Few of us have made it our ambition in life to be a Bad Girl. Even Jezebel and Delilah, those hussies from the pages of the Old Testament, probably didn't set their sights on being evil when they were sweet young things.
I grew up in a Good Girl home. Maybe you did, too. Nice town, nice parents, all the right friends, all the right activities. But when I hit my mid-teens, suddenly that charming small town became stifling. Those National Honor Society pals were nerds. Being good was a snooze. I threw caution—and everything else—to the wind, and I pursued a party lifestyle with gusto for a full decade.
In my search for joy, I settled for fun, the kind that came in a bottle, a pill, or the arms of a stranger. Such fun is temporary at best; it's risky, even dangerous, at worst. Not to mention breaking the heart of the One who made us in his image.
Oh, when I think of the shallow relationships, the misspent dollars, the wasted years! I was a woman without hope—a Bad Girl by choice—convinced that if I could just find the "right man," he would save me from my sorrows.
One wintry day in 1982, I met that "right man"—Jesus—who willingly gave up his life to set me free from my own foolishness. Me! Sinful, disobedient, rebellious Liz. My Christian friends who'd shared their hearts, their hugs, and their lives with me now shared the truth with me: I was a sinner in need of a Savior.1