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Update on Casa Ahavá

We came home from furlough into a whirlwind of challenges, pain, and grief. It wrapped us up and nearly blinded us to its effects. Only stumbling out the other side and reflecting, we realized that since coming home in February, we have lost five friends. Thankfully, each of these made it home to their families before their deaths, something we count as grace. We have also delivered the terminal diagnosis to another three and sent them to their homes to spend their last days with family. As we wait, we still carry them in our hearts. No wonder it has felt heavy.

We had a season with every bed full and not just full, full of patients with intense suffering. It is true that every patient with cancer suffers, however, sometimes the stages of our patients’ sickness are different, and those stages and the number of patients determine the atmosphere around here. It was a hard season. The morphine and wounds kept us tethered to the affliction of those we were trying to love, demanding our attention, our compassion. Really, we’d have it no other way. It is why we chose this… or better said, were chosen for this. When we stop breaking with those around us, it would be time to quit. It is Christ alone that carries us, enables us, humbly uses us. Your prayers have meant so much.

Even still, I feel like we are just beginning to catch our breath and beginning to feel the atmosphere changing. We have let the number of patients dwindle a bit, as we currently have 8 patients and a couple of those soon to be going to their homes. In reality, the hospital does not have patients to send to us right now and that feels like God’s blessing on our season of slowing… recovering.

Our girls are growing and thriving. It is such a wonder to behold such intense joyful moments of life alongside such pain. What a gift these four daughters of mine are, not just to me, but to the Casa Ahavá community.

We cherish your support and love for us and for our patients. Here are some current pictures

Maeza

Augusto

Moises

Lurde

Luisa

Madelena

Olinda

Heller girls

August 18, 2019
Personal
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Back in the Swing of Things

How is it possible that we’ve been home over six weeks? I am sorry for the silence. Here is an update!

When we arrived home, it was only a few days later that Loice and her Mama came to our house. Many of you heard me talk about Loice and urge you to pray for her. The Holy Spirit was so tender and sweet and spoke to Loice and her mom while they were at our home. It was only about a week later, with peace in their hearts, they made the journey home so that Loice could have some time with her three girls. Please continue to pray for my dear friend, as the days are not easy. May God’s mercy keep pain at bay and may many memories be made.

Such a gift to get a picture of these two together.

This Mama right here is gold. She cares so well for her girl.

Once Loice and her Mama were gone, our house began to fill up with new and former patients. Meet our newest family:

Luisa, mother of 10 and grandmother to many!

Rosa, back with us from last year. Joyful and God fearing.

Maria, mom to one 5 year old girl. Young and full of ambition.

Lurdes, Mom of two teens. Full of spunk and always ready to chat!

Torres, back from last year. A grandpa figure here at our home. Well loved.

Maeza, full of energy. Dad of 3. Ready to work. Loves the Lord and prayer.

I am missing a photo of our last patient Manejo, but he hasn’t been feeling well. I told him we’d wait. We also have a new man coming Monday, which will put us at 8 patients. And towards the end of the month we also will welcome back two men during their short stay for what we call “control”… a check-up! That will be our first time with 6 men! It is so nice to have a lively community out back.

Big thank you to Dr. John Singer, who so generously organized and donated some wigs for our patients! What joy and fun it brought them in the midst of sickness and sorrow.

As for our family we are doing well. The girls spent hours outside the first day we got home. They are enjoying climbing trees, building things with their tools, dressing up the cat, and other things kids do. They have slipped back into schooling without much trouble. They are extra busy these days as we have added Portuguese class three times a week at a nearby school! Time to buckle down and learn the language. They are enjoying it, but it does have this Mama running around more than she is used to. They also have ballet and swimming, which makes for going to “school” everyday!

We are so very thankful for your love and support.

Prayer points:

Loice and her mom taking care of her. Her 3 daughters.

Rosa and Manejo’s pain.

Maria to gain some strength after her last cycle.

Our community to bond. And for people to not feel lonely.

My girls acquisition of Portuguese.

March 14, 2019
Personal
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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
Personal
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Leaving

A Layne Post

Last night I gave a glance out my kitchen window before it was time to lock up for the night. Gates closed. Silence. My heart sank a little, and I went about the nightly routine. As of yesterday afternoon, we officially have no patients. My home feels strange with just my immediate family here… empty. Even Pedro will stay home this week and rest with his family before moving into our home for the next while. We leave for America in one week.

We were able to arrange for all of our patients to go to their homes while we are gone, except one. My dear Loice had to be admitted to the hospital again. The plan was for her and I to go to church and then I’d drop her off the hospital. Beds are hard to secure there, especially on week days, so the head nurse advised that Sunday was the best day to guarantee she had a space. All morning I could tell she was dragging her feet. Honestly, I was too. Just the night before she had asked me, “Are you sure they won’t have a bed later in the week?” My heart broke a little as I explained that we just have to do what the nurses have told us. I assured her I hated this. I told her this is the hardest part of this trip. I reminded her of all the people here I have begged to visit and care for her while we are gone. Then I told her goodnight.

She put her two small bags in the car. I kept sizing them up. Not nearly enough for three months of living, but the hospital doesn’t allow you much. She had to leave the rest with us. My heart broke a little more. I tried to keep the conversation light on the way to church, chatting about our family and what we are going to do in the States. We chatted some about her kids. Finally, we pulled into church, late from dragging our feet, and both hoping the pastor would speak a little extra. He did.

The distance from church to the hospital is short. Too short. I used those minutes to tell her the things the Lord had ministered to my heart during church. I assured her that if I am so worried about her, that I know God is even more concerned. I reminded her how God’s ways are often opposite of what we expect. Because of the that, I am praying and believing that while we expect her to suffer more in the hospital, that God will do the exact opposite, that she will experience His presence and blessing more there than at our house. (Will you pray that too?) She agreed in word and confessed that with God nothing is impossible. I reminded my soul that it is truth.

We turned into the entrance and she gave a little laugh and said, “We already here!” My heart sunk, but I laughed instead. I turned off the car, and grabbed one of her bags and headed up the dreaded stairs, pretending to happily greet people as I went. Cama 18. As we walked the corridor, smelled the bathrooms, saw the rooms full of sickness and metal, I could feel the tears rising. I willed them to stop and made it to her room. What a dreary place. All gray and metal with white sheets. It is a hospital, Layne, what do you expect? My ministry now is from my home and it has been a long time since I’ve been in those hospital rooms. Jon is the one that goes to the hospital. I’d forgotten.

I didn’t want to say “Tchiau”. I hugged her. An American hug, not cheek kissing as is normal here. I squeezed her. I told her I wasn’t going to cry. I told her I’d come visit this week.

I got in the car, shut the door, and I sobbed. My heart broke the rest of the way. I have spent years working to take people out of that hospital and I just dropped someone off to stay. What a horrible feeling.

Dear God, do what only you can do. Do the of opposite what we expect. Be GOD. Draw near to my dear sister. Bless her. Overwhelm her. Take care of her.

 

Also, our sweet Mariana, home with her family while we are stateside, is struggling with pain management. We are attempting to give advice and adjustments from here, but would you pray that she would be able to experience some comfort and rest and be able to enjoy her family while home? This is weighing heavy on our hearts.

 

Prayer points for our upcoming trip:

  • That our children will fully recover from their recent illness, including their current congestion and coughs
  • That the actual travel will be uneventful and that we would be filled with the Holy Spirit and the fruit that results
  • That the Lord would be merciful as our family adjusts to jet lag
  • That our immune systems would stay strong and that the Lord would protect us from American illnesses that our bodies are not protected against
  • That the Lord would supernaturally care for my children’s emotions and souls as this is such a big long transition and that Jon and I will have wisdom in tending to their needs

 

We love you all and are so anxious to hug so many of your necks so very soon!

November 12, 2018
Casa Ahava, Travel
12 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
Casa Ahava
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