Stained by the sand

I recently returned from a missions trip to Jordan, and it's been a difficult transition.

I have felt listless and disquieted as if I am waiting for something but I'm not sure what.  My experiences already feel very far removed and I worry that I will forget the lessons I've learned and people I've met; I fear that their stories, once sharp and focused, will disappear into a jumbled haze of vague recollections.  I miss my teammates, people I didn't really know two weeks ago and with whom I was pressed into a sort of forced intimacy and yet on whom I came to depend for so many things.

One of the most difficult aspects of returning to my "regular schedule" has been answering the question, "How was your trip?"  In fact, the very thought of being asked this question caused me so much anxiety that I had a mild panic attack before I started teaching on Thursday morning.  How could I walk into my classroom and face students, all of whom, in their own sweet ways, would be curious, polite, and maybe even genuinely interested in where I'd been?

On Friday, I was still feeling out of sorts.  It was a beautiful spring day, and I was summoned home early from work by my wife so that we could all go to the beach together.  When we arrived, I laced up my dusty Merrells and headed south along Highway 101 for a much-needed run, my first in at least two weeks.

I usually do a lot of thinking on my runs, but on this particular one, I don't remember thinking about much.  I was mainly enjoying looking at the gastropubs, coffee shops, and boutiques that I ran past.  Honestly, I was trying not to think about Jordan.  My legs felt good, and my lungs were working hard enough to be pleasantly sore but not make my breathing too ragged.  My shoes and socks felt a little weird, though, as did my feet.  I could feel grains of sand between my toes; clearly, I had forgotten to empty out my shoes from the last time I had walked in the sand...

Stained by this sand from Wadi Rum, Jordan.

6 days previously, I had been sitting, hungry, bleary-eyed and sleep-deprived, at the top of a rocky outcrop in the sand of Wadi Rum, a desert valley in southern Jordan.  It was just after 6 a.m., and we were watching the sun rise over the sheer pinnacles and dramatic cliffs of granite and sandstone.  We'd had a couple of days off from our work with refugees, and the long bus ride, late-night arrival, and some decidedly atypical poor hospitality at a decidedly dodgy campsite unfortunately named "Rum Magic" had left us - even with the spectacular sunrise - disgruntled and longing for the relative comfort of our lodgings back in Mafraq, a town 10 km from the Syrian border.  I hadn't even taken my shoes off that night, and 10 hours in the desert - of which only three were spent sleeping - ensured that a good amount of sand had made it both onto and into my socks.

I ended my run where I had started it, at Ponto Beach.  My kids were playing in the water and my wife was watching them.  In the late afternoon sun, the sea was glittering and the breeze was rapidly cooling my sweaty limbs.  I took off my shoes, peeled off my socks, looked down, and gasped.

My toes were a deep rusty orange.  As I stood on a beach in Southern California, it was the sand from Wadi Rum that I could feel and see, mixed with sweat and dust.  I showed my wife and kids, we had a good chuckle, and then I waded a few steps into the ocean to rinse my feet off.  As usual - when it's not August or September - the sea was numbingly cold and I didn't last long.  Walking back up the beach, I looked down once more.  The sand's stain was still there.  Jordan's influence wasn't going to wash away easily!

Even the most frustrating, mundane, and uncomfortable few hours of my time in Jordan has stayed with me.  How much more, then, will the sublime moments, the heart-breaking stories, and the feelings of true fulfillment remain engrained in my mind!

I had been worried that I would leave my memories of Jordan behind me when I came home, but as it turned out, Jordan came home with me.   And I don't think I'm going to be able to just wash it off.