A Jon Post
“What is the best memory you have of 2009?” I ask in halting Portuguese.
S, the quiet yet confident one responds and tells me, “No, I have been here. I don’t have any good memories.”
“But you haven’t been here all year!” I reply, “What is the best memory you have from the WHOLE year?”
“Ah,” S responds, “Well, I got a job (a missionary from Northern Mozambique hired him as a guard outside his house) with a good salary and I was able to provide for my family. That happened in March!”
“And you T? What is your favorite memory?”
“None Jon, I have been here since January. I have no good memories from 2009.”
“Nothing, T? Come on there must be some good memory from this year!” I respond, trying to sound positive.
“No Jon… nothing beautiful happened to me this year. I have been here.”
Try as I might, I can not get T to tell me a good memory from last year.
“Ok,” I say, trying a new tactic and to sound positive, “When you guys are better what are your plans for 2010?”
Suddenly the smiles are set free and we talk about going home to family, getting jobs, moving to better places, providing for sick and dying uncles or other family members. J tells me about his children back home waiting for him to return. T tells me about getting a good job, buying some good land and farming on it. S tells me about his 6 children who he is so proud of who all passed the school year (a very rare thing here) and the two oldest who he hopes to send to university this year.
And all of us smile and laugh and enjoy the hope that has crept back into our conversation. And all of us try to ignore the black truth that looms over the entire oncology ward. These men will probably be dead before these plans come to pass. They will probably be dead before the end of this year.
“What are you thankful for this new year?” I ask.
“That we saw 2010! And we just pray that we see 2011” J responds with a large smile.
This is life here in the oncology ward at the Maputo General Hospital.
This is life… a nearly infertile soil where roots of hope occasionally writhe their way out to see the sun.
This is death… a black mass of poison growing deadly hideous… worms of cancerous cells tracing their fatal path across skin, bone, flesh, eyes.
This is life… and death… in the oncology ward at the Maputo General Hospital.
What part do I play in it? Not much I think. Enough, I hope, to see Jesus lying on dirty, sweaty, uncomfortable sheets on a thin mattress. Just enough to show the love of Christ with a smile, a prayer, a kiss, a cool cloth on a sweaty forehead.
And to hope. To hope in this mystery… that the sting and victory that death has now will be swallowed up.