The Itch

The bugs are relentless. The gnats delight in covering us with their kisses; we are left drenched in rosy splotches with blood circled centers. The mosquitoes rise after rain, swarming our shelter and sneaking in through the open areas we weren’t able to cover with netting. I’m convinced they’ve been training their whole lives for this, for the moment when 14 gringos would so willingly present themselves in their territory for two months. They draw blood out of all areas: thumbs, foreheads, necks, pinky toes, anything uncovered. The red ants say hello by leaving a burning sensation on the exposed areas of all available feet. If you’re not left looking like you have some sort of fifteenth century viral infection all over your skin, you’re not doing it right.

The worst part about all of these bites is that I scratch. And when I itch and scratch at my skin, I have to deal with the dirt on my fingers and in my nails, a reality that drives me nuts. I can deal with the tarantulas on the ceiling. I can deal with the bats screeching while I’m trying to sleep. I can deal with only showering twice a week by scooping out cold well water with a bucket. I can deal with scrubbing the mud out of all my clothes in the same bucket we do dishes in. But the one area that makes me nuts, the one truth of this lifestyle that frustrates me beyond measure, is that every time I scratch my legs or arms or neck, my fingers and nails are filthy with the dirt from my body.

I realized this the other morning. I had been able to use the bucket shower the night before, which is a treat because it means I don’t have to bathe in the river. I climbed into my mosquito net feeling clean for the first time in a week, and I fell asleep happily, smelling more like soap than sweat. As I got dressed the next morning, I noticed that my fingers and nails were black with dirt and mud from my body, probably from scratching in my sleep. How is that possible? I had just showered. I had just taken an hour out of my evening to trek down to the bathing area. I had just filled a basin of well water. I had just dumped cold scoops of this water all over my body, scrubbing and rinsing and scrubbing again. And somehow, the next morning, I was still dirty. I looked at my hands and fingers and was almost brought to tears by fact that I haven’t felt or actually been clean in over a month.

It sounds petty, but it makes me crazy. And the real peskiness of all this is I can’t see this dirt. The dirt isn’t on top of my skin, asking to be rinsed off or wiped with a rag. It’s not visibly there for me to clean up. I can’t spot it and eradicate it. I can only expect to have cleaned it all off, and then be disappointed when, like clockwork, my fingers are dirty and dusty the next morning.

Before I came to Peru, I didn’t scratch. I wasn’t itchy. I didn’t notice all of my dirt. I didn’t take the time to think about if I was dirty or not, because I was sure I wasn’t. I was wrong.

God has always seen the dirt on my skin. He has always seen me as this version of myself, as the girl who has dirt on her body and doesn’t know what to do with it. He has always known that I am dirtier than I would care to admit, but He loves me anyways. He ate dinner with Matthew the apostle and his fellow tax-collecting friends, men the world called disgusting and dirty; He is far too loving to let a little dirt stop Him from pursuing me. He still wants me despite my dirt, and even better, He wants to clean it.

Itching is annoying. It’s SO annoying, because every time I scratch the surface of my skin, I find more dirt. It’d be easiest not to itch, it would be simplest to just let the dirt pile and ignore it and save it for later. But God doesn’t ask me to do what is easy. He asks me to itch and scratch and notice my dirt, not so that I can stare at it ashamedly, but so that He may clean it. I could let the dirt sit, I could pretend it’s not there, but that doesn’t stop it from accumulating into an even larger mess. He calls me to dig deeper than I ever have by taking the time to scrub and search for the pieces of myself that are messy.

The joy of this spiritual dirt is that it can be quickly remedied. The moment I acknowledge the dirty parts of my heart, the parts that make me hard and controlling and impatient and so much more, God smiles. God has seen those parts of me and has loved me through them. But now, now that I have scratched and am looking at the dirt in front of me, He is delighted to help me clean up. He is joyous, not because I have dirt, but because He is able to clean more thoroughly and effectively than any bleach or soap. He is able to take my dirt and dispose of it, so that when I scratch that area in the future, I’m left with nothing but cleanliness.

The truth is, I know where a lot of my dirt lies. I could identify it and show it to you right now. But I wouldn’t have known where that dirt is if I hadn’t scratched. I wouldn’t have scratched if God hadn’t made me itchy and hungry for more than a life of complacency, where I’m not itching for more because I decide there’s nothing that needs scratching. We can make a lot of choices with God. We can choose to ask for itchiness, even though it’s painful and uncomfortable. We can choose to take that itchiness and uncover the dirt on ourselves that is ugly and disgusting. But after we’ve done that, we can choose the most beautiful solution of all: we can allow God to wipe us clean, shiny and new.

This week has been such a lesson in the beauty of having a choice. Because God loves us more than I could try to explain, He gave us a choice: a life with Him, or a life with the forbidden fruit. We chose the fruit, yet because of that love I mentioned, He never left us. We chose the wrong choice, we chose sin. We chose nakedness and shame, we chose death and destruction. So guess what? Now there is nakedness and shame in this world, now there is death and destruction. But because of that love I mentioned, the love so limitless and infinite that my words could never capture it, God never left us. We chose not Him. We chose anything but Him, but He has never stopped choosing us. So He sent His only Son, His perfect, blameless, beautiful baby boy to die an agonizing death, a death that was supposed to be mine. It’s not mine though; it’s not mine because my God never stopped choosing me. He chose me as He watched His perfect child cry out in pain and agony on the cross. And because of that death, my sins are forgiven. Your sins are forgiven. Jesus defeated death, He rose again, and that is why I choose to believe. I choose to believe because my God never stopped choosing me. I choose to believe because Jesus defeated sin and death so that I may live with him eternally and have a relationship with Him while I’m on earth. I choose to believe because my God wants me so badly, He is willing to wait for me to notice my dirt so that He can clean me up, the way He cleaned up this whole earth with His Son Jesus.

And now, everyday, I still have a choice. I can’t express how many moments I’ve wasted because I have chosen the fruit, just like Adam and Eve. I have chosen my plans, I have chosen my desires and my goals, I have chosen to bask in my impatience and selfishness. But despite these choices, God still chooses me everyday. And though I have dedicated my life to Him, there will be moments when I continue to choose the fruit instead of Him. And when I do, He will be waiting for me to run back to Him, where He will tell me that He’s still never stopped choosing me.

And because of this, God is graciously teaching me to choose joy. I am choosing to wake up each morning and love these kids here in Peru, not because it’s always easy, but because they need to know they have a Father who made them in His image. I am choosing to look past their filthy clothes, their wounds, their battered homes, the factors that would normally depress me, and I am choosing to see them for the loved, blessed individuals they are. God is teaching me how me to choose them with love, joy, and grace, because that is exactly how He chooses me.

God is showing me I’m not as clean as I thought I was, but that this life He has given me is full of choices. I could choose to doubt Him and His plan, I could choose to follow my own desires. I could choose to ignore the dirt on my skin, I could choose not to scratch. I could choose an option that would allow me to live a life in seemingly blissful ignorance, an easy life. But that’s not what I want to choose. I am choosing to scratch so that I may ask for His cleanliness. I have made the choice. I am choosing to gather my dirt and seek more and more of the Creator that will never stop choosing me.