Author: Jon

The Dying

A Jon Post

It has been 45 days since I’ve lived with the dying. 45 days ago I drove away from the dying and entered once again the homes and communities of the living.

While it’s been comfortable, joyful, loving, and restful to be with the living, I still miss the dying.

I have spent 45 days thinking and praying over the dying I left there. My friend and brother Torres, whose lymphoma darkens his veins and thoughts but not his spirit. My daughter and precious Loice, whose advancing breast cancer throws its tendrils from corner to corner of her tired and young body while she hopes for more time with her young children. My sister and cherished Mariana, whose metastatic breast cancer sears her with pain and weariness while she boldly looks at the difficulty of her coming days. Rosa, Eugênio, Armîndo, Joana, Custódio, and so many others dying or with whom I witnessed death…

All of them left the land of the living and welcomed me into theirs.

I’ve come to revere and love the company of the dying. I’ve come to appreciate that, though most of us would rather not, we will all be a part of adding to it one day.

Most of us are afraid of that day. Most of us are afraid of being one of the dying.

Why is that? Why are we so afraid of dying?

When I say dying I do not mean the moment your heart stops, when brain activity ceases, when cardio-pulmonary activity has not been detected for however many minutes the doctor in the room deems necessary to declare a time.

I mean dying as an active verb. I mean dying instead of living. No one I have ever met has been afraid of being one of the living. Not that I’ve known of, anyway. Nearly everyone I’ve met, however, is afraid of being one of the dying. We are afraid of that time, be it years or days, in which we go from living our lives to dying our deaths. In fact, I believe most of us pursue every medical option possible, no matter how painful, how detrimental to relationship, no matter how much it ruins our ability to be wise, caring, loving or faithful, in order to stay in the land of the living.

Maybe, and I’m not sure on this, but maybe there comes a time for each of us where entering the land of the dying is the wisest, most loving, and most faithful thing we can do.

Christ seemed to think so.

His last week before his death seems to have been in the land of the dying, no matter how much his friends and disciples wanted him to remain in the land of the living. Maybe even more than a week. When he knew his death was coming, he spoke freely and often to his friends and disciples about it. He prepared them for it and, in the context of the coming of His own suffering and death, prepared them for theirs.

Through shortness of breath I have heard deep truths and seen profound wisdom. Through the lips and hands of the dying, I have begun to understand how to prepare for my own. By the example and encouragement of the dying, I have learned a deeper peace in Christ than I have ever known.

If you know someone who is dying, do not go to them in pity or thinking that you offer some great sacrifice by visiting them or seeing them. Go to the dying and try to learn from them what Christ tried to teach his disciples. Try to learn how to suffer well. Try to learn how to hope for home. Try to learn and be sustained by the dying, rather than offer sustenance or gifts of your own.

If you are one of the dying, know that I love you and wish I could learn from you. Please take this time that you are dying, the only one you’ll ever have, and teach it to those of us who are not in it yet. Help sustain the rest of us, who badly need sustenance, with your wisdom given to you in your dying. Please show us how to transition from living your life to dying your death and doing that in a way that knows Christ and the fellowship of His sufferings.

January 3, 2019

Jon

Personal

3 comments

Working in the Rain

A Jon Post

I stood on the roof rack of my Toyota Landcruiser, cautiously eyeing the grey sky but wanting to get the corrugated sheeting on the roof of my kids’ playhouse. It was a project that had eluded being finished for far too long and I finally had a no-commitment morning to try to slap those things on the makeshift roof frame I’d made for the makeshift playhouse.

I slid three sheets off and stood them up leaning on the side of The Bison (the name my younger brother, Paul, lovingly gave my Landcruiser), and reached down for another three. They are heavy and unwieldy when stacked together so I didn’t want to move all at once for fear of their weight taking over and bringing me off the top of the truck with them.

Torres ambled over, anxious to feel useful and anxious to avoid Jon’s inevitable tumble and resulting hospitalization. He quietly gripped the three metal sheets already down and hefted them up and began walking them over to where I’d designated. I paused and watched him as he made his way to a nonspecific patch of my lawn about 10 meters away. He swayed and almost stumbled then set them down.

Torres was a metalworker/welder before Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and its treatment became his every day pattern. Instead of hoisting a welding machine and metal grinder onto his strong back and walking to a client’s location every day, he now wakes every day to body aches, low energy levels, and dizziness. Instead of feeling resilient and capable, he deals with fragility and forgetfulness. Where once he would have picked up six sheets of 3 meter long corrugated metal, laughing at my caution to “be careful” he sways and stumbles as he carries half the load a few short meters.

Still, without a complaint he smiled at me and said, “Today, we will work together!” even as pain and weariness tried to convince him that was not possible.

He is a metalworker after all.

After we had stacked all the heavy sheets of corrugated metal together, lined all the ends up and clamped them down so that one cut can create 9 even pieces of roofing, the rain began. It was light and felt refreshing on our shoulders so we continued working together. The metal grinder with its cutting wheel began its journey across the roofing and Torres’s welder-scarred hands held steady with no fear of the sparks and shards of molten metal pin wheeling through the air and threatening to create more scars.

The rain grew heavier.

We both glanced up at the rain and decided it was probably not good for the tools if we continued to get them wet so agreed it was best to pause and wait for it to let up.

I could see a bit of relief in Torres’s face.

He needs frequent breaks now.

Sometimes it’s nice to work a bit in the rain, stretching aching muscles, being reminded of a youth without the weariness we feel now.

Sometimes we need to pause and wait for it to let up.

It feels like we’ve been working in the rain a lot lately. Sometimes it comes in torrential downpours, sometimes it slow drizzles. Our dear Isabel passed away and brought the torrent. Our dear Mariana is living through the steady deluge of advancing pain, cancer, despair, and loss. Precious Loice, just 27 years old and mother to three young children, lives through metastasis, prolonged time away from her children, and the frustration of a slow system that may not know how to treat her aggressive sickness. Torres’s relapsed lymphoma brought a deluge when he came back to Casa Ahava two months ago and it has continued to pour as his body has weakened and succumbed to his cancer’s slow advance.

It’s been raining a lot here.

Please pray that, while Mariana, Loice, and Torres do their best to wait for a break from the rain, the One who gives strength to the weary, is merciful. Join us in praying that the rain lets up while accepting that the storm may only be building.

Your prayers matter.

October 17, 2018

Jon

Casa Ahava

4 comments

Hard and Holy Things

A Jon Post

Have you ever watched a mother in labor? Have you watched her breathe through immense pain, strain muscles to prepare for the anguish of what she is about to do, and then put her head down and begin the hard and holy work of enduring what the curse of sin requires of her?

Have you ever watched a child look up a cliff face? Have you watched that child stare in wonder at the waterfall that comes down from above, marvel at the rainbow refracted off the mist in the air, then put her head down and begin the hard and holy work of climbing the cliff face, reflecting that mystery of the eternal that the Father placed in each of us to see what’s at the top?

Have you ever watched an old widow die of cancer? Watched her body fail her, her flesh begin to wilt, her pain rise above what is tolerable or humane, then see her put her head down and begin the hard and holy work of enduring what the sting of death gives, but also part of the mystery of the eternal which says to climb this hard thing and get to the top?

When that mother holds her newborn baby in her arms, the pain is not gone. Her body still trembles from its laborsong and Eve’s curse still lingers for days over that mother’s recovering body. The pain of childbirth is not relieved by simple birth.

When that child reaches the top of that cliff and looks over the edge, the torrent of water still rushing over the edge singing its hymn of creation. The waterfall doesn’t abate, doesn’t slow, doesn’t offer safety when viewed from the top, the child simply stands at the edge of dangerous places and witnesses the beauty of the difficult.

And when the old widow finally closes her eyes for the last time, maybe… just maybe… like the beauty of the birth is made sweeter by the travails of the labor, the widow’s entrance into a new home is made sweeter by the cliff face climbed through pain. Maybe, though the pain still roars by like the waterfall over the escarpment, the widow’s climb can be seen as beautiful.

There are hard and holy things that I do not understand.

Last week Isabel lay panting on our floor looking at me. Her abdominal pain excruciating and demanding. “This is suffering” she said through tears. “This hurts” she said again, as she reached for another handhold up the cliff. For a moment, through the mist created by her waterfall of pain I glimpsed the spiritual light behind it creating a riot of color and beauty.

“I see” I responded. “I see your pain.” I told her as she rolled onto her side hoping for relief.

Isabel still lives in pain here at Casa Ahavá. Her climb is not yet over, and the waterfall still rages over and through her.

But she is near the top.

And I believe the view from there is one of the things that you cannot see and live.

Please pray that we support her well in her climb and that what little strength we can lend her is enough.

September 5, 2018

Jon

Casa Ahava, Rock Climbing, The Kids

7 comments

Letter to an old friend

A Jon Post

I see you standing there in the corner of the room. I’ve been noticing you more and more these days. Yesterday, you didn’t come around until late afternoon, but I noticed you looking over my shoulder as I played the guitar.

You are welcome here, old friend.

Yes, some days I tell you to leave us alone. To wait days, months, years. Some nights your presence is unwelcome as it is unavoidable.

But today,

Old friend,

You are welcome here in this room.

I saw you peek around my arm as I changed sheets, waiting to see if he would forget.

I wondered myself.

But then he remembered and his chest rose and fell and you moved a bit further back and kept waiting.

You are welcome here, old friend.

I saw your hand resting on his leg as I lifted both and moved him to a more comfortable position (Yes, I know that you already touched that one many days ago). I did not bat it away as I would have with another friend here in my home.

Today,

You are welcome here, old friend.

He’s so tired.

Are you? Do you get tired of coming to my house? Waiting for another friend of mine to forget? Watching to see if their chests will keep heaving back against the invitation you keep offering?

Are you a good dancer?

I bet you are.

I bet that’s one of the first things most of my friends want to do when you help them stand up. Maybe that’s why people have written so many times about “dancing with…” you.

Anyway, I bet you’re a good dancer.

My friend here has tried so many times to simply put his weight on his frail bones. What I would give to know his smile when he doesn’t need to worry about that. Do my friends often smile when you help them stand? Do they often laugh when you dance?

You are welcome here, old friend.

I know, I know… I’ve not been fair in that welcome. I have been so angry with you before in how quickly you showed up at my house. Can you forgive a young fool who thinks he knows better than you? Can you do me this favor today?

Can you come help my friend stand up and dance?

Some days I rail against you and hold you responsible for your timing. But I know… I know… I know you are just waiting for him to forget. Your hands do not hold the power to help him.

You wait for the One who does hold that power.

The power of life.

And yours.

I see you standing against the wall. Is it windy where you are? It’s windy here in this room but you seem as unmoved as the wall. With these windows open, this cool, clean air is brushing past and into my friend’s tired lungs. Do you feel it like I do? Like he does? Does it bring that fresh, new feeling to you too?

I see you there almost at the foot of his bed. I don’t wonder why you won’t meet my eyes. You stare so intently at my friend. You’re closer to him today than you were yesterday. Almost holding him. Will you pick him up tonight? Will he see your eyes the way you see his?

Hello, old friend. I may not have been a good friend to you these years. I may have cursed you, avoided you, accused you, or offended you. I hope you can forgive a young fool.

Because today,

You are welcome here,

Old friend.

March 22, 2018

Jon

Personal

5 comments

Much to Say

A Jon Post

There is much to say and much to show.

I worry that we’ve lost many who may have read this blog and prayed for us over the last many years because we have nearly stopped updating here. There are few things I regret more than our loss of consistent communication with so many.

While we have been so unfaithful in writing here, so many of you have continued to show your faithfulness in prayer, words of encouragement, and support over these many years. We have said it many times before, but we are so proud to be a part of the Kingdom of God. You show us always how wonderful a family it is.

2018 has come fully into its own here at Casa Ahavá. As many of you know, our precious Irene walked her final steps on earth last month. Her journey of cancer ended in her bed at Casa Ahavá. When she arrived to live with us in May of last year, we expected 4-5 months of life at best. When she visited her family in July and called us panicked and in pain, we rushed to bring her back and expected only weeks. It is a testimony to the grace of God and His favor on Casa Ahavá that she stayed alive through the end of the year, was able to spend Christmas and New Year’s Day with her daughters and was able to return here to Casa Ahavá to spend her last days. The December month was such a dream of hers to reach. Her heart was satisfied by her time with her 3 small girls and she returned to stay with us with a smile. Her last day had little pain, she was able to see the sunshine, speak with our daughters and then went to spend her final hours doing the hard work it is to die well. She endured the pain of metastatic breast cancer and, after some hours of that struggle, laid down and stopped. She finished. It is well.

We have 4 other women at Casa Ahavá. Three, Joana, Isabel, and Isaura, carried over from last year and one, Ana, has just arrived last week. Joana, Isabel, and Isaura all continue to make our hearts smile each day. We are looking to schedule a surgery for Joana soon with hope that she recovers quickly. Isabel has finished her treatments and we rejoice with her that she will be reuniting with her family within the next few weeks. Isaura has struggled with her health and we are praying with her that her body respond well to treatment and, if not, that we see clearly how we can best walk with her through that. Ana speaks almost no Portuguese so we are left to practice the little bit of Ndão (her language) we know and smile and gesture and laugh with her. Pedro speaks Ndão well so he has been invaluable to Casa Ahavá in helping Ana feel welcome.

There are two men here as well. Armindo and Guerra. I’ve been able to play some checkers and even installed an outdoor speaker and music system in our thatch area where we can sit in the shade and listen to current events and music. It always makes me smile to see them relaxing there and enjoying the outdoor breeze.

Last week all four of our daughters and I (Jon) got the flu together and we are working hard to recover from that. It has been a frustrating many days of staying inside away from all of our patients where a flu infection could be serious and even life-threatening. Selah, especially, loves to go see her “tias” (Portuguese word for Aunties) and even wandered out there a couple days ago while we weren’t looking. It is hard to keep away from everyone but we don’t want to bring unnecessary risk to our patients’ health.

We continue to look for ways to best serve our patients and make Casa Ahavá more a home. We continue to look for ways to bring Christ into this family and focus on His kingdom instead of our own.

Thanks for being there with us through all of this.