Author: Jon

Dancing on Rusty, Splintery Pallet Tables

A Jon Post

My computer is on my lap, a word document is open and I’m sitting here watching my almost-two-year-old daughter playing on a wooden table made of old splintery nail-split pallets. The slats are coming up, the rusty nails are failing in their job of holding mushy, rain ruined wood together and my daughter is dancing on top. Gasher, my huge dog, is pushing at her with his nose and I can’t tell if he’s concerned for her or wants to get up there and dance with her (and probably push her off to a painful landing on the concrete below).

As I write this I’m realizing that there are few things I’d rather do than make unsafe, FDA non-approved, child hazardous pallet tables and watch my daughters dance on them with my dog. I don’t want to watch them fall off those tables or step on one of those splinters or nails but those risks come with dancing on rusty, splintery pallet tables.

Watch The Fall

So when I take my daughters to the hospital with me, like I did yesterday, I have to remind myself, some times it’s ok to let my daughter dance on pallet tables.

See, yesterday we spent some time laughing and playing with Papa João. João is a wonderful grandfather who speaks of his family with immense pride and misses them fiercely while he sits here waiting to finish his 6 months of chemo treatment. From everything I can tell he is as healthy as I could hope for having the cancer he does and we hope together that in 2 more months, when he finishes his 6^th and final treatment, he can go home to that family he loves.

But for now, I take my daughters and they laugh and play with Papa João. They are still getting to know him so they want me around when we’re there and yet they are getting more and more comfortable.

So where are the splinters?

Papa João will, one day, stop being there at the hospital. I hope and pray that it’s because he will be home with his family in Mozambique, but there is a chance it will be because he is home with his family in heaven. And, as hard as it is for me to understand death and it’s gruesome victory, I know my young daughters do not yet know why Dad gets scared when, after repeated treatments, the lump hasn’t gone down like it should. My young daughters don’t always see the rusty nail coming when a friend at the hospital is spending more and more time in bed rather than outside laughing.

Yesterday, when we were leaving, I was holding Anaya and we were walking to the car saying goodbye. Standing there with Papa João I said, “Tá tá Papa”, which in her perfect-two-year-old voice Anaya repeated, “Tá tá Papa”. João smiled and replied, “Tá tá Anaya”. Anaya took this as a good reason (with coaxing from me) to try to say “Tá tá Papa João”. Her perfect-two-year-old voice mangled it beautifully and it come out “Tá tá Papa Jollaw”. João loved it, smiled at me and told me how big she was getting and we walked away.

So what scares me about all this? I don’t think my girls understand that there will come a time when they won’t have the chance to say “Tá tá Papa” anymore.

So watch out for those splinters, rusting nails, and nasty falls my precious girls. And keep dancing. I’ll keep making tables for you, you keep dancing, and we’ll trust together that our Savior will kiss the splinters and cuts when they come and make them all better.

Dancing Together

February 5, 2013

Jon

Around the house, Hospital Ministry, The Kids

2 comments

Papa Zakaria

I loved seeing him again.

I have a distinct memory of standing against a rail at the hospital with him. We spoke about our families and what we hope to do for them and how we hope to protect and care for them. His honesty surprised me when he spoke about how little he respected the people he knew who were church-goers. I had just finished talking about the “church where I pray” (the term used here to identify what church you attend) and asked him if he prayed at any church back home. There was a harsh resignation in his voice when he told me that he used to but couldn’t reconcile the fact that when he and his family went for a week without anything to eat, neither the church nor its members offered anything. He didn’t seem angry, only tired of lies. He left that church and hadn’t returned. When I looked into his eyes I searched for any hint of accusation toward me for my church-going lifestyle. I could find none. He just smiled and looked at me and we kept talking about life, and moved on to talk about his farm and his family, two subjects he was very fond of.

Papa Zakaria loved his family.

I think that was the strongest pull I had to keep singling him out and talking to him about life.

So when he left the hospital after finishing his treatment and I promised I wanted to visit him in his home, I meant it. I really did want to see him the family he missed so dearly.

Months went by, we spoke on the phone, we sent text messages, and I kept hoping to see him there.

I loved seeing him again.

I almost didn’t recognize him. His hair has come back full-afro after being completely bald for 6 months of chemo. His smile hasn’t changed though, nor his firm, warmhearted handshake.

We hugged, we laughed and we sat under his mango tree. I had come alone, leaving my wife and kids in the borrowed house we were staying in while I drove around the city seeking out him and some others who lived deeper in some of the trackless bairros of Beira. He was so anxious for me to come back with my whole family. His wife and children were all visiting the doctor when I arrived having been battling malaria-like symptoms for the past few days. He assured me they would be home that afternoon but he wanted me to give him some time for them to feel better so our families could visit together.

We marked a time 3 days later and with a deep smile we parted.

I loved seeing him again.

My daughter, Anaya, perched safely and trustingly in his arms, he lead my family over, through, and around some mud/water puddles to his little home where his wife and 5 children waited. We offered small gifts to his family, sat together and smiled.

Our Families Under His Tree

What a joy.

Though his fear of chemo and cancer remain, his heart and legs are still strong. Though his faith in church wavered long ago, his faith in Christ remains to tether his soul to his King.

“I can’t die yet” he says with a smile, holding his son in his arms. “This one must have a father until he’s at least 18. Then I can die.”
When I look into his eyes as Papa Zakaria says that, I don’t see resentment, I don’t see fear, I don’t see hopelessness. I see only love. He loves his wife. He loves the son in his arms.
“They need a father. No… I can’t die yet.”

So under his mango tree we smile. We join hands in prayer, and we lift hearts and voices to our King and we hope. We hope his kids keep their father around for a while.

This is a good hope.

This is a good visit.

January 13, 2013

Jon

Mozambique, Travel

3 comments

Making Spirits Bright

A Jon Post

It’s been a good year.

We’ve seen grave suffering and intense beauty in its midst. We’ve seen tears of pain and tears of joy and we’ve shed them also. It’s a terrible and wondrous thing to serve a Holy God.

In all our time here we’ve seen so little of this gorgeous country.

Tomorrow that will change.

We’ve planned and hoped to visit patients who have come here and since gone home who live in the far reaches of Mozambique. We have hugged backs, kissed cheeks, smiled and waved goodbye not knowing if we would ever see many of our friends again.

Tomorrow that too will change.

As a last minute plan, we will be leaving at 3 in the morning to make a roughly 16 hour drive to a city in Mozambique called Beira. We know many former patients who live in the area and an opportunity to stay for free in a wonderful home came up suddenly and we felt God’s hand nudging us to go.

We’ll go.

So up we get in the morning, loaded to the gills with things to keep two kids under 2 years old happy for 16 hours sitting, with plenty of coffee, plenty of trail mix, and plenty of music to listen to and worship our King to.

It will be a long day.

Please, if you read this on Christmas Eve in the USA or on Christmas day here in Africa, please do stop here and spend some minutes praying for our journey.

Did you stop?

Thanks.

So here’s where we wish you all a Merry Christmas.

If there was snow to go dashing through we’d be doing that but we’ll just settle for trying to go make spirits bright.

Merry Christmas.

An Already Bright Spirit

December 24, 2012

Jon

Hospital Ministry, Mozambique, Travel

4 comments

Questions No One Asked

A Jon Post

***Warning*** This is a pretty long post. Get comfy.

Ok… so… Casa Ahavá, right? You guys all remember that? Remember how we have posted wanting to welcome people here into our house and offer a place of peace, safety, comfort and rest to those friends of ours who have so little of those things?

Well, here’s a few posts about it in case you don’t remember.

1: Back in June of 2010 we wrote about it when we moved into our first house here in Mozambique. Let’s Get to Work.

2: We wrote about it again in September later that year. A Broad Smile.

3: We moved again in July last year and wrote about it for our new house. We’re In.

4: We even wrote about it and kind of detailed it with some pictures in November last year. Casa Ahavá.

Here’s the thing: No one ever asks any questions on here. I know it may seem weird to call us out in a comment and be all public about it but we never even get emails asking “What ever happened to Casa Ahavá?” “When is that supposed to happen?”

Well I’m going to answer the questions no one asked! I know how silly a practice that can be but I’m going for it anyway. I’m in a good mood this week and so I don’t mind employing silly practices when I’m in good moods (just ask my wife about that one).

Q: What (if anything) have you guys been doing to see Casa Ahavá become a reality?
A: We spoke with the director of oncology at the hospital more than a year ago. That director changed without giving us a green light to do it so we spoke with the new director. That director seemed to think it wasn’t a great idea and thought that, if we did anything, we should do it on a completely unofficial basis, not involving the hospital at all (a local lawyer we spoke with advised us that this was a decidedly bad idea from a liability point of view but we decided that we were willing to take that chance and so moved ahead with that in mind). THAT director changed and so we spoke with the newest director about wanting to unofficially invite people from the hospital to stay with us between treatments. THAT director decided that this was such a great idea that we need to involve all levels of the hospital and that I should speak with the director of medicine for the entire hospital about it. Unfortunately he is notoriously hard to sit down in person with so I submitted a letter detailing what we wanted to do and why. After submitting that letter to his secretary, I was told I would be contacted about it when he had a chance to read it over and give an opinion (whew, that took a while to remember all the steps we’ve taken). I never got a call so I began following up with his secretary trying to get a response and get a sit-down with him. Finally, some development started happening when I was referred to the Social Services section of the hospital. After some back and forth (Social Services and director’s office not really being clear about who I should speak to), I was told I needed the head doctor at Social Services to respond to me (there’s more reason to tell you all this than simply boring you with mundane details I promise). More on this in a moment.

Q: How hard have you been working trying to get all this stuff pushed through offices and approvals?
A: Not very.

Q: Why so little effort?
A: Great question. We’ve thought a lot about it and we’ve come to realize a couple things.

1. After living here for almost 3 years we’ve noticed that there are times when the only way to get things done (especially when dealing with government related issues) is to violently and forcefully advance them and push the Kingdom of God ahead.
2. This was not one of those times.
We weren’t sure why we felt so sure it wasn’t one of those times, we just felt a tremendous peace from God that we were to wait for Him and for His hand to move instead of forcing things to move. This perplexed and, at times, grieved us because we’ve watched so many people over the last 3 years with an acute need for a home to stay, and at times, die in. However… we waited. And hoped.

Q: What is that “More on this in a moment” sentence about up there?
A: Ha, so I’ve hooked my imaginary conversation partner! Actually, I’m just conversing with myself, but it’s a good sign when I’m able to get myself on the edge of my own seat waiting to see what I’ll say next right?

So, I was at the hospital last Tuesday visiting and a man approached me. He mentioned he was from the Social Services department of the hospital and wanted to sit down with me some time and chat about what I do and about how we could work together to best serve the patients in oncology. I told him I’d be happy to get together with him and go over those things. He gave no indication he was talking about Casa Ahavá and, in fact, merely mentioned that he saw me visiting and so wanted to chat about that specifically.
We agreed to meet the next day and so I arrived at the hospital on Wednesday with an extra copy of the letter I’d written to the Social Services doctor about Casa Ahavá ready to introduce him to the idea. As we were walking together to a bench where we could sit down he asked me where I stayed, and I told him the area of town my house is in. He responded with, “Are you at all connected to that guy with the house out there who wants to house patients from oncology?”
Taken aback for a second, I replied, “I AM that guy! That’s my house!”

He seemed equally surprised and, with a smile, responded, “Well you need to come meet the head doctor at Social Services with me then!”

Then followed a couple hours of sitting with the whole Social Services department, including the doctor I had not been able to meet with before.
I was able to express our heart in both practical and emotional terms and even share scriptures that move us to act the way we do and offer what we have.

This is what we have been waiting for.

This is God’s hand moving things we had no way of moving on our own.

At the end of the meeting we set up a time when 4 people from Social Services could come see our house and inspect it for it’s readiness to host patients.

Tuesday morning, if all goes well, we’ll host them here and move a large step closer to welcoming the sick and lonely into our home.

Q: Why did it take so long to get to that?
A: It was supposed to be interesting enough to plough through it all to get to the end where you find out we’ve actually got real things happening with Casa Ahavá!

So please pray with us on Tuesday that things go well, that God is glorified, that we love well, and that favor is given.

We’re celebrating. Our God comes through when He tells us to wait. He has made our spirits bright.

Thanks.

Doorway to Casa Ahavá

December 9, 2012

Jon

Casa Ahava, Hospital Ministry

11 comments

Letters to My Dying Friends

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

October 31, 2012

Jon

Hospital Ministry

4 comments