CtB, and please pray for Lana

Well, it's Friday of Christmas week; the break is now halfway over and school will be back to smack in the face before I know it. Today I'm planning on editing some Hunted footage and working on articles for the next issue of CtB. Yes indeed, CtB is alive and well, and while our Jan/Feb 08 issue will probably get out rather late, it will come if the Lord wills. You can send in your submissions to calltobattle@mail.com; as always, we can't promise to print them, but we definitely welcome whatever you'd like to send.

Please keep praying for my Lana Marie; she's been feeling really bad the last few days. Worse than usual, which is saying something considering that she's been sick for months and months. Very possibly she may have caught something extra from Tony, who may have gotten it from me, and I may have gotten it from...never mind. That doesn't matter. Just please pray for her faithfully. She's been studying for two CLEP tests and thus has gotten basically no Christmas break, which doesn't help at all when you're trying to feel better. She probably won't be able to work on CtB much at all this time. Anyways, pray, please.

Well, better go so I can start writing. Hope all of my readers are having a wonderful holiday season and that God pours out His blessings on you as you look to begin a new year. For now, namarie!

MY priceless treasure and her favorite Christmas present

Yeah, I know, you can't see it really well. But there's my lovely fiancee with her lovely diamond ring. Lily doesn't look very happy in that particular pic, but I think she's dealing with the title change well, overall. Pretty amazing to think that she probably won't be able to remember a time when her big sister wasn't married to that Luke guy.

EDIT: Oh, I just realized, after viewing an enlarged version of the pic (click on the pic to see it MUCH bigger, though the ring still isn't that clear, sadly), Lily's not crying; she's chewing on the Snickers bar Josi gave me.

A Title Change

Well, Merry Christmas to all; hope you had a great one. I know I did.

Not the least because there has been a title change. Again. Not a status change, mind you. But a title change. You may, very shortly, find out a bit more about that by heading over to my FIANCEE's blog.

Here's to romance. And Christmas is good too.

The Sickies, and Being Ready

Well, the sickies finally caught up with me. You can only elude their grasp for so long. I've had some fever the last couple of days, a bit of a sore throat, and some congestion of the nasal cavity. It wasn't a bad time to be sick, because it forced me to get some rest. At least, it wasn't a bad time until today; I was supposed to go with Lana's family to a Christmas get-together with her dad's family, and I had to miss it. Really wanted to go, and I know they wanted me to as well...:-(

But that's the hand that God's dealt me. So today I've been working this afternoon to get ready for the Christmas musical endeavour at our church tomorrow night. I think it's gonna be pretty neat. Unfortunately my darling is going to have to miss it because of family stuff; my Lana, we really must talk sometime and figure out whether it would work to marry each other. ;-) The courtship period is hard because we're so in love and so connected and emotionally intimate, and yet there's still a feeling of disjointedness. I haven't yet left my father and mother to cleave to her and become one flesh with her, and so we're apart. While courtship is a blast, I'm glad this isn't as far as it goes.

And I know that being married will be hard, in different ways. It'll be our family, our household, forming our own identity. (We've talked a little about that, but it probably wouldn't help you to share what we discussed.) We'll have new responsibilities, new difficulties, and of course new joys.

It's scary, and exciting. I marvel at what God has done in our lives (particularly in mine, I suppose, since I'm the one living it) to bring us closer to marriage. Six months ago, even though I knew who I was going to marry, marriage seemed distant, a dream still a long time from fulfillment. Even after I began courting Lana, I figured there would be a lengthy time before we got married. And even after I started hoping and thinking about this coming summer for our union, I still wasn't ready in a lot of ways, still needed to grow up and mature and sort through the emotions.

Am I ready now? Of course, I think that in a sense, I always have been and never will be. In different ways, of course. But that sidesteps the question: Am I ready?

Only God knows. I think so. I hope so. But I don't know. And at this point, I don't think the issue is about me being ready or Lana being ready. The issue is: Are we ready?

And I want us to be. I want it so bad. Right now I'm in the position of praying, and studying, and seeking counsel, and having to rely on God that we'll make the right decision. I find myself in that spot a lot, and I don't always handle it like I should. Somehow He still shows me His grace; He still blesses me with an amazing bride-to-be and two awesome parents and two wonderful parents-in-law(-to-be). And He still guides me down paths of righteousness, for His Name's sake.

Most of you my readers (at least, the ones that post comments; I don't know how many lurkers are out there) aren't yet in the position of having to make decisions like these. That's a good thing. But again, let me urge you to use your time as a single to draw near to God, and to prepare for marriage. The decisions -- who you'll marry, when you'll marry, where you'll live, how you'll earn money, etc. -- will still loom large one day, but you'll have trained so that you can tackle them head-on.

Above all, remember: It all comes down to His grace. What a great and glorious God we serve!

Honor

By popular request...at least, it's a popular request if SHE requests it. ;-)

This was my familiar essay for Advanced Composition, a class that I took LAST SEMESTER (HA!).

It goes out of its way to explain at least a few things that you already know, but my writing teacher didn't know them, so I put them in there. I'm sure you won't mind hearing them again.

I would like to dedicate it to my editor, who is the most beautiful editor I ever met and who provided needed help in improving this paper. I think I'd like to marry her, actually. I wonder if it's okay to have that kind of relationship with your editor...


Honor

In an age where sensuality rules, the old concept of honorable romance has been all but abandoned. Rampant dating has made us break all the rules that used to hold for love – and to be proud about it. There’s no respect for parents, no respect for a girl’s heart, certainly no respect for her body. Honor, the idea of truly respecting another person and putting her before yourself, is a thing of the past. Once upon a time, a girl could hold out hope that her date wouldn’t kiss her on their first time out. Now most guys want to do nothing but find a bed, and aren’t afraid to get down to business about it. It’s an age of STIs, of date rape, and of broken homes before and after sex.

But somewhere on this earth, honor is alive and well. Somewhere a guy respects a girl and loves her enough to wait – not merely for sex, but for his love to be returned. Somewhere the world is screaming “foul”, wondering what he’s thinking, why he doesn’t just peel off her clothes and be done with it, or at least hold her hand. Welcome to my love story.

Thursday, August 23, 2007. A warm evening but not hot, few bugs, clear sky. A perfect night, all in all, I thought, as I stood on the property of the Loukota family just outside Van Buren. They had been my good friends for several years, and now they, and their daughter in particular, were about to become so much more. I knew that, and they knew that; she didn’t, and it was our job to surprise her in storybook fashion.

We had set a clever trap, the parents and I. While the original plan was mine, it was woefully inadequate. Tyler and Tracy helped me to crank up the romance scale and turn this night into one that Lana Marie Loukota and I would never forget.

Picnic table out by the Loukotas’ pond, set with a blue checkered tablecloth that just happened to match my shirt. Candles floating, that’s right, floating, on the pond; hanging from tree branches around; adorning the table. A bottle of the tastiest grape juice I have ever put in my mouth. And a perfect hiding place about seventy feet away, where I could lie in wait for my beloved.

We had tossed around a couple different contrivances for getting Lana out there. Tyler finally decided on a pretty sneaky one. The day before, he reminded Lana about when she was younger and had had poor table manners. Back then, he had told her that whenever she became a real lady, he would take her out to dinner. They had both forgotten about it for a long time. He would take her out to the pond as if to fulfill his promise. She would see the setup as providing an evening with her dad, not realizing who she would really spend it with.

It’s 8:10 pm and I’m pacing nervously among the trees. T. J., the eldest Loukota child at twenty, has returned home with his two youngest brothers, whom he had taken to McDonald’s: a diversion for him and for them. He’s now doing something over in the shop, a mere twenty feet away. I wonder whether he’ll spot me; later he will tell me that he briefly noticed something through the window but dismissed the sight as nothing.

My phone rings. It’s Tyler, though the plan was for it to be Tracy. I open it, knowing what he’s about to say. “Hello?”

“Start counting,” he replies tersely, then hangs up. It’s the preordained signal to let me know that Lana has returned from Riverwalk, a local apartment complex where she is involved in a church ministry on Thursday nights.

I shut the phone and focus on my watch, the one that Tyler gave me nine days ago when I asked him if I could court his daughter. It’s a nice watch, and it will always remind me of how much Lana’s parents care for me. For right now, it mostly reminds me that my time as a single is running out. Two minutes to wait, two minutes. Time has never flown faster.

At about one minute and thirty seconds, I begin to hear the roar of an approaching train on the tracks just outside the property. It gets louder and louder. I nearly panic; what I am about to do will not work with the train this loud. Mercifully, it dies down a bit but still continues, and I am able to go forward with the plan at about the two minute, twenty second mark.

I call Lana. Her dad will be in the bathroom, waiting for me to call her while he’s ostensibly doing something else. She answers. I try to hide a quaver in my voice as I ask her how the evening at Riverwalk went. She’s excited about it; a good number of kids showed up and they had a delightful time. I express some meaningless positive thought in response.

Soon, she informs me that she has to let me go and will call me back. I know far better than she does why she has to let me go, but don’t say anything about it. We say our goodbyes and hang
up. I crouch in my hiding spot and wait.

About forty seconds later, my future bride and her father come walking into sight, toward the table, holding hands. She looks around in wonder at the atmosphere he and I have worked hard to create. Tyler seats her with her back to me, facing the pond and its floating candles. He takes a seat opposite her and begins to talk.

I’m not really sure what he said; he wasn’t sure beforehand exactly what he’d say either, but he told me to wait twenty seconds and then come bail him out. I follow the plan and begin stepping cautiously, quietly, toward my true love. The train is still moving in the background, providing some great sound cover.

It’s too perfect. I get right up behind Lana without her hearing me. Tyler has glanced over at me a couple times while I was on my way, and now he tells Lana something about being sorry that she had to hang up with Luke. Completely disingenuous, tsk tsk; but the divinely appointed opening.

I open my mouth and in a flash she knows. “Yeah, I guess I understand if you can’t call me back right away.”

She turns and gapes for just a moment, then smiles, stunning me with her composure. Tyler says something; I again don’t know what and I don’t figure she does either because we were both paying attention to something else. Anyways, my future father-in-law makes his exit for the house, and I sit at the table across from my true love.

Of course, I knew what I’d say once I sat down. Our standard greeting, unimaginative, but fitting. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she responds. My heartbeat speeds up. This is really it, kid. You’re really here. You’ve made it.

Helplessly, I stall for about a minute and a half. “So do you want to small talk?”

She shrugs graciously and says “I don’t care”, still smiling. Of course she doesn’t want to small talk. She wants you to spit it out and make all her dreams come true. So do it, chump.

Opening my mouth, I try really hard. But I can’t do it. I just can’t. I need help from God, and so I ask if we can pray. Of course we can. We bow our heads, and I take a deep breath. Then another. And another.

I pour out my heart to God briefly, thanking Him for His goodness and asking Him to help me tonight. Amen, and we look up. And I can’t be silent about this anymore. She’s waiting, for heaven’s sake.

Mentally I clear my throat, unfortunately having no reason to do it physically. “All right, I’ll cut to the chase. With the blessing of both sets of parents, I would like to ask you to enter into a courtship relationship with me, culminating in marriage.”

There. Statement One has been made. That one’s easy compared to Statement Two. The ball is now, temporarily, in her court. Her eyes glisten as they fix steadily on mine. “What can I say?” she finally blurts. “I’d love to?” I can’t help but smile. “Yes,” I hear, “I will.”

Wow. Just, wow. With the fact that we are now officially a couple established, we begin to talk about all kinds of things, all centered on what has just begun. The candlelight allows us to spend a lot of time looking into each other’s eyes, and it’s a whole new experience. We’ve looked each other in the eye before, but would never have allowed ourselves to drink the other person in, to gaze unblinking into one another’s souls. I can’t hold her gaze for very long; it’s so piercingly innocent and joyful.

After a while of alternate talking and silent gazing, I begin to review our relationship, from the day we first met to the present. I reference February 27 as the day that I knew I was going to marry her, but let her know that I’m not going to tell her about what specifically happened then until later. She allows me to skip over it and carry us to the present.

We talk for a long time more, about kids and courting and parents and how great God is. All the while, though I’m more conscious of her than anything else, I cannot believe how amazingly perfect the evening is. I don’t want it to ever end.

At last, ten o’clock draws near, the time set by her parents for us to come back to the house. And I still haven’t told her about February 27. Finally, after waiting past ten, I know I can delay no longer. Statement Two must finish the deal, now.

“My lady,” I begin in a clipped British accent, “you have shown remarkable patience and forbearance, but time is running short and we still have not discussed the matter of the 27th of February. Do you wish to do so now?”

With eyes dancing, she smiles and answers formally, “I do.”

“Very well; then I shall tell you.” But before telling her, I want to make something very clear. “Lana, let me preface this by saying that I don’t want you to think that I merely believe this is God’s will, although I do; that I merely love you as a friend, although I do; or that I am merely very strongly attracted to you, although I am.”

And I proceed to tell her about 2/27/07. We were in American Lit class that day at UAFS, with Mrs. Winters our professor. It was the day we had gotten our graded essays back, and because of a technicality Lana hadn’t realized, she got a D on it. Mrs. Winters offered an opportunity to revise the essay and redeem much of her score, but Lana was still completely torn up. She didn’t stop crying through American Lit, and was still crying as we went to our next class. I relive it all for her, telling her how terrible I felt about it, how unable I was to even try to comfort her. And then how, sitting with her in the lecture hall of the Gardner Building, waiting for American Revolution to commence, I fell in love with her. We had been best friends for a while at that point, but that was the moment when God showed me that we were to marry, and allowed me to give my heart away. I had kept it back all my life, had never allowed any girl to have it, and from that moment it was all hers.

And I wrap up by saying those long-awaited words to my bride-to-be: “Lana, I love you.”

Her eyes begin to well up again as she takes in all that I have told her. Then, quietly, she fulfills my dream. “I love you too.”

But I want to make something clear. “Do you?” I query.

“I do.”

Because, I say, I don’t want to pressure her in this in any way. “I want you to always know that when I tell you I love you, it’s not because I want to hear it back. It’s because it’s true.”

She stares at me with gratitude and, yes, love, and reaffirms that she truly does love me.

And I am overwhelmed. I go on to tell her another vital thing that I have longed to say for so long: how beautiful she is. To tell her that “I truly believe you are the most beautiful creature I have ever put my eyes on.” Awkward wording at the last, but at least I get it out. I tell her that she’s not merely beautiful, but pretty; that there is a difference in my view. Tears form in her eyes again. She knows at last how beautiful she is, how I see her. “And I like to think,” I finish, “that when I look at you, I get a glimpse of the beauty that God sees when He looks at you.”

She gazes at me tearfully. “That’s beautiful,” she whispers. “Thank you. Thank you.”

After a short while longer, we blow out the candles, head back to the house, and inform her brothers of our status change. We’ve waited for years to fall in love, have kept our hearts back, have stayed away from any semblance of romance. We will still wait to express any physical affection, even holding hands, until the wedding day. But the journey has begun, and we’re taking it together.

You just can’t tell me honor is dead. You can’t tell me it doesn’t work. You can’t tell me it’s not romantic.

My eyes tell me otherwise.

The Word from the Cave

Sitting here knowing I need to do some schoolwork, but my brain isn't very motivated to get up and start functioning like it's supposed to. The rest of the body isn't helping things. The eyes are going, "Can you like give us a break already?" The fingers are getting sick of having to move around and do my bidding on this keyboard. The legs are feeling rebellious; they want to do what they want to do; it seems like they're sick both of sitting still and of moving.

The eyes command the attention, because if they shut down, it gets very dark. So my fingers take a break from the board and become masseuses for a few seconds. The mouth obeys the command of the tired brain and opens for a nice yawn. The legs start bouncing up and down, tired and restless. Deep down somewhere in my chest cavity, the heart works as rhythmically and methodically as it ever has; good thing, because if it emerged and heard the complaints from the rest of the body, it might decide to just start taking breaks or something. That wouldn't be particularly conducive to my health.

More yawns. The arms stretch and flex, trying to get more comfortable. The fingers drag themselves over the keys, no longer caring to lift themselves up, no longer worried about my blasted typing accuracy.

The brain, perhaps startled into action by the Two Towers battle music emanating from my computer speakers, rouses itself and starts shouting out commands. "Sit up straight! Blink a few times! Type properly! You've got work to do!"

OK. It's right. I settle into the chair, position myself taller, force the fingers to hit the keys high and with pride. It's time to work.

It's Friday, the week before finals. Things are now set in motion that cannot be undone. The body shudders a restless breath and begins.

The Beating of Your Life

OK, well, I should probably be in bed, but tomorrow's a Saturday and I don't have to get up at all if I don't feel like it (OK, that's a slight exaggeration), and I'm still trying to clear my brain from today. So I figured I'd give ya'll a blog post on this the First Day of the Month of Decembre in Anno Domini Two Zero Zero Seven. Since some of you have been loudly demanding it for a while.

This has been absolutely the craziest week ever. At least a nominee for the title, anyway. It's been way down, it's been way up, it's been invigorating, numbing, energizing, tiring, sad, happy, torturous, fun. Sorry, I like to use series of adjectives like that; someday I'll do that in some great book, I'm sure, but till then you'll have to cope with me doing it multiple times.

Sometimes I just wish life would go away for a while and leave me alone. Just for a little while. Not the people in my life, of course, no -- there wouldn't be much point in being all alone, without my family or my church or my Lana or anyone there.

I'm beginning to realize that this is what happens when you grow up. It's not that you necessarily become any less of a kid, though you certainly have to become a lot more of an adult. But the grind of life hits you and it never stops. It rolls right over you and keeps coming. It never stops. It picks you up off the ground so it can throw you down again. It never stops.

Even when it does go away for a while, it's still there. You can't escape it forever. At best you get brief respites. But it won't really go away. It doesn't go away on Saturday. It doesn't go away on your honeymoon. It doesn't go away on vacation. It just allows you to forget about it for a little while.

And then it's back full force, smacking you in the face, daring you to look it in the eye. 7:30, buddy boy, time to get up. Long day ahead of you. You groan like an overmatched boxer and stagger up for another round; the knockout hasn't ended the match.

On and on you go, as days turn into years. Your body starts to break down. You're too tired to cry at the pain anymore. Bam! An uppercut across the chest. Then another. And another. And another.

You sink to the ground, eyes open and blood-filled, vacant. You wait to be picked up again for more pummeling. You want to die.

And then you do.

The blood clears your eyes in a flash; you rise up without thinking about it; the crowd begins to cheer. You look down and see your enemy lying fallen to the floor. You don't know how he got there. He glares up at you, powerless.

Then the Referee strides to your side; He grabs your hand and thrusts it aloft in His own. Without looking at His hand, you can feel the hole in it.

You fall down again as the crowd cascades cheers. The laurel drops off your head and rests at His feet. You look up and He's smiling, puts His wounded hands on your shoulders. He doesn't have to say anything.

And suddenly it hits you in a flash. You search His eyes in wonderment. His smile broadens as He nods. The crowd becomes deafening.

You were winning all along.


Like all portrayals of life that we humans can concoct, this one's skewed, and that's intentional. The boxing match analogy falls pretty far short in some areas. Life isn't all just one big beating. There's magnificent joy, not just exhausted tears; great victories, not just crushing defeats. The abundant life, the one that He gives us, that dwells inside us, that bursts forth like the dawn, runs counter to the life that we fight everyday. And it triumphs over it.

But the life that we live, threescore and ten years or however long it may be, is nothing. One day we will open our eyes and it will be gone. Forever.

The crowd will erupt and we will see the Savior's face. We will have escaped, not because we found a way out, but because Someone took the keys and threw the doors open.

We will step into the life that is true life. And we won't ever want a break from it. We won't ever get tired of it. We won't ever pound our head against the wall hoping the headache will somehow go away.

There will be no more headache.

And we will live forever with Him, you and me and the hosts of the redeemed. We'll celebrate the victory of the match, and worship the Winner.

And He will praise us, because He has made us winners too.