When God Writes Your Love Story (Paperback)

Chapter One

All the Kens and Barbies sat around the table. Amid glistening smiles, moussed hairdos, and Coppertone tans, the fragrance of Polo, with a hint of Skin-So-Soft, wafted through the café booth. I nibbled at my burrito as the conversation around me finally arrived at its ultimate destination.

"So, Kevin," Barbie #1 flirted across the table, "tell us who you're seeing now."

Kevin was used to having all eyes on him. Being a Tom Cruise look-alike in the early nineties had a way of boosting the ol' ego. Having a senator for a dad didn't hurt, either. While crunching a chip between perfect teeth, an "I thought you'd never ask" smirk found its way across his face.

As all of us camp counselors leaned in, eyes bulging with expectancy, Kevin finally revealed the secret in a low monotone: "Her name is ... Sandra!"

This only added to the excitement and wonder, because no one had any idea who Sandra was.

"Is she a babe?" begged the resident Brad Pitt, alias Mike from Wyoming.

Say no more! Swift as the bionic man, Kevin whipped out his wallet. Moments later we all observed a photograph of the "Babe of the Century," as the Tom Cruise wanna-be so proudly referred to her.

"Ooooh!" was heard from the corner of the table where Brad Pitt and Leo DiCaprio (Wayne from Denver) were discussing the finer points of her femininity.

"I think she has a huge nose!" grumbled two of the super-models under their breath.

I continued to pick at my burrito.

Barbie #2, sitting beside Top Gun, was next in the heartthrob inquisition. The photo was removed to shouts of "You go, girl!" from the Barbies, and low disapproving rumbles about his skinny neck from the Kens, Brads, Leos, and Toms.

After a week of having to exhibit saintlike behavior to all the little campers, and being superspiritual while around the camp leaders, it was time to let our hair down-time to let the real passions of life come out. I mean, in your late teens and early twenties, you can sing only so many spiritual camp songs before you need an infusion of good old-fashioned romance!

One year prior, it was talks like this that really lit my fire. I used to love to brag about my love life at camp and exaggerate about my "Babe of the Century" in a way that would make all the guys jealous and all the girls insecure. You could say just about anything and get away with it; no one was going home with you to check out your story.

I used to crave these love chats, but something about Eric Ludy (alias Pee-Wee Herman in this group) had changed-something big. Something that made me want to slide under the table when all those inquisitive eyes turned my way.

I'll never forget that moment! There I was, my fork picking at the jalapeño stranded on the corner of my plate and my mind screaming over and over, Please don't ask me ... please don't ask me. Well, they asked.

"So, Eric, tell us about your exciting love life!"

All the periwinkle, emerald, and dark brown eyeballs were twinkling at me with expectation. I gulped.

"Uhhhh," I mumbled. My palms were sweaty. My tongue was dry and thick, like I had a felt eraser in my mouth. Finally, Pee-Wee Herman spoke up. "Uhh, I uhh, actually, uh, I am waiting on God."

But to be honest, it didn't really come out as clearly as I just wrote it. The last part of my sentence was mumbled under my breath, sounding something like "Ima waying on Gaw."

I hoped I could answer quickly and have them move on to Elle MacPherson, seated next to me, poised and ready with a photo of her hunk. The plan backfired! They became even more interested!

"Uh, I think we missed that, Ludy!" Tom Cruise sarcastically challenged. "Was that a girl's name or your favorite Chinese food?"

After the laughs subsided, I began again, this time a little more clearly.

"I know this may sound strange, you guys, but I've decided that I won't give my heart to another girl until God shows me it's my wife!"

I have often wished I could have been more eloquent, that I could have made my resolve sound a little more appealing to my audience, now staring with mouths ajar. But I guess God wanted me to know that I was following a different path, not for the approval of the Kens and Barbies of this world, but simply to honor and love Him.

It was a lonely moment. Silence filled our corner of the restaurant, and all eyes focused on the jalapeño I was ruthlessly stabbing to death.

"That's ... interesting!" supermodel Kayla awkwardly noted, as her eyes grew large with disbelief.

"Oh, give me a break! How in the world do you expect to find someone, Ludy, if you're not out there looking?" Leonardo chimed in, accompanied by "yeah's" and "exactly's" from around the booth.

After a moment of reflective silence, I took a deep breath and stated, "I believe that if God wants me to be married"-another deep breath-"He will pick her out for me."

A dark cloud settled over the entire group and rained down bewilderment and shock in the form of ghostlike faces and rolled eyes. I glanced up from my tortured jalapeño to discover a long, bony index finger pointing at me, about twelve inches from my nose. Kevin used that finger like Clint Eastwood used a gun. He didn't shoot to maim-he shot to kill! Kevin's bronzed features had taken on a deep shade of red, and his lips were bubbling like a lava pool ready to explode. After three long seconds, he finally erupted.

"I totally disagree with you!" he fumed, with his index finger still targeting my right nostril. "God doesn't want us hanging around nagging Him about something like that!"

A few "amen's" from the crowd textured his passionate sermon. He continued. "I believe God wants us to pick," he preached, "and then He blesses our choice!" He paused and then came to a climactic finish: "It's sappy Christianity like yours that gives us Christians the image of helpless orphans! It is absolutely ridiculous to think that God would care that much about your love life!"

The finger held fast for another few long seconds, then slowly dropped as if to say, You show any sign of life, and I'll shoot again!

I was the ultimate bummer to their titillating conversation. If ever you want to drain the juice right out of romance, just bring God into the picture. I had committed the unpardonable camp counselor sin, and all the eyes around the table were letting me know it.

Growing up, I had always gotten along with everybody. I knew how to hang with the crowd and not offend anyone. I was careful to say the right thing in order to avoid disagreements. Eric Ludy had never been known for his Backbone ... well, except maybe when it came to the Denver Broncos. But when it came to things that really mattered, I was a serious wimp! This was one of the first times in my life I can remember actually standing up for something I believed in (that wasn't orange and blue).

Ironically, I didn't even know exactly what I was talking about. Just twelve months before, I, too, would have "totally disagreed" with what I had just said. But over the past year, God was challenging me to apply my Christianity to every area of my life. Was it ridiculous to think God would be interested in my love life enough to lead me and provide a wife for me?

I shifted in my seat, stabbed my jalapeño one last time, and spoke. "All I know," I said, "is that every time I have tried to pick a girl out for my life, I realize in the long run that I have horrible taste."

Everyone wanted to chuckle, but everything was still a little too serious for that.

All eyes were wide and all ears were open in wonder and bewilderment as I concluded, "Kevin, if God had ten women line up in front of me and said, 'Eric, you pick,' I would fall flat on my face before Him and say, 'God, you know me better than I know myself ... You pick!'"

I bet no one present other than myself remembers that moment. To them it was probably just the ramblings of a lunatic named Ludy. But for me it was a defining moment. It was almost as if God was saying, "How seriously are you going to trust Me, son?"

So there it was, in front of the babes and the big egos, that God challenged me to officially trust Him with the "pen" of my life. I had held on to that pen for twenty years, and now, over a chicken burrito and a mangled jalapeño, I handed it over to the great Author to allow Him to work His wonder.

Chapter Two

a generation's longing for a better kind of love

Homecoming 1988 was a disaster! It was my senior year in high school, and some whacko played upon my gullibility and convinced me that in October, Jesus would return and the end of the world would come.

I hear you saying, "And you believed him?" Well, I'd like to blame it on the education system for not teaching me how to use my brain. But ... yes! I believed him!

Due to the fact that the world was only weeks away from total devastation, I had to put my priorities right in my life. The homecoming dance was a month away, and a good majority of the girls were still available.

I'm not even going to be around for that, I reasoned to myself as the weeks ticked away. The problem was, not only did the weeks pass by, but so did all the available dates from my school. That would not have posed a difficulty, though, if all the available dates in October, after Jesus was supposed to have come and gone, hadn't passed by, too!

Well, life would just have to continue. The homecoming dance could go on without ol' dateless Eric ... except for one small problem. My crazy classmates pulled a cruel stunt and put me on the homecoming court. I guess they felt a Pee-Wee Herman would be a nice finishing touch to an otherwise machismo lineup of studly football player nominees. Now I had to go! And I had to have a date!

I found a girl in a nearby town who was a friend of a friend. She agreed, rather reluctantly, to be my date for the evening. But she made sure that I knew that "the fact that I'm going with you to this dance doesn't mean anything beyond going to this dance, I hope you know!"

She was a curly-headed brunette, heavy on the perfume and light on the charm. My first mistake was forgetting her at the dance and losing her for about an hour. The second mistake I made sort of sealed my fate for the evening. It was all very innocent. There I was, fumbling around, trying to somehow apologize for my terrible absence of sensitivity. I mean, I hadn't just forgotten that she was with me that night; I had totally forgotten that she existed. A girl actually came up to me and informed me, "LouAnn is furious with you!"

I innocently replied, "Who's LouAnn?"

So there I was, brainless as a paperweight, trying to convince her that she was important to me.

"LouAnn," I floundered, "you are great! You are special!"

A snort of disgust blew from her nostrils. Then came my demise. Over the next few minutes, my buddies began to crowd around and the nature of the conversation began to brighten. A few jokes were made, and all of us were laughing. Well, all except LouAnn. My buddy Darren brought up the subject of names, and we were chuckling about how all of us sort of take on an appearance that fits our names. That was my cue. The brilliant Don Juan that I am, I turned my gaze toward my beautiful brunette and spoke.

"It's kinda hilarious, but did I tell you ... I've got a cat named LouAnn?!"

Her response was anything but fraught with frolicking romance. Her eyes turned a shade of neon green that I have never again witnessed. It was before she officially kissed me good night with a right hook (or did I just imagine that part?) that she said something like, "Yeah? Well, I have a pug-nosed dog named Eric!"

The Beautiful Side of Love

Most of us have fallen flat on our faces when it comes to romance. Nearly all of us are familiar with the awful fragrance that accompanies a decomposing relationship.

As Joel, a college friend, said after he had crashed and burned once again on a Saturday night, "Man! I know how to start the relationships; I just don't know how to keep 'em."

That, unfortunately, is not a problem isolated to Joel from third floor Baker Hall (who, by the way, is still single as of the last romance update). In our generation it is a problem of epidemic proportions.

Then there is Margo from Minnesota. Margo doesn't feel much sympathy for Joel. As she would say, "I wish I even had the opportunity to mess up a relationship with a guy!"

Whether you identify with Joel or Margo or neither, I guarantee you will identify with the sentiments of Katie, a senior in college who has done a lot of thinking on the subject. "Eric, you need to understand," Katie exclaims in a cute little voice, "I want my love life to be beautiful!"

Katie represents the sentiments of an entire love-hungry generation weaned on condoms and AIDS education. We know the biology, but we do not know "the beautiful side of love."

If we were to be honest, most of us concluded by the age of sixteen that the "beautiful side of love" is something only discovered on a Hollywood movie set by folks like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. The "happily ever after" stuff is for idealists and dreamers, not realists and critical thinkers.

Now, I want you to know up front that I am not passing myself off as the Romance Doctor. I can hear Leslie now: "He's right about that!" (But I do have my moments!)

I climbed out of the same culture you did. I grew up on The Dukes of Hazzard and played with a Slinky. I wore Levi's Shrink-to-Fits and baby blue canvas Nikes. I was in elementary school when we ran out of gas in the world, in junior high when we discovered more, and had just left high school when we bombed Iraq so we wouldn't run out again.

I know the world you live in, because I live in it, too. And though I didn't get a doctoral degree in romance, I believe I have a message that can turn your concept of a love life upside down. If you are anything like the rest of our love-hungry generation, you are going to discover a little taste of heaven on earth when you read about the beautiful side of love that really does exist.

If you knew my love life history, it might cause you to wonder what qualifies me to share this beautiful side of love with you. I often wonder the very same thing. From the beginning, I was quite inept at this relationship thing. Back in the good ol' days when I was a pimply-faced and pubes-cent thirteen-year-old, I wondered why a girl would ever even want me.

Continues...