A different story

I’m brushing my teeth. It’s early morning, bilingual French camp. The bathroom is ugly - industrial orange stretching backwards, heavy duty light bulbs glaring harshly over the discarded shampoo bottles, damp towels and razors that have been thoughtfully strewn across the floor by the teenage boys we share our bathroom with. 

My French roommate grunts a greeting to me, installing herself next to me to begin the long process of taming her sleep-wild hair. 

She’s observing me quizzically:

‘Toi,’ The question comes without preamble. ’T’as un copain, toi?’  (“Do you have a boyfriend?”)

I grin, as sarcastically as you can when toothpaste is spilling out of your mouth.This is very early for boy chat but I can imagine what’s coming next: ‘So and so Cat, il est sympa… Have you thought about it?’

I remember abruptly that we are sharing our bathroom with boys, big ones and smaller ones and

glance over my shoulder to check the shower doors. No unannounced masculine audience -  we’re good. 

“Non,” I reply, wiping the toothpaste from my mouth. “Ce n’est que moi. Et Jesus. Pour le moment.” (No - for now it’s just me  - and Jesus.)

I’m trying to gauge her. Maybe this isn’t what I thought it was. Maybe this isn’t a fun little pre-breakfast gossip, maybe she’s after something more - maybe the question comes from somewhere deeper and more pain-filled. 

‘You know what, ’ I say cautiously, eyeing myself in the mirror, rather than her, ‘It’s ok. It is ok.’

She nods noncommittally, energies still focussed on detangling her thick and stubbornly uncooperative curls. ‘Hmmm….. How old are you?’ 

That makes me smile - it’s the perennial French question. In France you are assessed first of all on your age, against which all your other skills and achievements can be weighed in. It reminds me of my friend’s Parisian wedding, back in May when after a long day of observation and shared stress and emotion the photographer grabbed my hand and examined it. ‘Toi’ she probed, more in friendship than in curiosity, ‘Tu as quelqu’un ou pas?’ (‘You, are you with anyone?’) 

She, like my bathroom buddy, was trying to situate me - she wanted a glimpse into who I really am. And to her the question of whether I too have a love story that may or may not one day lead to fairytale wedding dresses and Chinese lanterns by Notre Dame was important. 

And this is the problem I have. When these conversations crop up, I want to say yes. I mean, how weird is this, that somehow deep beneath all the other reasons why it would be good to have a boyfriend, just the desire to finally have a story, a reply - something that is true and definite and real - for once, for me….that’s the main impulse. A story to give back to that recurrent question, the perpetually raised eyebrows of people’s expectations. Come on Cat, tell us a story. Give us what we want. 

So I’m conflicted, because I do have a story. I have my 28 years of being loved relentlessly by Jesus, my Shepherd who has never let a day go by without actively caring for me, providing for me. He has always protected me. Fiercely. He has defended me when I didn't deserve it. I know - I just know - that he has saved me in so many ways that I haven’t even seen. He has persistently surprised me with his generous grace, especially in the moments when I have given up hope, and retreated into some forlorn little corner, counting on nothing and no-one.  He has accepted me when others wouldn’t have and shouldn’t have. He has taken me out of my shame and ugliness and made me whole. He has made me his. And the fact that there isn’t a boy there to confuse with him, to compete with him - well that is a blessing in many ways. It is good for my soul. I can’t give anyone other than Jesus the credit for being my hope and my refuge, my home. He is my home. 

How can that be equated to not having a story, to being on hold, to being some kind Disney princess who remains in the tower, still asleep, still waiting? I have a story. But it’s a difficult story to tell to my very very secular new-found French photographer friend - it’s even a difficult story to tell to my Christian camp bathroom-sharing friend. It seems to waver on the edge of sounding weak and twee.

So I don’t say very much at all. But this time I look her in the eyes.

“Tu sais quoi? Ca va. With Jesus, it’s okay.”