The Lizard Story

If you had warned me that the highlight of that day would be showering with a lizard, I would have refused to move out of my sleeping bag that morning. And this was no famous spokeslizard with a flashy foreign accent prepared to sell me car insurance. This was a flesh-colored, beady-eyed, black-eyed lizard stuck to the side of the shower stall. This lizard was way too creepy to sell insurance or anything else, although I’m certain his Peruvian accent would have been lovely.

And I met him after I stepped, fully clothed and trailing a dirt cloud behind me, into a shower in a “hotel” room high in the Andes Mountains. I was on my first ever mission trip, my first trip outside the US, my first trip to Peru, my first trip to the Andes, and the day began with my first ever forced march in said mountains with a group of much more athletic-y people than myself. We drove as far as we could and as the road became too narrow and unstable to drive, we got out to walk, carrying our backpacks filled with eyeglasses and small New Testaments. And I started out well...walking at an unbelievable altitude on a rocky, dirt path with two temperatures...freeze-you-in-the-shade or fry-you-in-the-sun. And then the path got a little harder, a little higher, a little steeper and my heart began to race and my head to pound and the spirit was willing to continue but the flesh was so, so very weak.

I begged to stop. I'd happily sit in the dirt, on a rock, in the sun, or in the shade as long as I could just sit and wait for them to return. That was before I knew about the lizards. At that point, sitting (and maybe not dying from massive heart eruption or head combustion) was my deepest desire. I prayed fervently. I didn't want to be the weak one or for anyone to turn around for me. “Please, God, don’t let me fail. Please, please just don’t let me fail” was my mantra, until it changed over to “Please, God, don’t let me fall. Please just don’t let me die because my mother will kill me.” I just wanted to sit, maybe dangle my feet over the edge of the road, and look at the very, very, very long way down. Yes, you could literally do that. And I'm not surefooted on my best days, but with pounding head and heart and heaving chest, I had to turn around and get back to the truck. It felt like the longest hike in the world, although I never lost sight of the truck so we’re probably talking yards instead of miles. With my tingling feet and hands, flying back to it seemed as likely as actually being able to walk back. I spent more time in the dirt trying to catch my breath and listening to my heart pound than I did upright. Eventually, my snail’s pace progress paid off and I made it back to the truck and into town.

And the aforementioned hotel was, of course, locked. We were the only people staying there. So I sat on the steps of a town in the Andes, all alone, baking in the sun but at a lower heat due to the lower altitude until the children came. They thought I had candy. They believe all strangers have candy. And I agree that they should. I didn't. I had dirt and sweat and very warm water and a crushing disappointment, but no candy. We chatted. In Spanish, my conversation consists of birthday questions, days of the week, time, colors, and other elementary comments just perfect for a group of children who came looking for candy.

I stuttered along and they giggled until the manager came along to unlock the door. And then I ditched those children quickly, as quickly as they would have deserted me if someone with candy instead of broken Spanish came along. I was following the siren song of an icicle shower to wash away my pains. My experience with water is in the Andes isn't so much whether it's warm. It usually isn’t. Again, here you have two choices: numbing cold runoff from melting mountain snow or blistering hot scald thanks to unknown electric water-heater-upper. No, the biggest question is whether the water is actually running. And this was my lucky break that day. It was running. It was brain-freeze cold and running.

So I made it to the bathroom, turned on the blessed water, and stepped inside fully clothed. I stayed there for a moment, watching the dirt on my shirt and pants and shoes turn into mud. And rejoiced to be alive. And back in my natural habitat (anywhere indoors). And then I saw the lizard and I began to pray again. I think it went something like “Please, God, don’t let it jump on my face. Please don’t let it jump.”

And I know God answers prayers. That lizard never moved. Clearly, I wanted that shower. I wanted that shower more than I wanted away from that lizard. And that’s saying something. And he never moved. Even after I had my fill of water and dragged my soggy mess out of that shower, he didn’t move. Mr. Shower Lizard was probably busy praying too. Mr. Shower Lizard was probably afraid I was going to take my clothes off next. I’m glad I couldn’t hear his prayers.

I don’t really remember much clearly after that, but eventually my brain began to thaw and I began to worry. Worry is actually my natural state so that was probably a good sign of my recovery. How was I going to face the rest of the group after my spectacular failure? And I was certain that everyone else would view it the same way. I couldn’t keep up, too out of shape to make the hike that everyone else made. And, really, this isn’t all that unusual a place for me. I don’t run unless someone’s chasing me, I try to avoid the extremes in temperature normally associated with the whole “being outside” thing, and walking can strain the limits of my coordination. The entire trip for me was a series of “God, what am I doing here?” moments. This was just one more.

The memory verse that we were using to help teach English that week was Phillippians 4:13: I can do everything through him who gives me strength. Or “Todo es posible con Cristo” if you prefer. And just to make sure that I got the message, God sent a lizard. Before that trip, I would have told you that showering with a lizard would be impossible. Visions of the horrors of a leaping lizard would have convinced me that there is no way to remain in a confined space with a lizard, no matter the trauma leading up to it. Clearly, I would have been wrong. And I think that’s the thing about surrendering to God’s will.

There are innumerable things about that trip that I would have said were impossible if you’d asked me. The very idea that I would go on a mission trip…you know, all outside and stuff would have topped the list. And the inconceivable idea that I’d shower with a lizard? Never! How much time do you think about the indigenous shower dwelling lizards of the Andes Mountains? Probably no more than I did before that trip. Now, I think about indigenous shower lizards a little more often.

I have an awesome God. My God sees high in the Andes Mountains. He knows all the days of my life, the ones before that trip and the ones that followed. He sees me and knows me. And in that moment, my God was with me. My God knew that I would need a way to break the ice, to get over myself and my failure, and to let others love me anyway. My God knew that the only way for me to conquer this disappointment was to laugh. And, truly, my God works in mysterious ways.

That lizard never moved until he was escorted out, tail-end up. When my group returned, someone asked me how I was feeling and I explained the shower and the lizard. The girls squealed and shuddered as is only proper and one brave soul, a valiant he-man type, picked up Mr. Shower Lizard and threw him out the window, where he no doubt, thanked his lucky stars and scampered away.

I can’t explain all the lessons that I learned on that trip. Away from my comfort and security, there is only God. There are dozens of stories that illustrate who I was and what I learned about Him, myself, and His overwhelming love for me. Some of them are even deep, meaningful, and surpassingly theologically relevant. The lizard story is just easier to tell.