A Layne Post

“Isn’t today Monday?” she asked, a bit perplexed.

“Yes. I can’t come tomorrow, so I wanted to come today,” I explained.

I usually visit the Dermatology ward on Tuesdays, and Jon keeps Anaya at home. I knew Alice had been there a long time, but I didn’t realize how long. She had become a regular visit for me, always insisting on my prayers before I left. She is from Maputo and her husband visits near daily. While Jon and I try and focus on those without visitors, sometimes someone just catches a place in your heart, and that’s what Alice has done. The second week I visited and remembered her name, she was delighted! (I am not always so successful in this area, but I do try! In this case it helped that our  ministry partner’s name is Alice.) She is usually full of optimism, but I’ve watched the expression on her face change as time has passed.  Yesterday when I asked her if she would be completing two months there, she scoffed, “Two months? No! This will be five months!”

Five months.

She has watched every other patient in the ward come and go. Sometimes she has someone in the room with her, sometimes there are weeks she is alone. Some 20 plus hours, alone.

The hospital is slowly renovating their wards, but unfortunately, they haven’t made it to Dermatology, which is in dire need. I want to respect the hospital, so I will not describe all that I see, but the conditions are not nice, especially for living there five months.

I laid in bed last night praying for Alice, thinking that I just cannot imagine being in her place. I tried and I just can’t. I have been a bit sulky about my husband taking an upcoming trip, about the weather, about some minor health nuisances that have come with this pregnancy, but last night those things seemed so trivial, so “doable”. And I was encouraged.

So maybe this week there are some things that have got you down, that seem like a lot, that seem hard to handle or perhaps just a nuisance, and maybe you can remember Alice. Maybe it will encourage you, like it did me.

A Jon Post

I had surgery on my left shoulder a few years back. I remember waking up in agony, begging for a drug to numb the pain. I remember the slightest tremor in my wide, soft hospital bed sending knives through my left arm, shoulder, neck, and chest.

I remember the state-of-the-art morphine drip seemingly doing nothing.

I remember trying to sleep… sleep was by far the worst of it all. Awake after, at most, an hour of sleep  because of an uncontrollable quiver of my arm ripping at perfectly placed stitches. Awake after another hour because rolling slightly on the high quality mattress I slept on caused my shoulder to erupt in agony.

I remember trying to sleep… trying… for a month.

So when 16-year-old Antonio went into surgery this week for a tumor on his neck/shoulder,

I remembered…

On Tuesday his surgery went well, his daily text message informed me. On Wednesday morning his message seemed to indicate he was doing well.

Later that afternoon when I walked into the room he shares with 7 others in the surgery recovery ward I could see the toll it took on him to simply roll to his side so he could face me on his twin bed.

“How are you friend?” I asked, hopeful.

“Not great Uncle Jon.” came the reply, “It’s hard to sleep.”

I remembered…

And looking at his little bed that he shares with his faithfully attending dad I knew…

My memories are nothing compared to this.

Antonio’s weary eyes glanced up at me as I told him I wanted to pray for his rest. His lips tugged at a smile but even that effort seemed overwhelming for him.

Antonio’s smiling father walked in with some cookies he’d scrounged up for his son.

“Matakatira! (Good afternoon!)” he greeted me in his language, Mandão.

“Good afternoon friend! Are you well?” My broken barely coherent Mandão returned.

His eyes glanced over his son and I saw the worry there.

“I am well,” he replied, “but my son is not.”

He rattled off a new Mandão phrase that I didn’t understand yet and I smiled and reaffirmed my gratitude for his effort in teaching me his language.

“I was just about to pray for Antonio. Would you join me?” I asked.

A smile and a “Yes” later, our hearts heavy and our heads bowed, we prayed for rest.

And my words and groans joined with Antonio’s and his dad’s as we expressed how eagerly we wait for the redemption of our bodies.

And  because my words fail even now as I write this, I pleaded with The Spirit to groan with me and for Antonio’s rest.

For now, Antonio’s unredeemed body needs rest.