I pushed the door carefully open, making sure not to bump anyone on the other side. I peeked inside and gave a quick glance around. It was obvious who I was looking for, the alone one. “Maria?” I asked quietly. She was peeking out from a big blanket. It almost looked like like she was hiding. I pulled my mask down letting her see my face. The staff at the hospital had indicated that she might be a good candidate for Casa Ahavá. After a few questions I discovered she indeed had nowhere to go and had been living for some time in the hospital.

With a big smile, I explained all about our home and extended the offer for her to come. Basically, a little like, “Wanna get outta here?”

I walked out of that room feeling somewhat like Santa Claus. Usually Jon does the inviting, as he is at the hospital most days. When I got home I teared up telling Jon about my experience. I had forgotten. This job of ours, this thing we get to do, feels a little bit like magic. Because of generous, compassionate people around the world and their money, I get to deliver presents.

Yesterday we said goodbye to a patient who finished her treatment and sent her back to her family. It is not uncommon for the patient to give a bit of a formal speech thanking Jon and I in front of the group. It is awkward, but I’ve learned it is the way of things. This patient went on and one about the love she felt because we paid for her basic needs, electricity, food, water, etc. She explained that when she comes back for a checkup, she might not have water along the way, but she knows when she gets here, she will have a cool cup of water waiting for her. I kept thinking, “This is not because of my money, it is because of a community of people who care.”

To many reading this, that is YOU. This project is made possible by you guys. You are making a difference. I wish you could see it. Thank you.

It is terribly beautiful.  

Her smile, a head tilt, a little laugh.

I’ll be honest, nothing we were saying was funny or light. But with her chin held high she said, “I am going to die in style.” I shook my head, grinned, and assured her that I had no doubt.

Her courage astounded me. I breathed deep, being present for that holy moment.

We talked about legacy projects, about cards for her children. We talked of hard things… necessary hard things to make space for future beauty.

Silence lingered for just a bit and, rubbing a piece of grass between my fingers, I looked over at her and told her how glad I was to have known her, to have had this time with her.

I don’t always get that chance.

I slapped my thigh and told her it’s time to make lunch. She stood to hang her clean and dripping clothes.

Holy moments in the middle of the ordinary.

Sitting on the porch later that day Jon and I reflected on how many sacred conversations have been had sitting on these sidewalks of Casa Ahavá.

These past couple of months have been difficult for me emotionally and spiritually. The suffering and death this year at Casa Ahavá is heavier, closer together. I just couldn’t catch my breath. All felt dark, all bad, all hard. I pulled back some, leaned on Jon and my community.

Thankfully I can feel my lungs filling up. I am reconnecting. I’m remembering why I love what we do.

Today I sat in a room and had some good belly laughs with two ladies.

Holy… smack dab in the middle of the hard and the ordinary.

To our supporters, I am ever grateful for your prayers, your financial support, your love for my family, and your compassion towards our dear patients. I really believe so much in this project of ours and yours.

Peace Prayer of Saint Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:

where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

where there is sadness, joy.

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek

to be consoled as to console,

to be understood as to understand,

to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive,

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Amen.

Easter felt a bit different for me this year.

I have friends walking through the hardest days of their lives. My job, my ministry, revolve around people suffering, fighting to live, yet often dying. As I listened to worship songs of death being defeated, I felt a strange sting. It doesn’t feel defeated in the way I want it to. I believe Jesus conquered death and rose from the grave. I do. I also know the hard truth that death is still the required road to eternal life.

As I reflect on the story of the Messiah, I can see myself in the Jews. I, too, expect Jesus to come in all His power and glory to defeat the Romans, the oppressors… my oppressors, sickness, cancer, depression, hardship of any kind, maybe death…

Isn’t that what I was told? Isn’t that what you were told? I was told my whole life of a powerful Redeemer, who gave us the keys to the kingdom, who would deliver me from all my suffering. Ask and you shall receive.

Glory. Power. Dominion. Victory.

And then life.

It is so much harder and messier than I expected. More pain. More suffering. I have struggled to reconcile this Jesus I was taught with the life I am living. The formulas I was sold aren’t working.

The declarations. The faith of a mustard seed. The laying on of hands. The two or more that are gathered. The prayer chains. The begging.

Don’t get me wrong, it is not that these are bad. You’ll often find me rubbing a patient’s leg, whispering prayers and Biblical promises over them, and then face down in my bathroom pleading Jesus to intercede. I’m the first to jump on Facebook and ask for communal prayer.

But people are still dying.

I have known the truth of His presence. That wasn’t in question. He just looks so much different than I expected.

More honestly, He looks different than I want.

Where’s the victory?

What I realized is that this Jesus, who was born in a manger, who chose to live in poverty, who rode on a donkey, who washed the feet of others, who walked the Via Dolorosa, this Jesus, in His unexpected upside-down kind of way, instead of changing the required death-road to eternal life demanded by sin, decided to show us how to walk through suffering.

He showed us how to die.

He said, “Follow me.”

It isn’t that I don’t pray for miracles, or for relief, or for mercy. I do. Sometimes it is granted. I also know that when it doesn’t come, as it didn’t for Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane, I am in good company. When the road ahead overwhelms me to the point of death, I have an example to follow.

He might not look like I expected or wanted; He is far more humble, but after some time in His presence, I assure you He is so worth following.