Off to a Screaming Start

This is Part 2 of a series on my Honeymoon of the Heart, a trip I took to the Middle East in 2012. Life, as it does sometimes, forced me to slow down and prepare myself for the moment. Somethings are funnier after-the-fact. Or only in theory. Or, really funny when they happen to anybody but you. This is one of those things.

September 28, 2012

From winter through spring, summer and into the very narrow beginnings of fall 2012, I wondered why this invitation to get away, to have God “show me something” in Israel, Jordan and the Palestinian Territories was even on my radar. I was busy—like really busy at work, and admittedly, in that season work was where I found a lot of my identity and value. So, I fully embraced (wallowed in, celebrated) that busyness.

For context, I was running two collegewide self-study and implementation projects, changing the entire way we brought students into and transferred them out of our institution. I was serving on statewide committees looking at what “student success” and “readiness” meant for students 4-24 years old. (Just a small task.) And, I was part of a statewide communications, strategy, and change management team. In the middle of that I had soccer games, school fundraisers, faith stuff, family stuff, and the occasional pedicure. I loved the busy.

So much that it was kind of insane, looking back. The day before I was to leave on this three-week “Honeymoon of the Heart” to the Middle East, I was also scheduled to be a plenary speaker at a statewide student success summit. Presenting on a Coaching for Student Success initiative I’d spearheaded over the previous two years, I figured I could just throw in one more little thing before I hopped on the plane for all points East. What happened next was, in the moment traumatic and ridiculous, and in hindsight hilarious and probably just what I needed.

PowerPoint built, presentation ready, bags packed and Olympic-level juggling in action, I was going to pre-sunrise shower, suit-up, drive 90 minutes with a colleague to the lunch event (arriving early), speak, shake hands, smile, then drive the 90-minutes home to spend the evening with my boys before leaving at O-dark-thirty the next morning on the trip. I had time to talk, promote best practices, commune with colleagues, hug my kids, and maybe even read bedtime stories before leaving. Perfectly orchestrated was an understatement.

Always eager to meet people, speak, shake hands and smile, I was up early. Before the clock hit 5:00, I was coffee-ied, devotionaled, and headed to the shower. And, that, my Friends, is where it all went awry. For just a moment (sorry, Mom) and just this one time, I’m going to invite you into the shower with me.

The thought process went something like this:

It will be better if I don’t have to shave and buff every day while I’m gone. With our hopping around the Holy Land, I don’t know what my toiletry or accommodation opportunities will be, exactly, so let’s take care of this ahead of time.

I am a modern woman. I like to wear sleeveless tops on occasion. Sometimes even tank tops. But I am not modern or progressive enough to like armpit hair. I can’t handle it. I don’t want to handle it. So, white bottle of “make this hair go away for quite some time” stuff in soapy hand, I was taking care of stubbly pre-trip business.

I can’t remember the exact directions because I assure you, I haven’t bought the stuff since, but I do remember there was a time range to wash, apply, wait, wipe and rinse. I washed. I applied. I waited. Uncomfortably waited. Then discomfort turned to pain, then it turned to holy-mother-of-sunsets-what-the-ever-living-hell-is-happening-holy-moses-get-this-off-me-NOW screaming pain. I screamed. In my shower. At 5:00 a.m., waking my home. You would’ve thought that was the worst part.

As one of the empathetic males in my home ran into the bathroom to tell me to stop screaming, he then suggested I wipe off what was causing the blazing inferno in my bathtub. Honestly, I am not sure if I’d thought of that myself or not. I was open to suggestion because I could not even think that far ahead through the searing pain on my own at that point.

Raising my arm, putting my hopefully de-haired pit under the cascading water, would surely offer welcome relief, right? Well, it did not. As the water hit my newly 2nd-degree chemically-burned underarms, a whole new awareness of pain screamed right back at me. Holy moley, my Friends. Even as I type flashbacks return and remind me with cringes of that moment. I screamed again, but this time louder.

The shower ended with an emergency doctor visit, me making a 9-1-1 call to my Bestie road-tripping colleague at work and asking her to be a plenary speaker that day (thank you, Katie). Meanwhile, unclothed and unable to put my arms down, I spent my day topless in my bed slathered in burn cream and soaked in pain. How on earth was I going to travel across the world if I cannot put on a shirt? I have yet to find an airline or any space within myself yet that is quite that open.

For the next 24-hours, if I were to avoid Public Indecency charges, I had no choice but to slow down. And for the first time really get quiet, ponder, and prepare myself (my mind, my armpits, and my heart) for the things I was about to experience, see, and learn. The forced time of quiet, stillness and reflection was like a gift not only to the raw parts of my skin but also to the raw parts of my spirit as well.

The next morning, smooth, slathered in burn gel, donning a loose tank top covered by a flowy tunic, I bralessly boarded the international flight and headed into what would become a grand, stretching, and awakening adventure. A honeymoon of the heart.

While the screaming shower story is newly told, over the next couple weeks I’ll share dust off daily reflections and journals that a few of you may have seen before. We will travel together into refugee camps, ancient hopes, new political hurts, and through stories grander than time. The painful part is done; I look forward to having you journey with me into the Land where Hope was born.

Do you have your own unfortunate Nair story? Ugh. I'm sorry. It's a real thing. Feel free to share in comments below. If you'd like updates when new parts of the story are posted, enter your email address at the bottom of this page.