I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you. Luke 10:19 (NIV)
It was the summer of 2003 and I was in Kabul to complete my first prototype in hope of launching a business to employ Afghan women. In the wee hours of the morning, I crawled out of my bed at the guesthouse, slipped on my flip flops, and walked to the bathroom just outside my door. I flipped on the light and sat down on the toilet, half asleep. Mid-stream, I looked over and noticed a menacing creature on the drain—a scorpion—only inches from my foot. It was huge with a translucent body, his stinger suspended above a demonic-looking head, poised to strike. The bathroom was a wet room so there was no ceramic lip and no shower curtain, nothing separating my feet from it. Scared, I held perfectly still. This was my first encounter with a scorpion.
Expats had warned that a sting by an Afghan-variety scorpion could set your limbs on fire for days but hadn’t advised what to do in a stand-off with one. Should I run out the door and shut it behind me? What if he followed me in into the bedroom? Even if I could outrun him, I would lay awake, wondering if he had slipped into my bed. Was a scorpion more like a bug or a mouse? How fast did they move? Could I kill him with my flip flop? Would it take a single strike, or would I have to bludgeon him to death? God, help me. What do I do?
Without turning my head, I scanned the bathroom for some kind of weapon. I saw only toilet plunger, but it was within arm’s reach. I vaguely remembered reading that some insects couldn’t see up, only out. In a single motion, I reached for the plunger, lifted it above the scorpion, and set it down on top of him, trapping him inside a rubber prison. For a split second, I considered pumping it vigorously, but I was squeamish about bug guts and also worried he might escape and run straight into my feet. So I released my grip on the plunger and watched. It didn’t move. So, I returned to bed, relieved.
The next morning, I reported the scorpion to the guesthouse staff. They cast sidelong glances at each other, suppressing smiles already curling the corners of their mouths. I led the maintenance man to the bathroom but excused myself, opting not to watch either the unveiling or the extermination.
When he had finished the deed, he called me in. Pointing to where he had found the scorpion trapped beneath the plunger, then to the hole in the bathroom ceiling through which he had likely entered, he reported the scorpion was dead and the hole was plugged.
After the incident, it occurred to me that Muslims don’t utter the holy name of God in a bathroom. Praying from such a place would be disrespectful, even sacrilegious. Of course, the bathroom wasn’t where I usually prayed either. But I was in trouble, and my first instinct was to call out to God for help. I believe he answered in that moment.
Even in Sheol, God is there (Psalm 139:8).
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