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Category: Personal

The Drum and the Dance

A Jon Post

Death came calling.
Who does not know the rasp of reeds?
A twilight whisper in the leaves before
The great araba falls

-Wole Soyinka Death and the King’s Horsemen

Ah, yes… these halls, these steps, this awkwardly steep ramp and stairs. I know them all. I know the patterns made by footfall and old stretcher wheels, each in equal measure, tired, yet determined to bear burdens to destinations.

Ah, yes… this weight on my shoulder, the knees draped over my arm, the smell of necrosis left on my shirt after a head rested there. I know them all and I know the trust and the vulnerability extended in short uneven breaths.

Ah, yes… the drumbeats of the work and the dance rhythms of the desperately ill. I recognize them all and I recognize the weariness shared in them too. We pound the animal skin of the drum together, you and I. We raise and stamp our feet in unison, you and I, and we dance our way into the chemotherapy laden halls of the oncology ward and the constant beep of the heart-rate monitors of the ER. Oh, Aventina and Ussene, we dance our way through this broken land of medicine and mystery hoping for a smile and a few moments rest.

Ah, yes… the wait. The wait. Will antibiotic and transfused hematocrit and a ritual prayer sang over it all bring the miracle? The wait. Will paracetamol infusions and x-rays really do what a chanted “Father, please… not yet” won’t do?  The wait.

Ah, yes… the drive home in an empty car. Tomorrow the news will be better. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep with a badly placed IV line in your arm and a new dawn, we will dance again. We will dance back down those stairs and back through the hallways back to my car and to my home. It is only tonight that my car is empty, it is only tonight, beloved. Tomorrow we dance again.

Ah, yes… the drumbeats again. The drumbeats of my heart and my breath as I wonder if I should have just stayed. The drumbeats of your heart and breath, too. They slow, beloved. They slow. Mine too. Mine too.

Ah, yes… the next-day-hallways and the dance of the white clad professionals making way for death and the dance, holding up stop signs to interloper and intercessor. Sunlight and disinfectant vie for prominence in the broken tile below our feet where wheelchairs bring their wards. Where are you, beloved? Where do you beat the drum of your heart and your family and your people?

Ah, yes… the wince of the white-coat-wearer, the furtive glance to the side trying to assess how important this question is to me and how much time is needed to answer it. Where is my beloved?

Ah, yes… the dance of the daughter’s tears and the accusation in the wailing… “I worked so hard for her… I worked so hard” she beats the words unto the drum’s animal skin and shell, and she dances to the loss of our beloved. She is dead, she is dead, she is dead, she is dead, she is dead.

Ah yes… the tears of the older brother who holds my hand in his and wonders over and over and over how he deteriorated so fast, how tumor and flesh and grey matter fused to create confusion and sleep and nausea. He is dead, he is dead, he is dead, he is dead, he is dead.

Oh, Ussene and Aventina, oh beloved aunty and uncle, we wail and dance and perform our grief on the dirt-patch of our souls and of our backyard. We walk in the footsteps of the one who offered His own body broken for us, his blood poured out for us. We too, offer our brokenness to you… take and eat. Take and drink of our blood and our grief and dance your way through the stars to the drum beats of your people into the arms of the one who first offered you food from His brokenness.

Body and Soul – Back Home

A Jon Post

Months away from writing and from Casa Ahava have made me feel rusty at both. Bear with me as I ramble here and re-introduce body and soul to the practices, please.

In November of last year my family made our once-every-2-or-3-year pilgrimage across the Atlantic Ocean to the North American continent in an attempt to connect and re-connect to those we love and who love us and our work here. Unsurprisingly, and in a familiar repetition of pilgrimages past, the weariness of time away from home seemed to be the order of the day and, though all the love and connection we could have hoped for was found in America, our tired feet still found their rest once the African red and brown soil of our home garden squeezed back between our toes after a rainfall in January.

It is good to be home.

Body and soul, it is good to be home.

Body and soul. I was raised in a faith tradition that made clear the distinction between those two things, the one more valuable and worthy of focus than the other. Before I was even aware of it, my work over these last 15 years started giving me reason to doubt any division between the two was as clean as I had believed all those early years.

When a 19-year-old Naldo comes back after two years to Casa Ahava with waves lymphoma washing through his chest and back like a tide of brackish water, body and soul are not so distinct. An entire boy is sick and frightened.

When a 60-year-old Aventina comes to Casa Ahava for the first time with a single change of clothes and a painful tumor pushing against her head, her eye, and her ear, it is not so clear that it is not pushing against her soul as well.

Three others are here at Casa Ahava too, body and soul, not so dual. We have plenty of space for more and I go to the hospital daily to see where shines the brightest suffering in need of communion and family. I’ve come to realize that to share the communion is to share the suffering and there is no wrongness in that. My own body and soul give testimony to the sharing of it all and whether the merging of the two fail or fly is not up to me anymore.

What I sang in my childhood in the hymn rings out now in the practice of communion with the soul and body breakages of my patients:

Lord, now indeed I find
Thy pow’r and Thine alone,
Can change the leper’s spots
And melt the heart of stone.
Jesus paid it all,
All to Him I owe;
Sin had left a crimson stain,
He washed it white as snow

I am no doctor to body nor soul, and I have no special power to bring healing to a person. I may in fact be the leper and I may in fact have the heaviness of a heart of stone. I certainly may live with many of each here at Casa Ahava.
All to Him I owe. Body and soul. All to Him I owe.

Casa Ahava Renewal

Your Casa Ahavá

A Layne Post

I pushed the door carefully open, making sure not to bump anyone on the other side. I peeked inside and gave a quick glance around. It was obvious who I was looking for, the alone one. “Maria?” I asked quietly. She was peeking out from a big blanket. It almost looked like like she was hiding. I pulled my mask down letting her see my face. The staff at the hospital had indicated that she might be a good candidate for Casa Ahavá. After a few questions I discovered she indeed had nowhere to go and had been living for some time in the hospital.

With a big smile, I explained all about our home and extended the offer for her to come. Basically, a little like, “Wanna get outta here?”

I walked out of that room feeling somewhat like Santa Claus. Usually Jon does the inviting, as he is at the hospital most days. When I got home I teared up telling Jon about my experience. I had forgotten. This job of ours, this thing we get to do, feels a little bit like magic. Because of generous, compassionate people around the world and their money, I get to deliver presents.

Yesterday we said goodbye to a patient who finished her treatment and sent her back to her family. It is not uncommon for the patient to give a bit of a formal speech thanking Jon and I in front of the group. It is awkward, but I’ve learned it is the way of things. This patient went on and one about the love she felt because we paid for her basic needs, electricity, food, water, etc. She explained that when she comes back for a checkup, she might not have water along the way, but she knows when she gets here, she will have a cool cup of water waiting for her. I kept thinking, “This is not because of my money, it is because of a community of people who care.”

To many reading this, that is YOU. This project is made possible by you guys. You are making a difference. I wish you could see it. Thank you.

It is terribly beautiful.  

Layne Embarks on a New Journey. Can You Help?