“I’ve heard your story, and I have to tell you, it’s an honor to meet you. You are a warrior chick.”
He’s dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans, and it’s not a stretch to picture him in
a leather jacket and chaps. He’s a biker… the real kind. Not the suburban, polished kind. My hand felt small to me inside his grip, with his thick, calloused fingers. He says men are designed to be hairy and scary, dangerous and bold.
In church language, he’s a ‘missionary to an unreached people group within the United States.’ Those buzzwords mean he hangs out with the people so many of us are afraid of. His people are a population of less than 1% who are tucked deeply within the culture of the motorcycle community where the rules are different.
And then he said, “I’m sorry if it sounds sexist to you, but in the circles I travel in, I promise you it’s the highest of compliments. You are a warrior chick. A dangerous cat.”
I have long taught the boys that names for animals are not synonymous with girls, without exception. And suddenly I was in every way okay with the identity.
There’s an exception to every rule.