The Biggest Slut Since Gomer

Last Thursday one of my friends (I will call her "Betty") called me up and asked if I wanted to come camping with her and some of her friends. I thought, Sweet! One last camping hurrah before I spend the next eight months seeking ulcer treatment due to stress. Plus, Betty and I were not able to reconcile schedules much during the summer and I had missed hanging out with her. So I accepted. She told me the details were on facebook and, being a now somewhat experienced tent-camper, I knew it'd be wise to find out where we were going so I could check the weather and pack appropriate clothing. I checked on Friday morning. The description for this innocent little diversion read, "Camping at Bow Valley: Shit happens when you party naked. Clothing optional." Riiiight. Fortunately, the thing about Betty is, when she says stuff like that she's really only half-kidding. Well, this will be interesting...

Friday afternoon I left my family a vague note letting them know where I was going and asking them to pray for me. Then we packed my stuff into Betty's truck and headed out to pick up the other party planner, a cool young woman I will call "Suzy". Grinning as we were introduced, Suzy reassured me that even though they'd accidentally invited all 400 people on their facebook friend lists, they were pretty sure only about 10 other people (mostly guys) would come out. Well, camping was interesting.

Just not in the way you're expecting. I never did figure out where Bow Valley was so I packed clothing in accordance with Calgary's forecast. Apparently, Bow Valley is in the mountains. It was cold. And wet. We were cold. And wet. And, thank you merciful God, alone. The miserable weather (and subsequent text messaging) deterred all but two of Suzy's friends, a very fun couple who drove all the way out in Saturday night's hail so they could bring Suzy some hot chocolate in a thermos (we forgot to bring either a kettle or a pot for cooking things) and hang out with us around the camp fire for a few hours as it poured. I should mention that the fire wasn't ours. In addition to scaring off Betty and Suzy's plethora of potential weekend suitors, God provided us with some super cool pseudo-parents who looked out for us the whole weekend.

This is how we met them: "Wow, nice choice!" said the girl at registration admiringly when we finally found our way there. "You know, people have fist fights over this spot during the summer. Well, have fun!" After just a few wrong turns we found our spot...and someone in it. They were registered for a spot with the same number but in a different section of the camp ground. After some debate over the ethics of throwing someone out of a spot which they had mistakenly taken, Betty got out of the truck and knocked politely on their trailer. A minute or two later, a man who looked to be a little older than my dad swaggered out, insisting with some irritation that Betty call "the girlie" at registration about it because he was in the right spot. He soon conceded defeat, however, and a few minutes later he and his wife drove out to find their proper spot. With the exception of a tent cover more than twice the size of our tent for which we couldn't figure out the intended direction for the life of us, we set up quite easily and were just beginning to build a fire when the man we had recently evicted strode up. Looking rather abashed, he introduced himself and told us his wife had sent him to apologize for being rude and mean. Repairs were easily made and he invited us to come visit them at their new site some time.

We did, the next morning. After listening with much amusement and sympathy as Betty and Suzy regaled "Matt" and his wife, "Sharon," with stories of past parties and relationships, poor Matt choked on his twizzler when they mentioned that they had invited all 400 of their facebook acquaintances. "Four hundred strange men invited to come party naked with three single girls at a campsite?!" he spluttered, "Thank God I never had daughters!" Thus, in addition to serving us candy and hot chocolate, sending us back to our campsite with cedar kindling he cut for us (our ax head fell off its handle while I was using it to cut kindling), setting up a log-cabin for fire-starting while we were off on a walk, and coming to offer us the shelter of their trailer for as long as needed when our tents became incurably drenched with rain and hail Saturday night (we also forgot to bring a tarp), Matt also made it his mission to come check and make sure we weren't being equally deluged with jerk men and gave us no less than 6 very firm but kind lectures on the dangers of giving out such invitations to so many male acquaintances because, "Being one myself, I know- men are dirty asses!" Betty also received no less than 3 very kind but firm lectures on the dangers of driving 140 km/hr in a 4X4 truck on the highway while simultaneously changing the track on her stereo and typing/reading text messages to/from her boyfriend. Betty just laughed at him but was very touched by their concern, nonetheless.

Anyways, so I'll bet you're wondering what this grand adventure has to do with the long-dead prostitute wife of Hosea. Um, well, the connection struck me when Sharon commented, with much awe and admiration after hearing many Betty party/relationship stories, "Wow, you're a bitchy slut!" Sharon didn't mean it as an insult and Betty didn't take it as one. But that didn't make it an inaccurate description, much to my discomfort. I know you’re more than this Betty, but at the moment I don’t have a clue what you should be.

I've tried many times to analyze why Betty and I are friends. We really have very little in common apart from years of shared company, but even that is bizarre given that we've never attended the same school or lived in the same neighbourhood. Betty and I share a common love of animals, reading (usually not the same books), ancient Celtic culture, and 3 movies (The Princess Bride, Clueless, and 10 Things I Hate About You). That’s about it. And I am never more acutely aware of our differences than when we hang out with Betty’s other friends and I get to hear and experience the unedited versions of her dramatic life stories. Her life choices frequently make me sad for her. It’s hard to watch her destroy herself, convinced it’s her destiny and identity to do so. It’s hard to watch her take the same path as her mother, whom she despises. It’s even harder to realize and admit how similar we are under the surface.

Amy came to visit for a few weeks this summer. She’s been struggling through many random physical ailments with no apparent causes and was in a substantial amount of pain pretty much the entire time she stayed with us. One night as she lay awake crying from a particularly excruciating episode, she began confessing some things to God and pleaded yet again with him to take the pain away. The pain did lessen significantly then and God told her to go back to sleep. She described it as “falling asleep in the arms of Jesus.” I felt convicted the moment she finished telling me this story. I fall asleep almost every night by imagining myself in the comforting strength of my husband’s arms. The problem is, at the moment, I have no husband apart from God himself. If I consider my self to be a part of the Church, who is described as being the bride of Christ, then I’m the biggest slut since Hosea’s wife, Gomer. What a repulsive thought. Quite fortunately, neither Betty nor I are condemned to our slut personas forever. Since Christ died for us, knowing full well what “bitchy sluts” we’d be to him, we can find a new identity in Christ. And, like the hoochy Gomez, I too must begin with repentance, walking away from the lovers I don’t belong to and returning to the one who knows my heart, mind, soul, and body intimately and loves me unconditionally.