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

The Gift of the Nile

It’s been a long time since I’ve been in school—20 years in fact. I’ve even wondered if I could still do school…or if the fact-memorizing, test taking, paper writing portion of my brain is gone for good. 

But Curtis has a passion for studying the Bible in its historical, cultural, and geographic context and it is rubbing off on me. So we decided to take “Ancient Egypt and the Bible,” a graduate level course offered by Jerusalem University College (a school located in the Old City of Jerusalem). This particular course was being offered both in class and online and included a week-long field study in Egypt. 

Due to the other “stuff” of life, I ended up auditing the course (so my ability to really do school remains yet undetermined), but I did gain a deepened appreciation for Egypt and its 5,000 year history—which stands in stark contrast to the mere 250 years of US history. 

You may know that the first substantive mention of Egypt in the Bible was in Genesis 12 when Abram went there during a famine in Canaan (circa 2000 BC). The pyramids and Sphinx would have already been in existence ~1000 years at that time. Who knows, maybe there were already swarms of vendors there peddling souvenirs and camel rides.

Some time later, Isaac went to Egypt.  Joseph, of course, went to Egypt and later brought down Jacob and his other sons.  

We had fun learning about the Pharaonic dynasties and who might have been on the throne at the various Bible intersections.  We can’t say with certainty where the pieces fit but there are a number of interesting clues. 

Of course, no study can be made of Egypt without some examination of the many and confusing Egyptian gods. We saw their icons engraved everywhere up and down the Nile in the temples, tombs, and museums. In reality, most of what we know about ancient Egyptian culture comes from tombs and temples because those were the structures built of stone because they were meant to be eternal. Palaces and other dwellings were only built of mud brick and largely did not survive the dessert sands of time. 

But the tombs and temples tell us the Egyptians were big believers in the afterlife. We know they went to great lengths to preserve their bodies i.e. mumification—a practice that took 70 days (done to both Jacob [Gen 50:1-3] and Joseph [Gen 50:26] in some fashion although his bones were later taken out of Egypt).  

They prepared for the afterlife meticulously and the Pharaohs would begin build their pyramid complex (or mustabas) upon taking the throne—probably a good idea considering the high rates of murder, assassination, and other dangers inherent in being the ruler of the known world.  They also prepared extravagantly—although nearly all the ancient tombs were subsequently robbed of all their treasures, the wealth and skill of their civilization was evidenced from the elaborate colored engravings and paintings still surviving in the Valley of the Kings and elsewhere.  

We did get to see the treasure found in King Tut’s tomb—the only tomb found in tact—when we went later to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo.  His 22 pound sold gold mask is on display together with other intricate and amazing jewelry.

Of course, as with all civilizations, the nation experienced the rise and fall of power multiple times over the years. Our Egyptian guide worked to help us understand the roughly 30 dynasties and how they divided into the old, middle, intermediate, and new kingdoms.  

The iconography of the various Pharaohs and gods seemed similar to my untrained eye, but he pointed out what was from “upper” (Southern) Egypt, “lower” (Northern) Egypt, the combined kingdoms, the Ptolemides, and the later Greco Roman rulers (who continued worship of the Egyptian gods in effort to gain favor and keep control of the people).  

All of the Pharoahs had five names.  Ramses II in particular was big on PR and his “cartouche” bearing his name would be engraved 12-15 times on some of his statues in effort to prevent later Pharaoh’s from erasing his name and pirating his monument. A fairly legit concern…Queen Hatshepsut (or “hot chicken soup” as our guide called her) a few dynasties before suffered from just such an erasing and she was not the only one. 

Dr Hersey, the President of Jerusalem University College and our Prof for this class, has studied Egyptology in depth and gave us a number of insights and interesting parallels in the book of Exodus with other passages of Scripture.  He informed us that the Hebrew name for Exodus is actually the book of “Names” which is interesting given the infatuation of the Pharaohs with their own names, the absence of certain names—including Pharaoh’s—from the book, and God’s revealing of His own name at the burning bush (Exodus 3).

This trip has heightened my interest in some of the other mentions of Egypt in Scripture…We have a record of the prophet Jeremiah being taken to Egypt against his will.  The political power of Egypt is mentioned in Isaiah who warns against them turning to Egypt for defense instead of to the Lord.  Of course we know Joseph, Mary, and Jesus sojourned in Egypt for some time after era—a fact the Coptic Christians have proudly commemorated in a number of locations (some of which we got to visit). 

In a week of traveling up and down the beautiful Nile and into the “wilderness of Sinai,” I feel we have only scratched the surface of the incredible nation of Egypt and the way God used it to shape history and the Bible. 

Egypt will ever hold a place in my heart as a unique treasure trove of history where the weather is dry, the people are friendly, the trains are nasty (except cabin 5), and the bathroom is only $.25.  Toilet paper included. Usually. 

We very much enjoyed our time with Dr Hersey and the other JUC students and hope we can see them again soon on another adventure!

Posted on by lgandre · 2 Comments

The Sweetest Tradition

Simplify seems to be the word of the season for me this year. I’m scaling back and letting go and feeding guests pre-made Costco meals and store bought desserts.  I’ve said no to parties and gatherings. I have no cards to send.

But there is one tradition I cannot bear to let go.  You see, every year since I can remember, my mom made Christmas candy called “almond roca.”

Even if we didn’t bake Christmas cookies, even if we didn’t decorate gingerbread, even if we didn’t see extended family at Christmas, there was almond roca. 

And Christmas caroling. (But that’s another blog.)

Mom only made almond roca at Christmas time. Maybe because it was expensive to make. Maybe because it’s difficult to make. Maybe because one of my sisters is highly allergic to nuts.  Whatever the reason, the unique smell of toffee, almonds, and chocolate brought the immediate association with all things Christmas. 

One year, when my dad was out of work, Mom started early December making the batches (you can only make a single batch at a time) and sent us kids door to door selling tins of it to our neighbors.  We probably would have done better if I wasn’t constantly having to explain what it was.  Finally, our marketing director (aka Mom) started making peanut brittle too and sold the tins with half and half. People bought the first one for the peanut brittle, but they came back for more because of the almond roca. 

We earned a small fortune…$55.1 Enough to buy my dad a winter jacket that year for his December birthday. We counted it a win although I don’t think my mom had the heart to tell us that was not a net profit number.  I’m glad I didn’t know about net profits back then…A lot of love went into earning that money so dad didn’t have to wear his college letterman’s jacket while he crawled under the cars to fix them every weekend.

To be honest, I didn’t much like the stuff as a kid. I later figured out why. You see, because it’s difficult to make and because it was only made once a year, there was usually a batch or two of “almost roca” before the good stuff began. And because the stuff was expensive to make, Mom didn’t throw the rejects away.  The good stuff got packed in tins and went to neighbors, teachers, and friends. The “almost” would show up in our stockings to be enjoyed by the peasant children. 

I knew it was good though because people raved about it when they got it. Some would tell me how it was rationed or even fought over by their families.  We figured it out when we started trying to snitch bits that hardened to the bottom of the pan or spatula.  Peasants were some times allowed to glean among the leftover bits after the tins had been packed. 

As I got older, I thought I had seen my mom stirring the candy over a hot stove enough that I should be able to do it as well. My first few batches turned out great. I thought I had the touch. Apparently, it was just beginners luck. 

Since then, I have made many batches—some for kings, some for peasants. I have meticulously followed the directions only to end up with expensive almond mush many, many times. 

I have given up and then tried again the next year on multiple occasions and often thought I had figured out problem—cooked too short…heat too low…wrong pan…butter wrong temperature…wrong kind of stove (gas is better)…wrong kind of butter…and finally this year: too much butter. Butter, it seems, is a slyly complicated ingredient.  Who knew. 

So anyway, I hate to brag, but this year, despite my time crunch, I did manage to make the perfect pan of almond roca. 

Unfortunately, my kids will not know. They are eating the pan of “almost roca.”  We have to keep these traditions alive after all. 

  1. Roughly $55,000,000 when adjusted for inflation.

Note: I googled the recipe to see what was online. There was a lot of nonsense. Here is the real recipe if you want to try it:

1 lb of salted butter – 1/4 inch cut off the end (at room temperature)
2 cups sugar
1 1/2 cup of almonds
1 tsp vanilla
1 8 oz package semi sweet chocolate
2 cups ground walnuts

Cook butter and sugar on high heat for five minutes (time from the moment you put it on the burner. Add almonds and lower the heat and cook five more minutes. Add vanilla and cook 2 more minutes until nuts crackle (this is the tricky part…don’t know that I’ve ever heard “nuts crackle” but the substance should be brown, and pulling from side).

Quickly pour it onto a cookie sheet and immediately sprinkle chocolate chips onto the hot mixture. Spread with rubber scraper and then sprinkle walnuts and press them in gently. Let it harden–if it’s done correctly, it should harden within minutes. You can put in in the fridge to continue to cool and set the chocolate.

After chocolate is set (but when AR is at room temperature), flip it over, melt the rest of the chocolate and put it on the other side and again sprinkle with nuts. You can refrigerate again until second side sets.

Break it into bite size pieces and store in airtight container.

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.