Author: Jon

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

A Jon Post

I wrote this in memory of a 17-year-old boy named Samuel who died last week on Monday. Layne, Alice our partner, and I had been asked by his doctor to sit by his bedside to care for him (cleaning, feeding, etc) as he was given too much pain medication to maintain consciousnesses and had no one else to care for him in his last days. We knew and loved him well. This song has been on my heart since and I’m glad I was able to write it and share it here.

We met when you were young
     Not yet 17
          Your eyes were holding a pain I’d never known
We spoke softly I learned your name
     You told me of your home
          Alone and sick your smile betrayed your fear

So you wait in this bed staring death in the face
And oh, there’s more to you than this
I believe together we can find out what it is

So I will visit you
     Though I barely know your name
I’ll laugh and joke and hope to know you well
     Yes I will visit you

I learned that you’d been hurt
     You trusted me with your pain
          We cried and hugged I’d no words to heal the scar
But I told you there was One
     Who does more than simply heal
          He completes our pain in the wordless beauty of His

So you sit in this bed staring life in the face
And oh, there’s more to trust than this
With Him together you can find out what it is

So I will pray with you
     To the One who knows your name
Though you’ve just met He already knows you well
     Yes I will pray with you

The months passed you grew, I watched
     You seemed to grow so strong
          We hoped you’d win this war with your disease
So soccer games and smiles
     Mark these memories I hold
          Chasing balls on broken pavement with a grin

You seem free of your fear of the sting of your death
And oh, there’s more to find in Him
I believe together we can search out what it is

So I will play with you
     And I’ll laugh and shout your name
We’ll chase the sun we’ll hold these memories well
     Yes I will play with you

Then slowly it returned
     The pain you knew so well
          Our feeble hands failed to stop dark tides of this disease
And lying on your bed
     Poison dripping in your veins
          You held tight to the One who gives joy who gives peace… in anguish

So you lie in your bed waiting for death and his touch
But oh, there’s more to tears than this
Crying together we can seek out what it is

So I will sit with you
     And I’ll whisper your name
I’ll plead the blood of Christ will cover you
     Yes I will sit with you

Hours silent by your side
     Slowly pass us by
          Others come and go, I wonder if you still hear me
But your body lost its fight
     Your heart was just to tired
          And the gap between you and Christ came to a close

So you died in this bed with peace on your face
And oh, there’s more to death than this
Some day together you can show me what it is

So I will cry for you
     And I’ll softly speak your name
I’m so glad you let me get to know you well
     Yes I will cry for you

Now you stand
     On legs strong and whole and clean
Now you stand
     In the presence of the One who redeemed your pain

And one day I will stand with you
     Singing glory to His name
Yes I will stand with you
     Singing glory to His name
We’ve eternity to get to know Him well
     Yes I will stand with you

Oh I will stand with you

A Jon Post

I’ve known Pedro for about 8 months now. He first arrived with his 15 year old son who had a cancerous lump on his neck/shoulder. I even wrote about him and his son, Antonio a few months ago when Antonio had surgery on his tumor.

Antonio received 6 months of chemotherapy, had 2 surgeries, and was pronounced cancer free. He went home.

Pedro and Jon last June (Pedro wearing a shirt Jon’s dad sent)

3 months into Antonio’s stay at the hospital, Pedro noticed his right leg swelling and a pain high on his right thigh. A few weeks before Antonio was discharged and sent home we found out why Pedro’s leg was bothering him.

Cancer. Lymphoma.

Antonio went home 3 months ago, Pedro stayed and began his own treatment.

I’ve spent quite a bit of time with Pedro. Talking about Christ, about his family, about his childhood, his farm…

In quiet moments of honesty, we’ve spoken about being fathers. He has confessed his frustration, his weariness and his silent grief that, though he is the leader and protector of his family, he is here…  600 miles away from the people who need him most.

3 weeks ago his daughter, <**edit** she was 24 years old and had two small children**>, grew very sick. Coughing, fevers, extreme exhaustion…

Pedro’s wife took her to the hospital where she was admitted with tuberculosis. Pedro and I wept and prayed together often as he agonized over his inability to care for his sick daughter. We prayed for her health, we prayed for her mother, we prayed for his family.

Pedro’s daughter died last night.

She stopped breathing in her sleep.

And Pedro didn’t get to say goodbye to his precious girl.

It is with Pedro’s permission that I write his story here. These next few days he will be struggling with an extremely private suffering and I was hesitant to make it so public.

But he asked for your prayers.

We scrambled today to get him home, even planning at one point for me to simply drive him the 600 miles to his house. For a few family reasons it worked out better for him to take a bus, so I accompanied him to the bus station to get his ticket. I’ll be driving him to the bus stop at 2 AM tomorrow so he can start his journey at 3 AM and probably get home by 9 or 10 PM.

It’s a long trip.

And he’s asking for anyone who reads this to pray with him.

Please… please pray specifically for the Pascheco family. Pray that they mourn well. Pray that they remember their daughter and sister fondly. Pray that their knowledge of the fellowship of Christ’s suffering increases their hunger for Him. Pray that they rest.

A Jon Post

“Don’t forget these.”

I tell myself that in, paradoxically, the times we have at the hospital that are filled with either the sting of death or the victory of life.

Last week it was during the victory of life.

14-year-old Edson was about to begin the 14 hour bus ride back home after a visit to oncology here in Maputo. He lived here for a year from December 2010 to December 2011 with his mother and baby sister. We know them well. Edson and his mother were back (his baby sister is old enough to stay with the grandmother and father this time) for a follow-up visit to check to see if the cancer was growing back. Edson had just received the good news that, after the two weeks of staying in a hospital bed waiting for the results, the sonogram test to check for cancer came back clean.

He was free to go!

We had all been expecting and praying for this result but it was good to have the paper in hand to show it. He was leaving at 3 AM the next morning.

On a whim I asked him if he wanted to go for a ride with me to celebrate. We’d go down to a big department store on the beach, walk around and just have a good time saying goodbye.

In my car and to the store we went!

Edson with Anaya Last Year Before He Left

Have I mentioned that Edson wants to be an engineer when he grows up? He wants to design buildings and talks about how he loves to draw and design them already and how, in school, all his classmates come to him and ask him to draw them something when there is a drawing assignment. I told him about how my dad and brother are both engineers and that they design bridges! He was astounded as I told him how they design them to cross huge waterways and tower over landscapes. When I bragged on my younger brother for his integral contribution to the design and construction of one of the biggest bridges in Canada his eyes got huge and his grin wide. He told me he wanted to design the biggest building in Mozambique!

I sprung for a couple bottles of Coke and a couple chocolate candy bars and we went and sat at the beach drinking our cold Cokes and eating our chocolate, talking about his favorite movie, “Homen Verde” (It’s “Hulk” for you English speakers, “The Green Man” as it translates from Portuguese), how there’s a new one with The Green Man in it called “The Avengers” and how well he does in Math class at school. He doesn’t like his Portuguese class and prefers to stick to the science and math subjects.

On and on the conversation went, mingling moments of life’s victory into what has felt recently like a time of death’s sting.

“Don’t forget these.” I told myself again. “These moments are equally as important as the moments we are honored to accompany someone to eternity’s door.”

These moments, moments of life, Coke, and chocolate, are the echoes of the good news that awaits us on the other side of that door. Without these moments, we would have nothing from which we could reference the hope we have for something exponentially better. It is in these moments that Christ’s smile is reflected.

“Don’t forget these.” I told myself… not for the last time.

A Jon Post

As we’ve written before, what we do seems to have a strange and painful rhythm. We see times of joy, rest, and friends recovering from cancer. Then the waves crash back unto a shore washed clean of disease… pain returns… death finds a way.

And we write another story like this.

I didn’t know Moisés very well. I talked to him a few times after he arrived three weeks ago but didn’t have any time to sit with him personally and hear his story. He was laying in his bed when we first met, one face among three new ones. I knew his roommate well, and was surprised to see all 3 new patients there that day. I introduced myself and was pleased to meet new friends and file new names into my head and hope to remember them later.
Moisés sat, shook my hand, and smiled as I told him who I was and why I was there. We shared a few words and spoke of where we were from and  then I entered a conversation with another friend in the room.
I saw Moisés other times as I’d pass through but we never spoke privately.
Until last monday.
I had actually been planning on spending time with a roommate of Moisés who was receiving chemotherapy that day. When I entered, there lay Rui on chemo and there sat Moisés coughing blood. The weight of the two men’s suffering bore down hard on me as I passed the threshold into that room.
Rui could barely talk and lay on his bed with a pounding headache. Moisés looked at me and started talking about his pain. Because he was coughing so much it grew hard to understand him. As he spoke and I strained to hear, I heard the end of a sentence… “I’ll do this until I pass.”
He kept coughing.
I prayed desperate prayers, pleaded for mercy from a merciful God, and tried to keep my voice steady.
A peace swept the room. My words slowed and trust fell on us all soft enough to not make any noise but hard enough to drive our fears out of our hearts. Moisés breathed deeply, Rui gripped my hand tightly, and I breathed an amen. Christ’s hand rested on us and we sat together wordlessly.
I stood up, encouraged both men to rest, and left.
Later that night Moisés sat in a chair next to his bed, put his arms on his bed, put his head down and stopped breathing.

So we write these stories and we wonder whose we will write next.

For now, we pray to the God who holds life and death in His hands, and we trust those hands.

Please pray with us. Pray that lives are not lost, that hope is not forgotten, that Christ is known and that hearts find strength.

Please pray that we hold fast.