Turning his back on his reckless
lifestyle, former frat boy Clay Walsh has settled down to run an
antique shop in a small Midwestern college town . . . and to pursue
lofty and outdated theories on love and romance. But when Amber
Hewson, a free-spirited woman with a restless soul, rents the
apartment above his shop, Clay can't help being attracted to her
spontaneous and passionate embrace of life. Amber also finds herself
surprisingly drawn to Clay, but his ideas about relationships are
unusual to say the least, and they bring to light her own deep wounds
and fears about love.
Heartwarming. I watched the film first and reading the script novelization leaves a tilt of the head and a visual of each step on the stairs so vivid. Very enjoyable. Thinking how often Rene must have watched the movie to get each nuance beyond reading the script. Excellent.
You will enjoy getting to know the main characters, Amber Hewson and Clay Walsh. By what they learn from each other, others around them from Clay's college days surface with a dichotomy that is overridden by truth.
I am wooed by Clay's antique shop. To find the past and present together, restoring what was to what is. A memory to be enjoyed once again. Lives being renewed to what they can be. A rocking chair keepsake restored to its beauty for a man who says:
So many interesting people along the way. Especially Clay's Aunt Zella. People so purposeful in our life. A reaffirming, a redirecting by one who loves us so. Honoring God is always win-win. Come along as Clay and Amber find a better way to express their hearts with trust building transparent and alive.
Novelization by Rene Gutteridge; based on the screenplay by Rik
Swartzwelder ~ Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
HIS DAY STARTED OUT quiet and ordinary, the way
he liked and assured himself of. The morning light of early
autumn rose in the east and filtered through the old, cracked
windows of the antique shop, carrying with it smells of dust
and wood shavings and varnish.
Every morning for nine years, before the sun fully slipped
from its covers, Clay had unlocked the old shop. The store
was tidy and presentable, like a perfectly tailored suit, showcasing
the uniqueness of all the antiques. Everything, as it
always did, had its place.
This morning he stood in the midst of them, carefully
surveying the room and inventorying what he might need
to acquire this week. Some items he found at estate sales.
Others, the more unique pieces, George brought his way.
Most needed, at the very least, a good buffing; typically they
needed much more. They came to him as trash. But with
hard work—tried-and-true elbow grease—there
was rarely
anything that couldn’t be restored. There was no magic in it,
but sometimes when he was finished, it felt otherworldly. A
piece would arrive at his doorstep hopeless and pathetic and
leave him one day treasured and beautiful.
Wax did wonders. So did sandpaper. And paint.
But the truth was, not everything could be fixed.
It was this early part of the morning that he loved so
much, before the busyness of the day began. At the back part
of the shop, through the swinging doors, was his little slice of
heaven, where the smell of sawdust stirred in him a delight
he’d never been able to fully explain to another soul.
Clay set his keys and coffee mug aside, keeping the front
lights off because Mrs. Hartnett had a bad habit of dropping
by before the crack of dawn if she saw a light on. He knelt
beside the small rocker he’d been working on the last several
days. An elderly man had dropped it off, hardly saying a
word, paying for it in advance even though Clay insisted he
didn’t need to do that.
“What’s your story?” he murmured, his fingers gliding
over the now-smooth
wood. The chair was a hard-bitten
thing when it came in, chipped and cracked and neglected,
smelling vaguely of smoke. Whenever he worked on an old
piece of furniture—or
anything else, for that matter—he
found his mind wandering to possibilities of where it once
came from and how it had gotten to where it was now. Most
pieces had spent dark days in attics and basements and back
rooms that never heard footsteps. Somewhere in their lives,
they’d served a good purpose. The lucky ones stayed in the
house but sat invisibly in a corner or by a couch, an annoying
place to have to dust, a thorn in the side of someone who
wished it could be thrown away, except for the guilt attached
because it belonged to a great-grandmother
who’d spent her
very last pennies to acquire it, or some such story.
Yesterday he’d cut and whittled the rocker’s new back
pieces and today he would stain them. Clay grabbed the
sandpaper and walked to the table saw where the slats waited,
lined up like soldiers. As he ran the sandpaper across the
wood, he could practically hear the creak of the rocker and
the laughter of delighted children in another century.
He sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and sanded more quickly.
Sometimes he thought
he’d been born in the wrong century.
There was hardly a kid today who would care about sitting in
a rocker on the edge of a porch and watching a spring storm
blow in. The world that he once thrived in had become a
noisy, clangoring, messy place. But here, in the shop, with
sawdust spilling through shafts of dusty light, he found his
peace.
The sandpaper soon needed replacing, so he went to the
corner of the room where he kept his supplies and reached
for a new package. Then he snapped his wrist back at the
sudden and sharp pain in his hand. It hurt like a snake had
bitten him. Blood dripped steadily from the top of his hand
and he cupped his other hand beneath, trying to catch the
droplets.
Clay searched the corner, trying to figure out what had
snagged him.
There, on the old wooden gate he’d found in an abandoned
field: barbed wire. The back side of the gate was
wrapped in it when he’d found it, and he hadn’t had time
to cut it off yet. He looked at the wound as he walked to
the sink. It was bleeding so fast that it was actually seeping
through his fingers, dripping on the floor.
What a mess.
He ran it under the water. It was more of a puncture
wound but mightier than it looked. The blood poured, mixing
with the water. And it didn’t want to stop, even for the
phone.
The shrill ring cut through the still air, coming from
the rotary phone he had mounted on the wall next to the
sink. Keeping his wounded hand under running water, he
answered it.
“Old Fashioned Antiques.”
“It’s me.”
“Lisa. Hi. I’m kind of—”
“I know, I know. Busy. As you always are. Why don’t you
answer your cell? Do you even carry it with you? Don’t you
text? People need to get ahold of you sometimes, you know.
What if it’s an emergency? What about that kind aunt of
yours?”
“She finds me through the postal service.”
“Anyway, I need to drop off the stuff for the thing.”
“Okay.”
“Are you going to be there this morning? Silly question.
Where else would you be?”
“The hospital.”
“What?”
“I might be. You never know. Maybe I got tangled in
some vicious barbed wire. I might be bleeding out even as we
speak, and here you are completely oblivious.”
Lisa sighed. She never got his humor. “I’m being serious.
Can I bring it by?”
In the background, Clay could hear Lisa’s daughter, Cosie,
screaming at the top of her lungs. “She okay?”
“She’s throwing a fit.”
“So she’s in time-out?”
“You know we don’t believe in punishment.”
“I know. I just keep thinking you’ll change your mind
about that.”
“So I’m coming by later, okay? And remember, this is a
total surprise. Not a single word to David about it.”
“I’ll make you a deal: I won’t tell David if I don’t have to
come to the party.”
“Clay, he would be crushed.”
“You know I’m just there to boost your numbers, fill in
the empty space.”
“True. But you’re still coming. And not a word. I’ll see
you later.”
She hung up and Clay raised his hand toward the light.
It had finally stopped bleeding. He put a Band-Aid
on and
started mopping up the blood droplets all over the floor.
It was a lesson every person learned one time or another
in their lives—never
cross paths with barbed wire.
~*~
“Look at that, would you? Look at it!” Amber let go of the
steering wheel with both hands and put her knee underneath
to keep it steady. She gestured, glancing at Mr. Joe. “Nobody
gets this. I realize that. I do. But see how the road winds, and
then off it goes, through the trees? You don’t really know
what’s around the bend, see?”
Amber put her hands back on the steering wheel, then
gave Mr. Joe a quick scratch behind the ears. She’d temporarily
let him out of his carrier, though he tended to get carsick
if left out too long. “You’re unimpressed, as usual. But there’s
something beautiful about roads. They’re so full of possibilities.
. . . Of course, you can always die in a horrific crash,
too. But mostly, it’s just about going somewhere. Anywhere.
It’s about what’s around that bend, Mr. Joe. What’s there?”
Amber’s Jeep whizzed around the curve, clearing the trees
as the road straightened. Her windows were down, the wind
tearing through her hair so fiercely that it was going to take a
good hour to comb it out, but she didn’t care. She turned the
music up. “Lovely Day” was on the radio, and she nudged
her cat like he might sing along with her.
Then she saw it. “Whoa.” She slowed and craned her
neck out the window for a better view. “Mr. Joe, look at
that!” Large stone buildings seemed to rise right out of the
earth, sprawled across several acres. White concrete sidewalks
disappeared into rolling hills and hazy light illuminated the
branches of all the trees, like a scene out of some kind of fairy
tale. The entrance read
Bolivar University, but it looked like
medieval England.
She leaned toward Mr. Joe and gave him a wink. “Apparently
we’ve stumbled across Camelot. I told you I knew what
I was doing when we hung a left back there.”
Mr. Joe meowed in agreement.
As she drove on, Amber squeezed the fingers on her right
hand. Her wrist was starting to throb, probably due to the
cast more than the injury. It should’ve healed up fine by now.
On the top of the cast was Misty’s name, scrawled in red with
little hearts.
She focused her attention back on the road. She couldn’t
spend emotional energy missing those friends left behind.
But as she passed Camelot, she had to admit, it was always
hard not to glance in the rearview mirror.
Still, she had to be resolved to press forward, find whatever
was around the bend. She kissed Misty’s name and left
it at that.
This was beautiful country, and having spent much of her
life on the road, she knew it when she saw it. Amber gazed
at the trees. Some of the leaves were starting to turn that
fiery-red
color she loved so much. Soon, a cool wind would
sift through them, lifting them into the air and then cradling
them to the ground.
Ahead, a sign said, “Welcome to Tuscarawas County.”
How did you even pronounce that?
The speed limit indicated she should be going much
slower, so she let off the gas. The last thing she needed was
a ticket, and small college towns were notorious for planting
police officers everywhere. It was probably how they made half
their annual budget. Past the university by only a mile was the
beginning of the town attached to it. It looked like something
out of a Norman Rockwell painting. She was probably somewhere
near Amish country too. She’d have to look at her map
at some point, but her best guess was she was in eastern Ohio.
“Charming little place . . . like old-Coca-Cola-sign
charming.”
The car lurched and lurched again, throwing Mr. Joe off-balance.
His ears flattened. Then the engine sputtered and
gurgled. Amber smiled but kept driving.
She made it through the town square, going less than
twenty-five
miles an hour, in ten minutes. A small gas station
ahead had a flat, yellow carport extending over only
two gas pumps. It looked like it had been built sometime
in the 1950s and seemed to be the last stop before the road
stretched ahead and turned out of sight.
She deliberately drove on by, her gas light glowing yellow.
Then the engine died. With the momentum she had left,
she pulled to the side of the road and let go of the steering
wheel. The gas station was a five-minute
walk behind her,
no more.
Mr. Joe was purring again, wrapping his body around the
empty glass jar he shared the seat with. Amber took the keys
out of the ignition and relaxed into her seat just a bit. The
temperature was so perfect. It reminded her of Monterey in
April. The sky, bright and blue, was totally cloudless.
“What do you think, Mr. Joe? Home?”
The cat blinked slowly like he was fighting a nap. Amber
got out and looked around. The trees were still lush and
dense, so she couldn’t see far.
At the back of her Jeep, she opened the hatch, careful
not to let everything spill onto the ground. Boxes of clothes,
gently packed dishes, bins full of photographs. And on top
of it all sat a huge bulletin board, the colorful pushpins she’d
bought somewhere in Michigan still stuck into the cork. It
amazed her that her whole life could fit into the trunk of a
car. She grabbed her purse from under her travel bag, found
her red plastic gas can, and closed the hatch.
Through the open passenger window, she picked up Mr.
Joe and put him in his carrier. “All right. You know what to
do. Don’t be afraid to bare your fangs if you need to. Try not
to look so sweet, okay? That’s not going to keep anyone away.”
As she walked toward the gas station, Amber tried to take
it all in. She didn’t see any stoplights. She liked towns that
were more partial to stop signs. The buildings had character
but also had an air of vacancy to them. Over the tree line,
puffs of factory smoke rose like ascending, transparent jellyfish.
Toward the east and across a small field was an area
that looked a little more developed, with some houses and
restaurants, as best she could tell.
At the gas station’s convenience store, a bell announced
her arrival. It smelled like coffee and motor oil with vague
hints of diesel. The man behind the counter wore a stained
blue mechanic’s jumpsuit with a patch that read Larry. He
smiled pleasantly, setting down his newspaper. “What can I
do you for, young lady?”
Amber put a five-dollar
bill on the table. “Just need some
gas.”
“Five dollars ain’t gonna get you very far,” he said. “There
ain’t another town—gas
station either, for that matter—for
sixty-seven
miles.”
“I’m staying here for the moment.”
Larry grinned. “Is that so? Well, welcome. We got a great
catfish place—serves
it up all you can eat—just
around the
corner there.”
“Sounds fantastic. I’m looking to rent a small apartment.”
Larry pointed to a stack of newspapers by the door.
“That’s our little publication round here. It’s got a section
for renters.”
“Thank you.” Amber grabbed the paper and walked outside
to fill her gas can.
When she returned to her car, Mr. Joe’s face was pressed
up against the wires of his cage, his unblinking eyes staring
her down for leaving him behind. She popped the gas tank
open and stuck the gas can’s nozzle in. Then she spread the
newspaper across the hood of her car.
She had two criteria—cheap
and furnished. “All right,
boy. We’re gonna go see if we’ve got a place to sleep tonight.”
~*~
“There you go—good
as new,” Clay said, rocking the chair
back and forth. “Well, maybe not
as good, but look, you’ve
been through a lot. I’ve given you a pretty good face-lift.
Let’s
face it: you’re never going to be twenty again. But ninety is
the new forty.”
Clay stepped back. The varnish would need twenty-four
hours to dry, but it looked really nice. He checked his watch.
Ten minutes until time to open. He sighed, sipped his coffee,
and drew stick figures in the sawdust with a scrap piece
of wood.
Sometimes he attributed it to caffeine jitters, but other
times he knew it was nothing of the sort. There was a restlessness
scratching him from the inside. Not even a quiet
workday in the back of the shop cured it. He worked hard
to be content, happy even, where he was in this world, making
a simple living and being a simple man. It was, however,
the slightest tickle of discontentment that edged him into
unwanted thoughts about the state of his life.
The quiet of the shop that usually tamped the needling
hum of his thoughts was suddenly undone by . . . blaring
music? That was nothing new in this town but unusual near
the town square. The college kids were more likely to go
down the strip, where the bars and restaurants were. At
night.
Clay checked his watch again. It wasn’t even 9 a.m. Who
would be blaring their music at this hour?
The bass rattled the more delicate items sitting around the shop. The little figurines that usually stood perfectly still,
frozen in their poses, looked to be dancing ever so slightly.
Then, as if it had been blown away by a breeze, the music
stopped.
Clay lifted the rocker, carefully placing his hand underneath
it to avoid the new varnish. He wanted to put a few
screws in the bottom to make sure it was secure, but he could
do that at the front of the store, where he needed to be during
store hours.
He was headed for the front counter when he saw her. She
didn’t notice him at first. She was browsing, her fingers delicately
brushing over a lamp, a frame, and then a pile of old
books. Her attention moved to the hand-crank
phonograph
that he’d estimated to be over ninety years old. She stood for
a moment looking at its detail, and he stood for a moment
noticing hers—curly
brown hair, a little wild, like she’d just
blown in with a tumbleweed. Bright, playful eyes. Beside the
phonograph, in a square, woven basket, he kept two dozen
45 rpm EPs, sometimes more if he hit a good garage sale.
Her fingers walked the tops of them, flipping them one by
one, before she slipped one out of its black cover and gently
guided it onto the turntable, then gave it a crank or two. It
came to life, warbling and slow at first, but then a light and
pretty piano solo began to play. Dave Brubeck, easy to spot
for his unusual time signatures.
Without warning, she turned toward him. For a reason
he couldn’t explain, Clay raised the rocking chair up a bit.
The woman smiled. “You look like you’re in prison.”
He blinked. Then realized he was looking at her through
the slats in the back of the rocker. He quickly lowered it.
Why was she staring at him? Her big brown eyes searched
him like he was some interesting antique. He felt like an
antique, so it was fitting.
“I like your little store,” she said. “Old Fashioned. Cute.”
She gave him one more long, concentrated look as though
something entertaining might happen, then continued to
explore the shop.
“Can I help you with anything?”
And then he heard the scream. So familiar, yet it always
made him cringe and clench his teeth. Two seconds later, the
door flew open and the pint-size
tornado blew in, her arms
whirling, her face wild with excitement.
A second after that, Lisa came charging after her, carrying
something plastic under her arm and a great deal of exhilaration
on her face.
The screaming stopped as Cosie leeched herself onto
Clay’s leg. She looked up at him and grinned, scrunching up
her nose. “Hi.”
He patted her head. “Hi, Cosie.”
“You gotta see this!” Lisa said.
Clay sighed. That sentence was almost always followed
by something that he not only didn’t have to see but usually
didn’t want to see either.
Lisa set the plastic thing down in the center of the shop.
It was a training toilet. Pink and white. Shaped like a
castle. Some princess character on the side looked inflamed
with an enthusiasm that was apparently supposed to encourage
peeing on ancient structures.
Clay knew from experience that once Lisa set her mind to
something, there was no use fighting it. He gave the woman
standing in the store a sheepish grin and an apologetic shrug.
Weirdly, she seemed unaffected and totally interested in what
was about to happen. Maybe Clay was missing the extraordinary
part of this moment.
Surely not.
Lisa had now squatted on the floor and was beckoning
Cosie over with gestures big enough to get an elephant’s
attention. Her voice rose three octaves, a technique supposed
to induce compliant behavior in a two-year-old.
“Come on, Cosie. Go tee-tee.”
She tapped the potty with
her other hand.
But as usual, Cosie stared at her, completely disinterested
in the event.
“Do it for Mommy. Go tee-tee.
Go tee-tee.”
Clay glanced down at Cosie. She wasn’t budging. For
some odd reason, it made him smile inside. He kind of
liked that she balked at the unusual way her parents were
raising her and instead preferred the status quo of peeing in
private.
Lisa’s voice was rising by the second. Her eyes were growing
large. Real large. Large enough that if there weren’t a
potty and an antique shop involved, one might think she was
about to be killed in some horrific manner.
“Cosie! Go
tee-tee!”
Apparently Cosie was also going deaf.
Then movement. Cosie took one step, setting off the
strobe lights in her tennis shoes. If Clay watched them too
long, he got a headache.
Another step. Clay swore he saw tears in Lisa’s eyes. Lisa
clapped precisely twice and nodded.
Another step. Then another. Cosie stood over the potty
now, gazing into the plastic hole. A smile slight enough to be
mistaken for a gas bubble caused Lisa to beam like a searchlight.
Then Cosie lifted her leg, and for a second Clay thought
she might be going the way of the dog. But instead she kicked
the potty. And kicked again. The castle tumbled across the
wood floor. Now the small smile had broken into a full-fledged
grin. And Lisa’s had dropped off her face.
She rose and gasped. “Cosie! No!”
Clay couldn’t resist. He walked over to Lisa and put his
arm around her. “I am so proud.”
She shrugged his hand off, clearly wrecked. Her whole
life’s worth at this moment hinged on whether her kid could
use a castle potty in public. Clay wasn’t about to say it, but
the fact that the kid had enough sense not to go in the middle
of an antique shop made him think Cosie was going to do
just fine in life.
Cosie finally noticed the woman who’d come in, recognizing
her as unfamiliar. She gave the potty one more nudge
with the side of her shoe, clasped her hands behind her back,
and grinned at the lady.
Lisa grabbed the toilet with a huff, acknowledging for
the first time that there was someone other than Clay in the
shop. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I live in the apartment upstairs.”
Clay’s mouth dropped open. “Wha . . . ?”
Lisa glanced at Clay, gave him that same old look:
You
never tell me anything. Clay scratched his head, equally perplexed.
Cosie ran to him and he picked her up. She mindlessly
combed the back of his hair with her fingers, like
always, as they all three looked at the woman.
Lisa was gesturing that he should explain himself, but he
wasn’t sure what to say. Nobody lived up there. He would
know. He was the landlord.
“Just needed to get the key,” the woman said. There was
a childlike quality to her, a mischievous twinkle to her eye
that reminded him of Cosie. She looked to be about thirty,
but he was never good with ages.
Clay cleared his throat. “The key?”
She only smiled, gave Cosie a wink, and walked out of the
shop. Clay hurried after her, handing Cosie to Lisa.
“What’s going on?” Lisa said, a hand on her hip, but Clay
just went out the door, trying to figure it out himself.
The woman stood on the sidewalk outside. She took
something out of the bag over her shoulder. A pen. Then she
held out her hand and he saw the cast on it.
“Sign, please.”
“Um . . .” Clay’s face suddenly started itching—a
sure
sign he’d landed out of his comfort zone. He scratched it
lightly, hoping it would go away. She just stood there with
her arm out. And she was smiling at him. Blinking with those
awestruck eyes.
So he signed. There seemed to be plenty of space. He
glanced at her Jeep and found a cat perched on the passenger
window, watching him closely, its tail twitching with sharp
disapproval.
When he looked back, she was studying her cast. “Clay
what?”
“Walsh,” he said. “Clay Walsh. . . . You have a cat?”
She held out her hand to shake. It was awkward with the
cast, but they managed. He gestured to it. “What happened?”
“Amber Hewson.” And then, without another word but
still with that engaging smile, she got her cat from the car,
tucked it under her arm, and walked toward the stairway that
led up to the apartment.
Clay stayed where he was, trying to get his bearings, blinking
in the sunlight, realizing that the loud music earlier had
come from her car. He watched her climb each stair, wanting
to look away but not able to. He swallowed. Not enough
spit. Then too much. And why was he blinking so much? He
stuffed his hands in his pockets because that’s what he did
when he didn’t know what to do with them.
Amber was at the top now, staring down at him. “The key?”
“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” Clay pulled his key ring out of his
pocket. And then he started up the stairs, trying to twist the
apartment key off the little circle, trying to get her brown
eyes out of his head.
Rene Gutteridge; based on the screenplay by Rik Swartzwelder, Old Fashioned Old is New, LLC, © 2014.
by Ginger Kolbaba; based on the screenplay by Rik
Swartzwelder ~ Days 1, 2, and 3
DAY 1
what’s right about
today’s dating scene
CLAY: I don’t believe our job is the looking, it’s the becoming. Once we are the
right person . . . when we’re ready . . .
AMBER: But if you don’t ever date, how will you know?
—OLD FASHIONED
MY FRIEND TODD HAS BEEN MARRIED FIVE YEARS. He and his wife
have built a strong relationship that has carried them through job loss
and several other challenges. They’ve started a family, and whenever
I talk with him or hear updates on him from other friends, the news
is always good. He’s happy. He’s satisfied. He’s still deeply in love.
Todd and his wife met through an online dating service.
Wait, an online dating service? How is that old fashioned?
After Todd spent years searching for the right woman, going on
numerous dates—some
he initiated, others initiated for him through
the infamous blind-date
system—he
felt more and more discouraged
at his prospects.
“Nothing felt right,” he says. “I wasn’t dating anyone, was scarred
by past hurt, and felt pretty lonely. I began wrestling with why it
seemed that every woman I met was not a right fit—it
was always a
dance of square pegs and round holes.
Maybe, I thought,
the selective
matching of online dating would present not just a wider pool—but
prescreened compatibility.”1
That it did. And after a month of talking over the computer and
phone and learning more about each other’s character, likes, dislikes,
temperaments, and personalities, Todd and his now-wife
decided to
meet each other. They had a good foundation to start building a
relationship on. And the rest, as they say, is history.
Technology, the improvement of life, and our contemporary dating
scene have a lot of great things going on. Some Internet dating sites—such
as eHarmony—have
hit upon an important aspect of building
the basics of relationships. Rather than focusing on physical attributes
and sexual chemistry as the main determinants of relational worthiness,
these sites center on personality and character, understanding that marriage
needs more than physical attraction to make it last.
Modern dating also allows people to focus on building friendships.
I know many couples who date in group settings, for instance,
in order to allow their trusted friends and family to help them see
their potential beloved in a more objective light. Singles groups,
church groups, and hobby groups allow for interaction and connection
in a (hopefully!) nonthreatening way.
To be sure, nothing is perfect in the world of dating, so you may
have tried these options and found them lacking.
Where Todd and his wife got it right was in not idealizing
romance. The good thing that many online dating services have
going for them is that they push their users to address things that
may never get out in the open in a dating relationship: who the other
person really is—not
the facade he or she is presenting, the issues that
are important, deal makers and breakers. Dating websites and similar
opportunities allow the user to bring these issues to the forefront so
that prospective dates can get a quicker understanding of what makes
a person tick—issues
that may not come out in a relationship until
further down the road or even never at all—until
meeting the divorce
attorney after a marriage has gone sour.
I am not implying that today’s dating scene or Internet dating
sites or church singles groups are holy ground, nor am I suggesting
that you sign up for an online dating service. I just wanted you to
know that even though I’m advocating the old fashioned way, today’s
dating scene has some old fashioned similarities that are worth considering
and affirming: namely, getting to know the other person
beyond appearance and physical chemistry.
If you live a life guided by wisdom, you won’t limp or
stumble as you run.
—PROVERBS
4:12
JOURNAL
• List some of the good aspects of today’s dating ideas and
methods. Then explain why you think they are good. For
instance, if you list personality compatibility profiles, offer
reasons for needing to know about someone’s personality
before you get too involved in a relationship or why the other
person needs to know about your personality.
• Think about what you can offer another person. What are
your strengths, not just in a romantic way, but in a lifelong-
partner
way? What are some weaknesses that you need to
work on? Write those out, and then discuss them with God.
PRAYER
God, I’ve gone in so many different directions, trying to find the
right person I can share my life with. I’m often discouraged and
frustrated because no one seems to fit or truly connect with me.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes along the way.
Help me to see beyond the typical dating scene and look to
the type of person who can grow my character and love me for
who I am, and whom I can love as you love. But most of all, keep
me attuned to your desires for whom I should allow into my life
in a deeper, more committed way.
DAY 2
what’s right about
yesteryear’s dating scene
I know how weird it sounds . . . but a lot of the boundaries that used to be
common, that we’ve thrown away, were there to protect us. We don’t have to go
around using each other, hurting each other. It doesn’t have to be that way.
—CLAY, OLD FASHIONED
I REMEMBER WHEN I FOUND OUT my friend Amanda (not her real
name) was moving in with her boyfriend of two months—a
man
who had a string of ex-girlfriends
(with whom he had also fathered
children). In fact, he was still living with his most recent ex-girlfriend
and their baby and was now dating my friend.
“Amanda, why would you do that?” I asked. “He’s still involved
with his ex!”
“Well, not really,” she told me matter-of-factly.
“He’s still living
there, but that’s it.”
She informed me that they were moving in together because it
would be cheaper, plus it would help them know better if they were
compatible enough to get married.
I pulled out every reason I could think of for them not to move
their relationship in the direction they were headed. I told her that
statistically speaking, couples who live together before they marry
are more likely to get divorced and to experience domestic violence,
and they actually experience less satisfaction in their marriages than
if they wait to live together until after they marry.1 I told her that as
Christians we are called to live differently—counterculturally—from
what the world says is acceptable, that God’s boundaries were put in
place for healthy, good reasons.
Her response: “I don’t set myself up for failure.”
Life in the “good old days” seems passé and prudish. Our culture
tells us that if we love someone, we should be able to be with
that person immediately and experience all the benefits of married
life without actually being married. Our culture continues to try to
eliminate sexual behavior from discussions of morality.
To a crowd of civil-rights
activists in the black American community,
comedian Bill Cosby recently said, “No longer is a person
embarrassed because they’re pregnant without a husband. No longer
is a boy considered an embarrassment if he tries to run away from
being [a] father.”2
Although Cosby’s comments drew criticism, he makes a good
point. Yesteryear’s way of dating and commitment in relationships
may have been more difficult, but it was ultimately set up to protect
us from undue harm and shame. It kept our consciences and actions
in check. Part of being old fashioned is having a realistic view of sin,
the world, and human nature. To be sure, the church throughout
the years has in many ways overcompensated on the shame part,
but being truly old fashioned is a balance of understanding sin and
forgiveness, shame and grace.
Abolishing shame completely signifies how much we’ve lost the
moral compass that God designed for us and that society, for so long,
held us accountable to.
Instead, today men who try to act chivalrous are often accused
of being sexist. We talk about “friends with benefits” as though we
can separate the physical actions from the emotional, spiritual, and
psychological consequences. Old cultural norms and assumptions are
not necessarily true: men and women are now both “players.” And
without beating up too much on Hollywood or pop culture, many
would acknowledge that we send a confusing message to ourselves
and to the rest of the world.
Going back to the traditions of our past isn’t a bad thing! Although
they are counter to what our culture (and even some churches now,
sadly) says is “normal,” they also safeguard our hearts, minds, and
bodies from regret and hurt. These traditions keep us pure (an old
fashioned word!) and protected for the person who will ultimately
become our spouse.
But you may be thinking, Well, I’ve blown it. I’m not “pure.” The
beauty of this ideal is that through forgiveness, God can clean up
your past and make you pure again. Purity really isn’t just a one-
time
cleansing and then you’re done; it is ongoing. And thankfully, God
offers us a better way to live and relate to others—and
with that
comes a clear conscience and, ultimately, peace.
Those who are dominated by the sinful nature think
about sinful things, but those who are controlled by the
Holy Spirit think about things that please the Spirit.
So letting your sinful nature control your mind leads
to death. But letting the Spirit control your mind leads
to life and peace.
—ROMANS 8:5-6
CONSIDER THIS
• What are some things current cultural attitudes would
believe are old fashioned in relationships? Do you believe
those things are old fashioned? Why or why not?
• If you’ve struggled with living out old fashioned ideals, has it
been because of pressure from others? Some other reason?
How were you swayed?
JOURNAL
The apostle Paul offers one of the best yeses in the Bible.
Read Romans 8:5-6 (today’s Scripture verse) and consider: Is
this true in your life? Think about the times in your life and your
relationships when you said yes to God’s Spirit leading you.
Did that decision give you peace? Write about those times as
reminders of the power and importance of saying yes to the
right things.
Now think about the times in your life and your relationships
when you went your own way, pressured someone to cave in, or
caved in yourself to the pressure of others around you. How did
those decisions make you feel? Did they provide peace, or regret
and angst? Write about those times as reminders of the importance
of staying true to God’s call for morality on your life.
DAY 3
but the old fashioned way
is so old fashioned
There are no knights in shining armor, but you think you’re Cinderella,
don’t you?
—LUCKY CHUCKY, OLD FASHIONED
IN OLD FASHIONED THE CHARACTER LUCKY CHUCKY is a radio shock
jock who doesn’t agree with pursuing an old fashioned way of life. He
believes that life is meant to be enjoyed without bounds. He sees the
hypocritical nature of people who say one thing and act differently.
He observes that those in the church often seem as lost and confused
on this stuff as “the world” is, that chivalry is dead, monogamy is outdated,
and abstinence is for, well, no one. If you feel it, do it. Don’t
allow the emotional or spiritual side to get tangled up in the mess.
Relationships are first and foremost about chemistry, he believes. Or
simply personal pleasure.
Apart from any spiritual or religious boundaries, let’s be honest:
what Lucky Chucky believes makes sense. The physical side of romance
feels good. Why not enjoy it without the strings of commitment and
responsibility? Besides, as the cliché goes, everyone else is doing it.
But when we throw out the sacred traditions of the past, we lose
something in the process. “You can tell a lot about a society by who
it chooses to celebrate,” a TV reporter says in Woody Allen’s film
Celebrity. I think the reporter is right. The traditions of the past
encouraged us to love and respect our neighbors, to offer kindness
and service to others in need. We once praised Neil Armstrong, police
officers, and Mother Teresa. Now we can’t get our fill of Jersey Shore,
TMZ, and Glamour magazine.
Aside from his cynical view of love and relationships, there’s
some truth in what Lucky Chucky says. It isn’t pleasant, but his
assessment of a lot of things is dead on. He sees the superficiality
of contemporary love for what it is and doesn’t pretend that it’s
anything other than what it is on the surface. He says, “Women
are just like men; everyone wants it both ways.” In other words,
a woman might want the rebel, the “bad boy,” but she also wants
someone who is faithful. We might be drawn to someone for all
the wrong reasons, so we shouldn’t act brokenhearted when that
person behaves as we might expect him or her (this goes both ways)
to behave.
This is true even in church. I see young, quiet, sincere guys who
are trying desperately to live authentic, God-honoring
lives and beautiful,
young, Christian girls who say that’s what they want. But then
the girls pursue someone who has more charisma and maybe has been
blessed with more social skills but may or may not be pursuing God
with his whole heart. Obviously, I’m oversimplifying here, but imagine
the Christian guy who’s trying to live a godly life, but at church
all the girls are talking about how awesome Channing Tatum (or fill
in the blank with some hunky movie star) is. Every time I’m in a situation
where I hear that, it breaks my heart. The women aren’t saying
that Channing Tatum (or celeb of the month) is awesome because
he’s pursuing God in his life. They’re saying he’s awesome because he’s
got a great body and he’s handsome and charismatic. And that’s it. It
has nothing to do with his values, his level of integrity, or anything
that matters at all.
Part of the reason old fashioned values can seem so old fashioned
to us is that we’ve bought into the world’s way of viewing relationships.
What we say we want and what we actually want are often
different things, and so we become confused as to what it means to
follow God in our romantic relationships.
As we consider pursuing the old fashioned way, may the blatant
honesty of Lucky Chucky remind us of the truth of who we are and
who we don’t have to be.
Since God chose you to be the holy people whom he loves,
you must clothe yourselves with tenderhearted mercy,
kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience.
—COLOSSIANS 3:12
CONSIDER THIS
• Read back over some of Lucky Chucky’s attitudes
I mentioned. Do any of those ring true in your actions,
thoughts, or relationships?
• If they are true, why do you think that is? What do you
think needs to happen in order to change that thought
pattern or behavior?
PRAYER
God, I don’t like the things that Lucky Chucky and people like him
recognize and say. But some of those things are true about me.
Point those things out to me when I’m tempted to go that way. Give
me wisdom and discernment to see that attitude or behavior and
then give me the strength to walk away from it and toward attitudes
and behaviors that please you and honor those around me.
Ginger Kolbaba; based on the screenplay by Rik Swartzwelder, The Old Fashioned Way: Reclaiming the Lost Art of Romance Old is New, LLC, © 2014.
Amber Hewson (Elizabeth Ann Roberts) and Clay Walsh (Rik Swartzwelder) discuss their developing relationship on the steps to her apartment during a scene from "Old Fashioned." Swartzwelder, a native of New Philadelphia, wrote, directed and portrayed the lead male role in the movie filmed in Tuscarawas County.
"As
you get ready to head out on your vacation or to a weekend getaway, I
hope that one of the books you'll pack to read is my newest release, Hearts Made Whole, the second book in my new lighthouse series, Beacons of Hope. If you didn't read the first book, Love Unexpected, don't worry! While the books have some overlapping characters and themes, they can definitely stand alone."
The lighthouse is named after the old ruins of a windmill where early frontiersmen brought their grain for grinding. Today,
all traces of the original windmill and lighthouse are long gone. If
you visit Grosse Pointe in the Detroit area, all that remains is a small
conical structure with a white flashing light.
Jody Hedlund is the bestselling author of nine novels, including
“Captured By Love,” “Rebellious Heart,” and “A Noble Groom,” winner of
the 2014 Carol Award and INSPYs Award. She received a bachelor’s from
Taylor University and a master’s from the University of Wisconsin, both in
social work. Currently she makes her home in Midland, Michigan, with her
husband and five busy children.
The Amish of Bee Country series, Book 1
