A Jon Post
There are some things I don’t really know how to write down.
As much as the American side of me wants to hold on to the idea that a crisis is just a lead up to a triumph… sometimes a crisis is simply a precursor to collapse. Sometimes victory does not come. Sometimes death’s mocking smile is all the reward that comes at the end of a battle. These times are neither easy to write down nor pleasant to do so. But they are important to remember. It’s important that someone is spoken for. So we write them down.
Papa Xavier arrived in the hospital in December last year. His soft smile and calm eyes were the first things I noticed. He was strong… perhaps too strong for a man with only one leg. Despite his strength, he is tender and meek. He is quick to laugh and slow to find offense or to even frown. When I offered New Testament Bibles to the men he was quick to begin reading and quick to humbly share what he was reading. We read over Matthew chapter 5 together back in March. He soaked it up.
He has five children. The youngest is 3 years old. Three boys, two girls. He loves them all dearly. He grew up in a distant village in the Mozambican province of Inhambane. He is proud of his heritage and his tribe. He loves speaking his language.
He loves my daughters. Especially Jovie. I brought Jovie to his room many times and, though initially hesitant, she soon leaned away from me and into his arms whenever we were in a room together. His tender arms wrapped around her, and he always allowed her to pull on lips, nose, or ears when she was in his arms.
He loved to play soccer with the young men of his village until his leg got too weak to keep playing. Even after he stopped playing soccer he still kept up with the Mozambican soccer league and often talked about his days of activity and sports. It was hard to go from being strong and athletic to having a leg amputated just below the knee because of a tumor growing there. When he arrived his body reflected the joy he had found running and playing. After 6 months of cancer ravaging through his system it was hard to see but, because I still remember how he arrived, I could still see the echoes of his strength.
On Friday last week Jovie and I walked into his room one more time. An ambulance was taking him home the following morning. He was going home to die. He has been fast losing this fight, and he has not seen his 3-year-old since November last year.
Jovie squealed and sat on his bed and reached for Xavier’s face. With shaking hands and barely the strength to raise his head he beamed at my daughter and reached for her waving hands. She melted into him. She threw herself onto his broken body and his weak laugh filled the room like a hymn. “Ah, Jovie” his soft voice said. We sat together for some time and Jovie soon got restless. Our prayer mingled together with tears, and Jovie and I walked away.
Over these last 3 years these kinds of goodbyes have always been hard. They should be and I hope they are never easy. I am so honored to have stood next to Xavier for these last 6 months and I look forward to standing with him for eternity. He’ll have two legs again soon.
