A Jon Post

Some times I catch myself thinking over a monologue I’d like to give to one of the many friends I have at the hospital who are dying. They end up looking like letters I’ve written to them, if at least in my head.

Tonight I thought I’d write one down.

 

Dear Manuel,

Did you know I liked you when I first saw you sitting on your bed across the room? You just sat there in silence, a look of quiet kindness on your face and your worn, brown, leather jacket slung over your shoulders as if you’ve known that jacket for years of wind, rain and sun.

The breathing port jutting out of your trachea made a soft noise as your sharp eyes studied mine. I introduced myself and you put a finger over the port so your voice would carry out of your mouth and I heard your raspy name, “Manuel”. Your smile and firm handshake cemented my respect and admiration for you.

We’ve talked off and on over the last 4 months I’ve known you. You seem more comfortable listening than speaking. I know that speaking brings pain now since that hard metal port has been surgically placed in your throat, but have you always seemed like that? Before you came here and had your voice so irrevocably changed, did you listen so much? Did you laugh so softly?

I can tell that, though you haven’t worked it for the many months you’ve been sick, your farm still brings you much pride. It was my great joy to listen to you speak to my older brother about it when he sat with you one day. Even though it caused tremendous pain to speak for so long, you laughed and spoke in depth about the rice, corn, tomatoes and more that you plant there each year. When you asked for a picture standing by his side, just the two of you, my heart leapt with pride and joy that you two, in 3 short days, had grown to know and respect each other so well.

Now you lie in your bed dying, waiting for another surgery on your wounded trachea. What specifically have the doctors told you? Have they told you your prognosis? Do you still dream of being healthy?

I brought you that picture taken standing next to my brother today. You asked for it earnestly last time. What place does his visit take in your memories of your life?

I’m not sure how to close this letter to you. Hope? Truth? Promises? Just lovingly?

Hope? We’ve spoken of it before. We’ve spoken of the faith you and I share that gives assurance to the hope in Christ and His salvation. There is hope there. There is still hope.

Truth? You are dying. It will probably not take long. I am sorry I don’t know how to say that in person. I’m sorry I don’t yet understand you well enough to speak the words of that truth while speaking of comfort and love.

Promises? I promise that I will pray for you until the truth of this sickness is played out. I promise to visit you and stand with you and bring you cans of Fanta and snap shots of my family until then. I do not promise a miracle, or a healing, but I’ll ask the God who can give them that He does.

Love? There is Christ. There is Christ. There is Christ.

And instead of filing this one away into the rest of my unsaid, unspoken, unwritten letters, I’ve written this one out and I’ll share it with the internet. Will I share it with you? Do I have that courage?

I hope so. Maybe not word for word, but I’ll do my best to bring these words to you my friend.

And that’s what you are.

My friend.

 

Yours,

 

Jonathan