CHAPTER 6

“GO BUY YOUR BOOKS!”

I used to think God guided us by opening and closing doors,
but now I know sometimes God wants us to kick some doors down.

When I told my parents I was applying to law school, they looked at me like I was proposing to remove my own liver. You have to understand, my parents are both educators. I wasn’t the smartest kid growing up. I’d bring home my grades and they’d look at me, wondering how the pear fell so far from the apple tree. When I graduated from high school, they gave me brochures for vocational schools that taught courses on engines, electronics, and plumbing. I think they pictured me installing low-voltage landscape lighting for the rest of my life. I did too.

I got into college and graduated with a degree in something I still know little about, and my grades reflected my wafer-thin understanding of the subject matter. It wasn’t that I didn’t try hard in college. I was just bored and searching for a good match for my particular wiring harness. I wanted to do things that would make a difference in the world. My professors, however, wanted me to do things that would make a difference in my grade point average. I spent most of college surfing and trying to figure out how I could help people in crisis here and abroad and make some kind of lasting contribution to the world. I didn’t want to be a pastor or missionary—I knew God had better people set aside for that. So I decided that I was going to be a lawyer. I know, a lot of people think you can’t love God or be a nice guy and still be a lawyer, but I was betting I could.

There is a big test called the LSAT you need to take before applying to law schools. All the schools look at your score on the test, then decide if they’ll let you in. I knew the test was important, so I bought a paperback book on the LSAT at the local bookstore. It was about an inch thick, cost me $7.95, and I read it cover to cover at least three times before signing up for the exam. The book was an easy read, and it seemed simple enough. Most of the book was on how you sign up for the test.

When the big day for the exam arrived, I got to the test site an hour early. This was my shot at law school. The people sitting around me ranged from well-coiffed prep school types to late-night procrastinators still in their pajamas. Regardless of their outward appearance, though, everyone asked what review class I had taken to prepare for the LSAT. “Did you take the Princeton Review? Or was it BARBRI?” I heard four or five names of two-month-long review courses and estimated that the average height of prep materials everyone had was about five feet tall. It was apparent that I was woefully underprepared and my glazed-over look gave me away. “Hey, dude, are you okay?” one of the test-takers said, assuming a “surfer guy” persona because it probably seemed like the only way he could break through to me.

“Review class? There’s a class you can take to prepare for this test?” was all I could choke out. I looked down at my measly dog-eared prep book, a mere 105 pages, and sighed as I threw it in a nearby trash can.

Since I had already paid the money, I went ahead and took the test. Weeks later, suffice it to say, I got the inevitable news. The LSAT crushed me. Despite the headwinds I was facing, I sent my applications to several law schools, you know, to give the admissions office a chuckle and break the monotony of sizing up the real law school candidates. I felt like I was basically making a small donation to each law school I applied to in the form of an application fee. I got lots of mail over the next few months brimming with lovely politeness that all ended in no. I get that a lot.

The really smart kids got letters back from the good law schools welcoming them and sometimes even giving them scholarships to sweeten their offers. The medium smart kids got regular admissions from the regular law schools. And the just plain smart kids got put on waiting lists. I got none of the above. From anyone. I think some of the schools didn’t write back because they figured we both just kind of knew. Some rejection letters I received even returned my application check. Either they didn’t have the heart to take my money knowing I had zero chance of getting in, or they figured that with my score that low, I should save every penny I had.

There was one problem with all of this. You see, I wanted to be a lawyer so I could make an impact in the world, which meant I had to graduate from law school. With no defensible case for admission anywhere, I still decided I wouldn’t take no for an answer.

I knew the law school I wanted to attend. So about a week before classes started, I went over to the great big hall with the dean’s office and admissions staff. I introduced myself at the front desk, and they seemed pleased to meet the person who had been phoning them incessantly to confirm that indeed he really didn’t get in. I walked to the dean’s large office door, knocked, and sheepishly entered his austere room covered with bookshelves and intelligence. The dean of the law school stood up and greeted me with a reserved but polite formality that fit his position and title.

I shoved my hand forward confidently like they say in the books to do and introduced myself.

“Hello, I’m Bob Goff, and I applied to get into your law school,” I said. “I applied because I want to be a lawyer and make a real difference in the world.”

The dean smiled politely, didn’t say a word, and remained standing. Apparently this wasn’t enough to convince him.

“There’s a problem, however. You see, I didn’t get an acceptance letter. For that matter, I didn’t even get a rejection letter. I didn’t get put on a waiting list either. But I want to get into your law school and graduate, or I can’t be a lawyer someday.” I thought I had framed my situation pretty well.

The dean shook my hand again as he said, “This is a competitive program, and unfortunately we have to turn down many qualified candidates.” Mercifully, he skipped the part about me not being one of them.

“It was nice to meet you,” he said, still shaking my hand. Once he broke his grasp, he put his hand on my shoulder and started moving toward the door. His body language left nothing to be misinterpreted.

“I hope you have a nice day,” he offered as he began to slowly close the door. I had the chance to say one last thing before the dean disappeared into his paneled office. So I stopped the closing door with my foot and said, “You have the power to let me in. I know all you have to tell me is, ‘Go buy your books,’ and I could be a student in the law school. It’s that simple. You just need to say those words.” He gave me a half grin indicating he thought it was a cute idea but wasn’t going to happen. Then the door closed. I’m sure he thought he was finished with me and could go on with the important business of training the law students who actually had potential.

There was a bench in front of the dean’s office. It reminded me of the bench I frequently warmed in the principal’s office during elementary school. There were five days left before law school started, and I decided I would park myself on that bench every day. Every time he passed by, I would say to the dean, “All you have to do is tell me, ‘Go buy your books.’ ” It was a last-ditch plan from a determined surfer.

The first time the dean walked by, he asked me why I was still there. I told him that while I understood they had turned down my application. I knew he had the power to let me in. All he had to do was say the words, “Go get your books.” He smiled at me and walked away.

I had a lot of time to think sitting on my bench, day in, day out. I thought about instances in the Bible where all it took was saying the word to make it happen. Jesus would say a word and people would be healed and He just said, “Come” to a guy named Peter and that guy ended up walking on water for heaven’s sake. There was even a time when Jesus was on His way to a soldier’s house to heal a servant, but the soldier said all Jesus had to do was say the word and his ailing servant would be better. As I sat on my bench, I believed words still had power when they are said by the right people.

With four days to go before school started I was back at my post bright and early in the morning. Every time the dean passed in or out of his office, I would say, “Just tell me to buy my books.” He’d just nod, sometimes shake his head, and sometimes completely ignore me and then walk away.

The same thing occurred three days, two days, and then one day to go before law school started. I had missed the 1960s, but I still felt like this was a sit-in and I was part of it. By the third or fourth day on the bench, I knew everything about the dean’s schedule. I knew when he took his bathroom breaks, his daily meetings, when he left for the gym and returned. Every time he darkened the door of his office, I’d be sitting there smiling and waiting for him to say the words, words that could change everything for me.

At dawn on the day law school started, I sprang out of bed. I just knew this was going to be the big day for me. At seven o’clock in the morning, I was on my appointed bench. I watched all of the smart kids arrive, bustling around and sizing each other up. Their high-functioning din ricocheted off the marble walls and columns. I sat there eager to hear the words, but I didn’t even see the dean the entire day. I was dejected. My plan to make it into law school before the opening day hadn’t worked. So I took a lap around the halls and decided that if I couldn’t make it into law school before it started, I’d just get in afterward and catch up.

The dean passed by at least a dozen times in the course of the second day. “Just tell me to buy my books,” I’d say each time. And each time, nothing. Day two of law school ended, as did day three. I was falling behind at law school and I wasn’t even admitted. Day four, still nothing. On day five, for the first time, my hope was starting to crater as I dragged myself to my perch. All the smart kids had settled into their routines and the rigors of law school, and the only noises that echoed off of the walls in the large marbled hall were mine. I mused in my boredom about what it would sound like if I brought my Fender Stratocaster in and played a couple of my favorite Doobie Brothers riffs. I decided I’d save that for graduation day.

Late in the afternoon, I heard the familiar footfall of the dean walking toward the door. I glanced at my watch. This was a little early for him to be leaving but a little late for his midafternoon bathroom stop. There was nothing about this guy’s schedule I didn’t know. And then the footsteps stopped.

Without a lot of fanfare, the dean turned the corner from his office, and as usual, I prepared to say, “Just tell me to go buy my books.” Something was different this time, though, because instead of avoiding me and walking away without saying anything, the dean just stood there towering over me. There was a long pause. The dean looked me squarely in the eyes, gave me a wink, and said the four words that changed my life forever: “Go buy your books.”

And I did.

I once heard somebody say that God had closed a door on an opportunity they had hoped for. But I’ve always wondered if, when we want to do something that we know is right and good, God places that desire deep in our hearts because He wants it for us and it honors Him. Maybe there are times when we think a door has been closed and, instead of misinterpreting the circumstances, God wants us to kick it down. Or perhaps just sit outside of it long enough until somebody tells us we can come in.

Words can launch us. We don’t need to be a dean to say words that change everything for someone. Instead, God made it so that ordinary people like you and me can launch each other. In fact, I wonder if we can launch people better than a dean because we’re ordinary. I believe it’s true that the right people can say words that can change everything. And guess what? We’re the ones who can say them.

It’s been a number of years since I sat on the dean’s bench trying to get into law school. These days, I do a number of things, but one of them is to serve as an adjunct professor at Pepperdine Law School, where I get to teach nonprofit law to some fantastic law students. They’re the really smart kids who got the letters that said yes. Now I’m the one who gets to speak words of life and encouragement to them.

I get a chuckle when I pass by the dean’s office on the way to teach class, and I think about a different dean’s office I sat in front of at a different law school, hoping for the chance to be a lawyer someday. Every time I get a chance, I find a student who is hoping to get into my class but the school didn’t let them in for some reason. And without a lot of fanfare I find where they are sitting and stop. I look them squarely in the eyes, give them a wink, and tell them . . .

“Go buy your books.”