A Jon Post

I had surgery on my left shoulder a few years back. I remember waking up in agony, begging for a drug to numb the pain. I remember the slightest tremor in my wide, soft hospital bed sending knives through my left arm, shoulder, neck, and chest.

I remember the state-of-the-art morphine drip seemingly doing nothing.

I remember trying to sleep… sleep was by far the worst of it all. Awake after, at most, an hour of sleep  because of an uncontrollable quiver of my arm ripping at perfectly placed stitches. Awake after another hour because rolling slightly on the high quality mattress I slept on caused my shoulder to erupt in agony.

I remember trying to sleep… trying… for a month.

So when 16-year-old Antonio went into surgery this week for a tumor on his neck/shoulder,

I remembered…

On Tuesday his surgery went well, his daily text message informed me. On Wednesday morning his message seemed to indicate he was doing well.

Later that afternoon when I walked into the room he shares with 7 others in the surgery recovery ward I could see the toll it took on him to simply roll to his side so he could face me on his twin bed.

“How are you friend?” I asked, hopeful.

“Not great Uncle Jon.” came the reply, “It’s hard to sleep.”

I remembered…

And looking at his little bed that he shares with his faithfully attending dad I knew…

My memories are nothing compared to this.

Antonio’s weary eyes glanced up at me as I told him I wanted to pray for his rest. His lips tugged at a smile but even that effort seemed overwhelming for him.

Antonio’s smiling father walked in with some cookies he’d scrounged up for his son.

“Matakatira! (Good afternoon!)” he greeted me in his language, Mandão.

“Good afternoon friend! Are you well?” My broken barely coherent Mandão returned.

His eyes glanced over his son and I saw the worry there.

“I am well,” he replied, “but my son is not.”

He rattled off a new Mandão phrase that I didn’t understand yet and I smiled and reaffirmed my gratitude for his effort in teaching me his language.

“I was just about to pray for Antonio. Would you join me?” I asked.

A smile and a “Yes” later, our hearts heavy and our heads bowed, we prayed for rest.

And my words and groans joined with Antonio’s and his dad’s as we expressed how eagerly we wait for the redemption of our bodies.

And  because my words fail even now as I write this, I pleaded with The Spirit to groan with me and for Antonio’s rest.

For now, Antonio’s unredeemed body needs rest.