A Jon Post
Jonathan
Jonathan was an incredible man. I met him in September last year when he arrived in the Oncology department at the hospital. He had left his home in Manica, Mozambique, a small town on the border of Mozambique and Zimbabwe 4 months earlier, with a small tumor over his right shoulder. He first went to a hospital nearer to his home thinking he would be there for the weekend and would return home soon. They kept him there for four months analyzing and waiting for test results for his tumor. By the time he arrived in Maputo, the tumor was the size of a grapefruit and growing. In the hospital here he waited 3 months for decisions from doctors and for them to make the time to biopsy his tumor. By December of last year he had received no treatment for his cancer and his tumor was nearly the size of a bowling ball. When he finally started receiving chemotherapy in early January he had 6 other tumors protruding from his arms, legs and one on his forehead. Despite the odds, his body responded remarkably well to his chemo. His tumors receded, and, after three months of treatment, his shoulder almost looked normal again.
Before he got sick he lived most of his life in Zimbabwe and was raising two young boys to be fine men. His wife loved him and counted herself lucky to be married to a man so committed to his family. He went to a technical school after finishing high school and learned to design and build houses. He traveled through much of northern Mozambique building houses for those who had none.
Later he pursued his education even further and became a professional certified dog security trainer. When I told him of my dog Gasher he asked me to bring him to the hospital, and offered endless free advice on how to teach him to be a good guard dog for my home and family.
His smile was infectious.
He loved my daughter deeply and was eager to have a picture taken with her in his arms. He wanted to take that picture home with him so he could remember his little niece and see her every day.
He deeply desired to know God more and would press me to bring my Bible and read it to him so he could hear the Word of God. I had many Portuguese Bibles but because he spent most of his life in Zimbabwe where English is spoken he could not read Portuguese. I rooted through my old books and found a Bible I had received many years ago and had inscribed my name in when I was only 13; Jonathan. He held that Bible in his hands like it was worth more than the treatment that seemed to be saving his life.
We read together often and prayed passionate prayers to our God together, beseeching Him for mercy, His hand in our lives and in the lives of our wives and our children.
Last Tuesday night he got sick.
It may have been Malaria, or a simple flu infection.
His body, wracked by multiple chemo treatments and many tumors, could not fight for long.
Thursday night he died.
I still cry as I think and write that.
He never did get to take that picture with Anaya.
In the tears that Layne and I have shed so freely over the past few days as we remember our dear friend we have been echoing a refrain from John 6:68. “Lord, to whom shall we go? You alone have the words of eternal life.” Even in the face of death and pain and suffering,… ”Lord, to whom shall we go?” In our tears, in our breathless prayers, in our memories… “Lord, to whom shall we go? You alone… You alone… You alone have the words of eternal life.”
This is not our home. Jonathan is there waiting for us with his smile.
