A Layne Post

Driving to the hospital I knew I would need to manage my time a bit. I would have an hour an a half, and many times I get so caught up chatting with the ladies on the veranda I never make it inside. There were three specific people I wanted to to see. On the list was a young girl, maybe ten years old, whose tumor has gone from bad to worse. As I drove I imagined conversations in my head, ways I’d like to encourage her and perhaps calm some of her fears, knowing her time on this earth is short.

I arrived, ready to minister.

I walk into the room and in shame she turns sides as I sit, shutting her eyes, covering her face. The skin is taught beyond what seems possible, making her creamy mocha cheek appear translucent. Blood vessels bulge beneath the paper thin covering, while some have burst leaving red specks of blood beneath the skin. Beads of sweat run together, her forehead drenched from the fever. I run my hand over her hairline. She is not up for talking.

Her grandmother sits on the bed with her, legs straight out. A tired smile crosses her face in greeting. She does not speak Portuguese, and I do not speak her language.

I communicate a little through another mother close by, though she does not seem eager to play the role of translator. Ministry is difficult like this. I feel a bit helpless, unable to connect in any meaningful way.

With permission, I pray and then leave, a little dissatisfied. That was not how I imagined it.

Pray for Nelsa. Pray for the Holy Spirit to connect with her, to reveal Himself to her. Pray for an eternity in heaven for her, for her to be healed and her sins forgiven.

A Layne Post

There we sat under the shade of a large tree. It still astonishes me the reprieve shade can bring amidst the hottest of days. The grass poked my legs, and I kept shifting to keep comfortable. There she sat with a small piece of cardboard beneath her, crutches to her side.

She asked about my daughter, forgetting her exact name. I reminded her with a smile, “Anaya. Her name is Anaya.” We chatted about Anaya’s energy and desire to explore, how quickly she has grown. My easy next question: Do you have children? She responded, “I had two.” She went on to explain how she lost her first when he was 8 months old. “Was it malaria?” I asked. She paused a second before responding, “Yes. Yes, it was malaria.” (Perhaps she didn’t really know, perhaps I put words into her mouth. One day I’ll get better at asking questions.) Her second son is still living, but he’s grown now.

“The time for suffering has come,” she said resolutely. She told me how she had lived a very healthy life, never spending time at the hospital. Now when people call for her she must tell them, “I am still at the hospital.”

At home, in the northern province of Tete, she had fallen sick. She had become very weak, even her eyesight was close to gone. She left her entire family and all she knew, and upon arriving at the hospital here in the capital city, she was diagnosed with cancer. The doctors promptly decided that she needed to have her leg amputated, and the surgery was done.

Without much change of emotion she went on to explain that since leaving her home to come to the hospital for treatment, her husband had taken another wife and moved her into their home. She wasn’t sure what would happen when she went back.

Stunned.

You see, I know this is not terribly uncommon, and in many circles  here in Mozambique it is not really considered wrong. But here I was looking at this woman as she told told me her story. I just can’t get my head around it, really, I can’t. There was not anger in her voice. There were no tears that fell as she reported the semi-recent news. This is just life, and life is difficult.

I thought about how I would respond to it all… cancer, losing a leg, husband taking another wife. I think I would want to lay down a die. I think I would be swallowed up in my own tears unable to move. I would have little strength, if any, to keep fighting this cancer, to endure Chemo, to want life. I didn’t say much right then, besides, “That is difficult. I am sorry.”

Here she sat in front of me, no left leg, but body and eyes strong, seemingly full of health. I marveled at the recovery, and we went on to praise God for her life. I encouraged her that the Lord still had plans for her, that he had spared her for a reason. I told her about the strength I saw in her, not only physical, but spiritual as well. She has found a deep hope, a reason to live, a reason to fight.

She lightly laughed about how she fell in the bathroom the other day.  She told me how her arms get tired from her crutches, and she has to get pain medication for that. Does that stop her? No. She was sitting out front, downstairs, on a piece of cardboard, under the shade of a large tree.