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Transformation

A Layne Post

I remember being a new Mama.

Somewhere after the hype and excitement of this new little person, after all the cooing and gasping over each new movement, after the adrenaline rush ended and tiredness set in… yeah, somewhere after that, I was left floundering and suddenly not sure of who I was. I thought being a missionary meant giving your life in service, but then this little person invaded every second of my life, and not only that, she was completely and utterly dependent on me. My life of service was just beginning.

As a missionary to the sick and the dying, it was easy to see how I was serving Jesus by holding puke buckets, wiping sweaty heads, and holding weary hands. It felt good to be used by God in such a way. I was obeying the obvious command in Matthew 25:35-40.

As a Mama it was far more difficult to see how scrubbing poopy cloth diapers, soothing a crying baby, or making baby food was service to Jesus.

In my mind I knew the Lord was pleased by my service to my family, but how to feel satisfied in that service wasn’t as easy. I found a place of contentment in serving at the hospital one day a week, all on my own. It was good and right, and I felt like I could breathe again. Not in the escape of my child, but in having something that was mine, that was me. If I’m honest, however, I never found the secret to that satisfied feeling that could be found in poopy diapers, dishes, laundry, etc. There were days it still loomed – discontentment and purposelessness.

And then I had Jovie.

And then I got pregnant.

And here is the deal. I still have the privilege of serving once a week on my own, and usually I get to go another time in the week with my girls, putting me at the hospital twice a week. Those are cherished sweet times I never want to give up, but somewhere over the past couple of years I’ve transformed, thanks be to God, into a Mama. It is who I am. Recently as I felt myself holding a woman’s dying head close to my chest, as I stroked her hairline and kissed her forehead, I realized I do that because I am a Mama. It is so very natural because I am a Mama. I haven’t lost who I was; I’ve become a better me, a more selfless me, a me that looks more like Christ. Sometimes the process of learning selflessness feels like you are losing everything that makes you you, and that is scary. We need to trust our Creator, who fashioned us in our mothers’ wombs. Perhaps you are becoming more you than you knew possible.

And over the last couple of weeks the Lord has been doing some more transforming. He has come full circle and begun to whisper that secret I was searching for a few years back. His tool has been Ann Voskamp’s devotional One Thousand Gifts Devotional: Reflections on Everyday Graces. What I’ve learned is that I’ve been ungrateful. Not purposefully, but neglectfully. In my new-found habit of keeping a “thankfulness journal” I have discovered contentment in caring for my children and husband. Joy that has been found in giving thanks to the Giver – for tan lines, mango salsa, laying in the grass watching clouds, crawling, singing with my children, a home to clean, a rare late morning in bed, etc. As I read on Ann’s blog today:

And “Give thanks IF you are happy” is in reality:

If you want to be happy — give thanks.”

Giving thanks is what gets you joy.

I have found it true in my life, since I’ve begun purposeful thanksgiving. So reader, give thanks to Him and discover the joy and contentment He has to give.

 

 

Following Up and Holding Our Breath

A Jon Post

Ok… it’s been 3 months since I blogged about representatives from the hospital visiting our house to see Casa Ahavá and inspect our readiness to give a home and a family to people from far away.

Here’s the blog if you need a reminder of what happened leading up to December 9th. Questions No One Asked.

The visit I mentioned in that blog went very well and we praised God that our visitors praised the location and the heart they saw for what we wanted to do. We thought we were within weeks of hosting friends here who are currently bound to a hospital bed because they have no where else.

We prayed, we thanked, we smiled.

Weeks stretched on, I kept following up with Social Services, nothing happened. The good men and women who came to see our house assured us they passed on a very favorable report to the hospital’s Director’s Office, but it was out of their hands after that.

We prayed, we waited, nothing.

As often as we’ve asked, we’ve heard only that we’re still waiting.

This week as Layne and I were driving to church together Layne brought this up with me. She has felt on her spirit the burden to pray for this process more directly and more fervently. We have spent little specific time praying for this and I’m so glad Layne’s heart was soft enough to hear the Lord correcting us in that.

So will you pray with us in this? We believe that “In the Lord’s hand the king’s heart is a stream of water that he channels toward all who please him” and if the king’s heart is that way, we believe the same of the hospital director’s heart.

Pray that the Lord channels his heart toward us and toward Casa Ahavá.

Pray that we please the Lord.

It matters.

It does.

When We Beg for Death

A Layne Post

The room was heavy.

She sat hunched over showing me the oxygen tube that had come out, and she needed me to go get a nurse. Her breathing was short. I could hardly believe where the previous 5 days had brought her. Just the week before we chatted about my growing Karasi, babies, and the blessings that children are, even three girls! In this culture boys are prized, so I am often given a sad smile and a reassurance that the next will be a boy. (Next?) That day before I left I remember her saying, “Eu gosto de Mae de Anaya.” (I like Anaya’s mother. – Our equivalent to a casual ‘I love you’.)

This day, even in her agony, she smiled and asked about my girls. And then she winced. Her breast had been taken over by the cancer and had turned into an open wound full of pain and infection. Another tumor in her stomach had appeared just three days previous. It was now the size of a grapefruit. As I sat by her side, she asked me not to leave her. And so I stayed a few hours. Then my friend Alice arrived to sit with her, and then another sweet volunteer, and then I returned, and then Alice spent the night with her. It was not good for her to be alone.

The days to follow would be her last.

Laying down was no longer an option for her as she felt she could not breathe, so as often as I could be there I would go and wrap my arms around her to hold and kiss her weary head that hung in front of her body. When she spoke of this pain and this cancer passing, I spoke of the next life and the hope we find there. Indeed, it would pass. More often than not, however, we were silent. I found myself in a position I’ve been in before – begging for death. There comes a point when the most gracious, most merciful thing the Lord could do is to take this precious life into the next. And what I pray is for an easy, quick transition between the two worlds. In those moments death is not terrifying, continuing life like this is. And so I called out to Jesus. Between the pain and the morphine, she didn’t always make sense, but I cannot forget a clear moment when she looked up  and into my eyes and with a smile asked how I was. Me. In her moment, she thought about me.

In my Christian American mind I felt her local family had failed her, leaving her too often alone, leaving me and my friends to care for her in these intimate last moments. I try to be gracious to cultural differences, but I struggled. I am so very thankful that on the night that she passed from this life to the next, it was her husband that was with her, not my friend Alice or me. In that way I believe the Lord was gracious.

And now we no longer pray for her, for she has been made new, but we pray for her family and her two young children that are left here with a large gap in their lives. We pray that Jesus will find His way to fill them up.

 

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

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 6th 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

Dancing Together

Lunch with the Paschecos – More Stories From Beira

A Layne Post

There they stood in the heat of mid-day, the four of them with broad smiles across their dark faces. Surprised, we only expected Pedro to lead the way to their home, we pulled off the road and loaded the two men up front and the two girls in the back. Anaya’s thumb went in her mouth as soon as the boisterous greetings began, and Jovie sat staring intently at the new faces in front of her. While they both know Pedro, it seemed they didn’t remember.

The drive to their house was short, though very bumpy. I braced myself by sticking one arm straight above my head pressed into the ceiling while using the other hand to try to keep Jovie’s head from bouncing from left to right in whiplash fashion. Our truck’s roof rack barely cleared the previous evening’s decorations, along with a laundry line we needed to pass. Two men held the line as high as they could above their heads, barely making the path possible. We unloaded from the car, Pedro’s brother, Albino, carrying Anaya into the yard and placing her in his lap. To our amazement, no tears ensued.

The whole family was there to meet us, all thirteen of them. Hands were grasped, kisses were given, and friendships quickly bonded. We were seated beneath the colorful and festive decorations from the previous night’s New Year’s Eve celebration. There were many colored balloons hanging from strings and shiny silver wrapped around trees. To her heart’s delight, Anaya was handed a balloon to play with.

The table was set with a lace tablecloth topped with their best dishes, glasses, and silverware. There were cold Cokes and Fantas ready to serve and six beautiful red pots with colorful flowers patterned on the sides, each filled with fresh warm delicacies. Food would be plentiful.

Straw mats were placed on the dirt ground beside the table for the women and children to sit and eat. However, I was a guest of honor and, not wanting to refuse the generous offer, a woman and her kids sat down at the table with the men.

Pedro’s daughter came around with a plastic basin and a pitcher of cool water, a towel draped over her arm. We washed our hands and dried them. Lunch could begin. We ate seasoned rice harvested from their farm, crab with potatoes in a wonderful curried sauce, and curried, buttered clams.

Anaya came to sit with Dada, rice and Coke being some of her favorites. She spotted a yellow balloon overhead and desire overtook her. With no hesitation, our hosts were quick to oblige her, cutting it down and placing it in her lap. It popped seconds later. She tired quickly of the table and hopped down to do her usual exploring as we continued our meal. Jovie made eating the unshelled crab a bit of a feat for me, as she wanted to get her hands on some. I overcame, with a bit of Jon’s help when he was finished. My pregnant belly sat full and content.

Conversation went around about the family, the farm, house construction, and old friends at the hospital. At one point Pedro grabbed his phone to call a boy at the hospital. He beamed as he told him we were with him right there at his home, and then handed the phone to Jon as to verify his claims.

Anaya found a duck and climbed through the fence to get closer. Before we knew it, she was in the neighbor’s yard, cautiously chasing the fearful duck. We gave warning to only look, not touch, and made sure the neighbor would not be upset.

When lunch had come to a close, the dishes were promptly cleared and out came bowls of freshly cut pineapple and roasted cashews, also harvested from their farm. It was some of the best pineapple I’ve ever had. I had to practice some restraint not to gobble up the entire bowl.

We spent some more time with the family, me sneaking away from the men’s table to appease Jovie, supervise Anaya, and join the women on the mats below. How casual and comfortable the afternoon passed. As the girls’ nap time approached, we said our ‘goodbyes’, everyone anxious to know when our family would return to Beira. Only the Lord knows but one thing is for sure, when we arrive, we will have friends to welcome us.

Lunch Together

Lunch Together