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.

On Food

Wow. Today I ate the Thanksgiving Dinner of Eternal Stuffedness. Nine and a half hours later, I'm still not hungry. I did something I generally don't do on Thanksgiving -- gorged myself. I think it was the two pieces of chocolate-chip pound cake that did it. After the four-layer delight, I mean.

Anyways, Hannah said I'll probably make up for it tomorrow by not eating as much, since I'll be with my lover and I'll probably be talking to her a bunch. After saying that, she changed her mind and said that we'd actually probably be mostly looking into each other's eyes. She's a smart one, that sister of mine...

I'll probably eat something in a couple of hours here, because I can tell I'm going to get hungry fairly soon. I did snack on a few leftovers from dinner at suppertime, so it's not like I haven't eaten anything since then.

Anyways, yeah, eating. Quite enjoyable; I like it very much. My darling Lana isn't as fond of it as I am; there are of course foods that she likes, but on the whole she sees eating as something you have to do (or in her case sometimes, something you SHOULD do but DON'T; I love you, darling), rather than something you get to do.

But I'm a teenage boy and will be for another year-plus, and I loved eating long before I turned thirteen. I mean, sure, it's primarily a means of satisfying your bodily needs, but it's pretty pleasurable as well. Thanksgiving dinner isn't my favorite, not really even close to my favorite. What I can't wait for is Christmas: For that, instead of doing traditional turkey-dressing-potatoes-blah stuff, my dad's family cooks up Mexican. Oh yeah, that's awesome stuff there...

As far as what my favorite is, I would have to go with my mom's homemade pizza (preferred meat on it is sausage; sorry darling). Among my other favorites would be tacos, chili, vegetable-beef soup, chicken and dumplings, lasagna, and spaghetti; all as my mom makes them, of course.

So what are some of you guys' favorite foods?

Exclusive look at filming on October 27

Hey all, in honor of Hunted and the idea of providing something different for the eye to gaze upon, here are some pics from way back on October 27. Taken by one of our lovely assistant directors, the indispensable Nan/Sarah/Hannah herself (we'll make sure she gets into the credits by that name somewhere).

It was pretty cold to start out, but warmed up as we went. The first scene we filmed featured Carl talking on the phone to Clyde (and having Dusty actually there to read his lines off-camera did not benefit Chris one iota as he gave his performance)




After doing another scene where an angry Carl talks with lovable henchman Pete (T. J., shown on the left in the next pic), we went to do a dramatic moment between Eric and Clyde.


And oh, hey, thought I'd try the Blogger video upload since I've never tried to put anything on here with it. Check out some raw footage Hannah took using our digital camera. Man, we're just raining spoilers tonight...

Well, hope you enjoyed a special, exclusive, behind-the-scenes, never-before-seen look at a small part of a day of filming on the most anticipated movie of 2007, uh, I mean, 2008. And yes Meggy, we're still working on it; it's very much alive and will survive, if the Lord wills.

Why Being a Movie Director Is Cool

Being a movie director is cool because...

...you get to work with professional actors who know exactly how to deliver what you want, the first time. (Hey, that made me laugh.)

...you never have to go very far when you want to reach out and strangle the writer who wrote this stupid script.

...it's a job title that never fails to impress.

...you get to spend a lot of time around your gorgeous lead actress.

...people stop saying, "Are you guys still making those stupid movies?" and start saying, "Hey, I can't wait to see your movie!"

...you get a bunch of underlings with titles ranging from "First Assistant Director" to "Script-Holder Guy."

...people's destinies rest in your hands ("Sorry, but no, we'll have to keep doing takes until we actually get it right.").

...you get more time than you could ever want to work on qualities such as patience, humility, and kindness.

...you never wake up bored on a Saturday going, "Man, I have nothing to do today!"

...you get to work to fulfill your vision and then see it on screen.

OK, so I caved and threw a heartwarming, nauseating one in there at the end. What are you gonna do, sue me?

As much fun as I may have with the idea of why being a movie director is cool, I know that God has put me in this position for reasons that I mainly can't even comprehend. I have learned so much while working on this movie -- about movies and about a ton of other things. Mostly I have learned the lesson that I will continue to learn over and over again until He calls me home: that I am a sinful man in need of a Savior. Praise the Father for sending One.

Class last night

Sunday night class last night was pretty cool. I am really blessed to be able to teach it; it's helped me tremendously, and I hope it's helped my youth group as well.

Last week we had started talking about witnessing. I wanted to go through the subject because we haven't studied it in a long time, not in class anyway. Dusty and Chris teach a tract time at church camp called "Extreme Evangelism - They Don't Serve Breakfast in Hell", but not all of our youth have taken it; and some probably needed a refresher.

So we've been discussing witnessing, and it's a lot of fun. Last night we continued something we'd started last week. I had been having people give the references to Bible verses that might be useful in witnessing. Last week we'd gotten the basic verses of the Roman Road: Romans 3:23, 6:23, 5:8, and 10:9. Those verses are the most popular to use in witnessing, and don't get me wrong, I think they're great and we should absolutely know them and use them. But I wanted to see what else the youth would come up with for witnessing verses.

Over about 30 minutes, they pretty much blew me away. They listed some more obvious ones: Acts 16:31, Ephesians 2:8, John 3:16. But most of them were leafing through their Bibles looking for more references while others shared theirs, and they found verse after verse that could be used in sharing the Gospel. Stuff like John 10:9-10, Isaiah 55:6-7, Matthew 1:21, and on and on.

Many of them didn't just share a pertinent verse; they would also explain why the verse might be useful in a witnessing opportunity. That really blessed me too, because one of my major goals as I teach Sunday night class is that the youth not merely learn stuff, but learn how to apply it and use it in their lives.

We had a really good time and came up with far more verses than I had ever imagined. Hannah's going to type them up and let everybody have copies next week, so that they can look at the verses further and hopefully memorize them (I encourage that). Also next week, we're going to discuss different questions or issues that might come up while you're witnessing to someone, and we'll do some scenarios. That's right, situations where people like Dusty or Chris or Jordan or Trevor or whoever can both practice and demonstrate ways to witness.

It's pretty cool to see the youth getting into this; evangelism is one of the most important things we can talk about and do, and I hope and pray they're seeing the importance. I'm looking forward to class on Sunday night. Thank You, God, for giving me a youth group that seeks to know You and Your Word better, and for the opportunity to teach them what little I know!

A stolen post (as in, I don't have time to write it)

Hey, hello, how are ya, welcome aboard, as Sean Hannity says.

I don't really have time to post right now, at all; should be in bed at this point, but it's been too long and I needed to get something on here, and I'm not feeling that tired, so you won't be seeing any One-Eyed One-Horned Flying Purple People-Eaters today, nothing more tragic than a run-on sentence.

I had something I was gonna say and I totally forgot it. Maybe I am tired after all. Ah well.

Oh, yeah, if you've got a filter that keeps you off YouTube (our desktop does, or did), and you want to see Hunted previews, check out www.godtube.com. It's the Christian version of YouTube, fairly cool though obviously not quite so polished as the real thing, and just do a search on it for, I don't know, Hunted or Hobbbottom or something like that. I've got the preview and the teaser up (the ones I previously featured on this blog) and so far both have grabbed a lot of views; I'm curious to know who's watching them.

Anyways, wanted to let ya'll know about that. I guess I'll get out of here and get in my bed and get nice sleep. Thanks to all of you who are praying for me and Lana; we've had a tough week on several fronts, but God has been there for us every step of the way, and right now I think we're tired but happy (OK, I admit it, I am kinda tired).

Peace out, dawgs; I love you, Lana.