, would you be my wife?“

I knelt with him and answered, “I would be honored.”

Our story is an unusual one…And I wouldn’t wish it to be any other way.  

When I think about it, I can only marvel at our great God who has the ability to bring life from death, beauty from ashes, and hope from despair.  He who gives freedom to laugh and love again after the darkest of times is the author of our journey of faith. 

Some of the most beautiful love stories come softly. Painfully. Tenaciously. Courageously.  

This one did.

Posted on by lgandre · 1 Comment

Fruit that Remains

The vibrant colors of autumn have faded.  The landscape of empty limbs is broken up by an occasional evergreen proudly displaying its needles or by a limb full of stubborn brown leaves trying to beat the odds of winter.  There are still leaves on the ground; but mostly, just leaf crumbs. Reds and golds have muted into shades of brown.  It’s as if fall has been told to sit down and hush. 

This is New Hampshire at Thanksgiving.  It’s pretty in its own way, but not the type of thing people come from far away to witness.

But I traveled to New Hampshire this week.  It just seemed like the thing to do on my mom’s first birthday in heaven.  I wanted to be able to cheer on my dad who has been very brave over the last six months.  He and I stood at her grave today and shed a few tears together.  I wanted to talk; but tears have a way of stealing words.

The last 18 months or so have been quite a season for grief.  It seems most everyone I know has been touched by it and many of those closest to me lost someone dear to them recently.

That’s why, when my sister pointed out the faded-but-still-beautiful landscape today, it resonated with me.  It tells a story that I want to tell; and it doesn’t require words.  The vibrancy that New England is famous for is gone for a time; but all is not lost.  There is still a simple, quiet beauty left. If we choose to see it.

One of the great conundrums of grief is that we want to heal and yet we do not want to forget.  Some people leave books they’ve written, songs they’ve sung, or history they’ve changed.  Those people can be assured that their names will continue to be repeated long after their hearts have stopped beating.  My mom was an extraordinarily hard worker, but she didn’t leave a book beyond the dozens of binders of science lesson plans.  She left no music—except dozens of grands puffing on trumpets and sawing on violins. 

Just a few weeks ago, my mom had another grandchild born bringing the count to even twenty-eight.  Our family is perhaps her greatest tribute.  But even then, we are just a bunch of fallen human beings.  We may have impressive quantity, but we have our share of problems and then some.  And even if we could do her justice; we will not live forever. 

Will she be forgotten?

As I pondered my mom’s life and the fading glory of fall, I was reminded of John 15:16, “You did not choose Me but I chose you, and appointed you that you would go and bear fruit, and that your fruit would remain...”

I cannot unpack all that is in those words spoken by Christ on the night of his betrayal.  It is interesting though that Jesus did not convince the majority of the Jews that He was the Messiah.  After his death, most of them saw Him only as a rabbi who had lived with them for a short while.  He never set up his kingdom—which was the single most important thing the Jews were looking for in a Messiah.  They wanted a military leader to free them from the Romans.  After His death, they wrote Him off.  He did not do the one thing that his nation hoped He had come to do.

He lived a short life, left no offspring, wrote no book, sang no songs, and built no lasting structures.  By all measures, He should have been forgotten.

However, the night before He died, when He spoke of bearing fruit that would “remain,” He knew He was commissioning His disciples with a life work that would change the entire world forever, not just the four corners of Israel. 

The disciples were a band of misfits, but they did choose to live and die for Christ.  They did bear fruit.  And that fruit has “remained.”  In fact, it turned the world upside down.

I think of some of the last conversations I had with my mom.  I think of how happy she was to meet Jesus.  How blessed she felt and how ready she was to let go of this world. 

I think she would tell me it’s okay to let this season drop its leaves and hush as the next season gets ready to take it’s turn.  

She will never be forgotten by those of us who knew her.  But more importantly, her fruit will always remain.  Because it never was about her.  She invested her life in what she knew would last for eternity; The fruit of her life was always about Jesus.

Sometimes I don’t have the words to say the truth to a hurting world. Sometimes, I don’t have the courage. But if I could stand up and tell the world one thing, it would be to invest their life on earth in the cause of Christ. That is the only way to insulate yourself from fear and enjoy the beauty of the changing seasons of this world.

And, tonight, we are expecting a beautiful snow.