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.

A Jon Post

I met Zeka and his son Christino back in September. They arrived in the hospital here in Maputo after spending 3 months in the hospital in a city called Beira. Zeka has a small stature and his son reflects that too. At 7 years old Christino was the size of most 4 year olds. A quick smile, an easy demeanor and his soft-spoken humility mark Zeka in a crowd.

When they arrived, Christino’s condition was grave. The tumor that had grown from his eye was very large and wept fluid profusely, dehydrating Christino’s little body quickly. It was clear from the beginning that the likelihood of his recovery was remote.

After two chemo treatments over 6 weeks the tumor reduced dramatically and Christino was able to get up out of bed and interact with the other children in the ward. Zeka and I celebrated together and praised God for His mercy.

Once, while playing checkers with friends outside, Zeka sat nearby watching and cheering my failing efforts to compete with my opponent. Layne came seeking me out with Anaya on her hip asking me to watch our daughter so Layne could serve a lady who needed more attention than Anaya was willing to share. Zeka reached out and offered to hold her while I finished the game. At first, Anaya wrinkled her little nose, pushed her little arms out and made it clear that she wanted to stay with MOMMY. Zeka, unconcerned, held her in his arms and swung her around so she couldn’t see Layne while he cooed and showed her the leaves of a nearby tree. Anaya was enraptured. Zeka’s comfort and ease with our daughter gave us such joy and the encouragement we needed that Anaya was not a burden to the patients.

We left Mozambique to return to the USA for 3 months, ensuring friends we would be back in January. Christino’s treatment schedule was to finish in February so Zeka assured us we would all see each other when we got back.

Our furlough came and went, we returned in January and Zeka’s name was on the top of my list to see soon. I had heard from our friend and partner Alice, who was here while we left, that Christino’s tumor had gone down even more since we had left.

I walked in to Zeka’s room and saw Christino.

“Wait…” my heart cried, “Why is his tumor as big as it was when they arrived?”

A new tumor, near the first, but not in the same place had sprouted up in the past few days and grown at a terrifying rate. Zeka related the doctor’s plan which was to remove part of the tumor with surgery and give him 6 more months of chemo but I could see the fear in his eyes as he told me. His son… his oldest son… lay there dying and he could do nothing.

Two days later I got a phone call from Alice. She was at the hospital with Zeka and they had bad news. The doctors had discharged Christino. There was nothing more to be done. He needed to go home.

To die.

I rushed to the hospital. When I walked into Zeka’s room the grief hung palpable in the air. We all knew what was happening. Christino labored to breath through a tumor-compressed airway and I stood there stupidly with no words and less confidence.

“I don’t have words Zeka” I said… dumbly.

“That’s ok Jon. There are no words.” Zeka replied.

I couldn’t tell which crushed me more. The courage in his words or the fear in them.

Over the next two weeks and a half I pleaded with the Lord to give me wisdom in how best to love Zeka and Christino as they waited for the hospital to arrange a plane ticket for them to get home.

Every day I saw them I sat silently by Christino and prayed earnest, searching prayers. Casting all my cares on Christ, and doing my best to help Zeka do the same.

Just before the news came through that they finally had received their plane ticket, I asked Zeka to tell me about Christino before they came to the hospital.

I’m not sure whom Zeka’s smile relieved more, him or me.

He spoke of Christino’s love for school, math particularly, his joy when working in the family farm, and his mother’s smile when she gave birth to their firstborn.

It was a short story, Christino was only 6 when he was admitted to the hospital, but it left me breathless with the mystery and beauty of my God’s creation. Even a 7-year-old life still weaves into this creation story and reflects the glory and splendor of God.

And though Christino will not see his 8^th year, I’m glad God gave him the first 7.

And though Zeka says goodbye to his oldest son now, though tears usher him into his departure, his well-formed eyes, cheeks, nose, and smile await us on the other side of this dirty glass.

Goodbye Christino.

Go fly!

A Layne Post

Since returning to Mozambique with my precious little 11 month old, who now walks,  I have been faced with a bit of a dilemma. Everyone still loves seeing her at the hospital, and they marvel with us at how quickly she has grown; they would be upset if she did not come with us… she is afterall, the “Bebê de Oncologia.”

On the other hand, this Mommy, who would like to sit and hold hands and pray with sick ladies, needs to be chasing her ever curious little one, who prefers to go up and down the step to the veranda or roam the hall with the fun pictures up on the wall. It has been difficult to have even a single meaningful conversation. Driving home on Friday I found myself in tears. I honestly feel as though we are between stages with Anaya, and soon she will understand when I tell her she has to sit in Mommy’s lap and read for a bit and then we’ll play outside. But, we’re not there yet.

Jon and I have agreed that on the two days Anaya comes with us, he can take over for a portion of our time, allowing me to connect purposefully. I have to remember, that Anaya’s face and presence in and of itself is a ministry and a blessing to patients. And, as I knew and committed to from the day Anaya was conceived, she is my priority and #1 ministry.

Pray for me, for us, to have wisdom in our decisions and in our ministry, as we desire the patients to feel most loved.