A Jon Post
I’ve sat on that same spot of grass many times. I’ve felt my emotions rise there many times. This day was no different. There I sat, out in front of Oncology, spinning a twig in the dirt, chatting and listening to a group of ladies who live in the cancer ward.
They live there.
There is no where to go for them. They know no one in this huge city of 2,000,000 inhabitants, they have no family within 1000 miles of this place, they have no transport, they have no money.
They live in a cancer ward.
Wake up at 3 AM. Take a freezing cold shower. Take 200 mg of ibuprofen for the pounding headache resulting from late-stage cancer and an IV chemo treatment. Crawl back onto a thin mattress under a ratty sheet. Try to rest. Eat. Sleep. Take 500 mg of paracetamol (generic Tylenol). Eat. Try to rest. Watch a day crawl by and blur into the weariness that chronic pain and vomit inducing treatment bring in their dance of suffering.
Every day.
For 6 months.
So there I sat, spinning a twig in the dirt. Pedro, one of the two men who is staying in Casa Ahavá, came to visit with me that day. He too sat in the grass, visiting and chatting along with me with this small group of ladies.
“We have no where to go. We have no way to forget that we are sick. We can’t forget that we are dying here.” Regina said, smiling at me through the pain of the truth she was telling. “At least Pedro and the others there at Jon and Layne’s house can forget about being sick.”
Pedro smiled, nodded, and the conversation continued in another direction.
But I kept thinking about what Regina said. I smiled and we kept chatting but inside my heart broke. Oh, how I wanted to say to Regina and the 6 other women there, “Please come to my house! Please come stay with me and let Christ help you forget that you are sick! Please come live in my home with my family and live the truth that you are not running out of life! Come to Casa Ahavá and run into life with us! Please… come forget that you are sick.”
And inside God said, “Be faithful with what I’ve entrusted to you and your family.”
Then we walked upstairs, into the cancer ward itself, and sat with some men in one of the men’s rooms. I talked to Papa Benjamin who sits on his bed all day.
Waiting.
Waiting for his body to be ready to drip a toxic mix of chemicals through a vein in his wrists meant to prejudice his cancer just a little more than his body.
Waiting.
Waiting to go to a home 1600 miles away and bury his 3-year-old daughter, Anita, who died last week with a high fever.
Waiting.
Wishing he too, could forget.
And my heart broke.
Because I have no room for Papa Benjamin. I have no room for Regina. I have no room for Anna. I have no room for Orlando. Casa Ahavá is full with our four patients.
Campande
But for now… We can help 4 precious people forget they are sick. We can watch World Cup games, we can go to the beach, we can go get ice cream in the park, we can go to the huge open air market and buy shawls for the ladies, belts for the men, we can sit in my back yard and watch three little girls play on swings and plastic cars and watch a big slobbery dog run around with a rubber chew toy in his mouth.
Inês
We can sing to Christ of His love with a guitar and read the Bible in lawn chairs and smile together. We can help Pedro, Inês, Campande, and Sara forget they are sick. We can help them run into life.
Pedro
That’s Casa Ahavá.
That’s what you’re a part of.
Sara