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One Year Ago Today

A Jon Post

One year in Africa. A month in Botswana, two months in Mozambique, two months in Angola, one month in Namibia and finally, 6 more months in Mozambique. Twelve months in Africa.
And today, one year in, a painful reminder of the reason we are here.
Today, Oombi died. The three-year-old son of my good friend Albano entered the hospital 10 months ago with a cancerous tumor in his eye. Albano brought his son to the Maputo Central Hospital and lived with him, slept in the same bed, spent every long day caring for his son and waiting to take him home. He goes home on Wednesday in a casket.
We knew and loved Oombi. We visited him and his father. Over the last 6 months I’ve sat countless times with Albano, praying over his sick boy, waiting on the hand of our Lord. I’ve studied the Bible with Albano while he held his tired son in his lap. And I’ve smiled and held Oombi as he toddled over to me with a shy smile.
This is our ministry.
One year in.
We have a vision. It’s not huge for now. It’s not to reach hundreds at a time. It’s to see the one. To love the one. To bring a smile to the one.
One at a time.
Our vision is to use the house the Lord has blessed us with as a place of hope. A place of love.
We’ll call it Casa Ahava. Casa simply means house or home in Portuguese and Ahava is a Hebrew word for love. It’s used in the Song of Solomon 8:7 when speaking of a love that cannot be washed away or quenched by a torrent of water. A love that sees all the depth of suffering and pain that will come as a result of choosing to love and yet chooses anyway. Ahava sees pain and misery and chooses to love.
Casa Ahava will see pain and loneliness and offer hope and rest.
One at a time.
This is our ministry. This is our vision.
November 8, 2010
Hospital Ministry, Mozambique
5 comments

Rosina

A Layne Post

Some of you may have read about Rosina on my other blog. Rosina had a large tumor/open wound on her foot that was not improving, even with treatment. When I spoke with her a week and a half ago, she had just found out that the doctors had decided to amputate her foot and probably a bit of her leg. She was struggling to deal with the news, quite sad and overwhelmed. As I watched her face wince in pain, I tried to encourage her that perhaps the surgery would allow the constant pain to stop. Still, I left her in bed depressed.

I returned a couple days later to Rosina sitting, more wobbling, in bed. She no longer wore the cloth to cover her bald head, making her face look more gaunt than before. I sat with her in bed, trying to help support her, whole avoiding the wounds on her leg. The smell of rotting flesh has become so familiar to me. In her discomfort she tried to ask me to scratch her back. Me, not knowing the word for “scratch” in Portuguese, struggled to understand her wish. After some effort from her tired body, we figured it out, and I was able to scratch her back.

Once again I was reminded of people’s need for a companion in suffering. So many times I feel inadequate, angry that a close friend or family member cannot be there to take my place, someone who can understand them easily, someone who can naturally lay in bed with them. However, in that absence, somehow the Lord has placed me there, and in that person’s desperation they seem to cling to anyone, even a strange, foreign, white, pregnant girl.

The next time I saw Rosina she was laying in bed, unable to sit, unable to talk. In some ways I could not believe she had deteriorated so quickly, yet in other ways I was amazed that her body had somehow kept living so many hours, so many days in excruciating pain. That day was full of prayers, tears, and song, knowing her life on this earth was coming to a close. I begged the Lord in His mercy to take her quickly and to save her soul.

I was unable to return to the hospital until Friday, four days later, due to some vehicle paperwork problems. Thankfully, Rosina was from Maputo and had family in town that would visit a few hours a day. She lost her fight on Thursday; I believe her parents were present. I could not believe she had lived so long.

______________________________________________________________________________

Sometimes I feel like our ministry is slow going. It is taking time to get going, to start the project in our home, to fill up our schedules, etc.  However, in moments like I had with Rosina, I think to myself, “She was worth it. She was worth my time, your support, my living so far from my family… Rosina was worth it.”

And so I thank you. Thank you for supporting Jon and I financially, emotionally and spiritually, for being part of this ministry. Thank you for making it possible for this strange, foreign, white, pregnant girl to sit in the beds of few sick Mozambican ladies and attempt to spread the tangible love of Jesus.

November 1, 2010
Hospital Ministry, Mozambique
6 comments

Silence of God

A Jon Post

There’s a moment. I don’t really know how to describe it. It comes after a prayer, a Bible study, a tear, or a simple breaking of the soul.
It’s the silence of God.
I’ve prayed and cried with a man who holds his dying son in his arms and looks at me and asks me what he should do. He has just heard from his wife that another of his children in his distant home is in the hospital. “What should I do Jon? I can’t go home and leave my son here at the hospital, and my wife cannot watch over my other children while one is in the hospital. What should I do?”
So we pray and cry and wait.
And we’re answered by the silence of God.
See it’s easy to walk into a place of suffering with stories of overcoming obstacles, deliverance, and God’s goodness in times of trouble. But how am I supposed to look into the one good eye of a boy who is about to return home with a tumor hanging over his other eye because the one hospital in the country with chemotherapy is out of its chemotherapy treatment. What do I say to this boy of hope?
And the silence of God hangs thick and it nearly freezes the tears to our cheeks.
Andrew Peterson, a singer/songwriter said this:

There's a statue of Jesus on a monastery knoll
In the hills of Kentucky, all quiet and cold
And He's kneeling in the garden, as silent as a Stone
All His friends are sleeping and He's weeping all alone
And the man of all sorrows, he never forgot
What sorrow is carried by the hearts that he bought
So when the questions dissolve into the silence of God
The aching may remain, but the breaking does not

I think Jesus knows what the Silence of God feels like. I think He’s intimately acquainted with the torture of the soul that comes with a desperate prayer and the inky blackness that drapes over the heart in response.
I think Jesus hasn’t forgotten the sorrow that Albano, Marçelino and Rosina carry.
He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering. Like one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not.(Isaiah 53:3)
Wow… a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering.
See, I may not understand what my friends in oncology go through. I may not be able to wrap my mind around the intensity of the pain that they experience every day, hour, and ticking second in their beds.
But the man of sorrows does. He does. He’s familiar with their suffering.
What other God could I turn to than this? What other God answers sorrow and suffering, not by waving a magic wand and making us all smile and making it all go away… but by joining us in it.
Christ Jesus… the man of sorrows. He knows deeply the silence of God.

October 24, 2010
Hospital Ministry
8 comments

Joyful Farewell

Recently at the hospital it seems there have not been as many patients. I think there is currently a shortage on medication, so people are being sent home to wait until it arrives. Still, there are the few, the few that are worth our time and worth our energy.

Amigos

It isn’t often we see friends who have been in the hospital a long time go home with hope for a healthy life. This Wednesday, however, Sobú, a man from Jon’s Bible study will be released. He has lost 11months with his wife and children and his right eye to the hospital, but he has not lost his life… or his smile. Today we talked and rejoiced together with him about the fact that God has not abandoned him. How faithful is our God. While healing and health is not the only way the Lord reveals His faithfulness, it is a breath of fresh air.

We also talked about the sweet upcoming reunion with his family, the impatient waiting until Wednesday, the first meal he wants to eat, etc. While we will miss his presence at the hospital, our hearts are full of joy and hope for his future. We want to send him home covered in prayer. Will you pray with us?

  • Pray that the tumor will not return to Sobú’s eye, or anywhere else.
  • Pray the the current wound where his eye has been removed will heal completely and without infection.
  • Pray that his left eye would properly adjust, as he is currently having some trouble seeing properly, especially when reading.

We'll miss him!

Thank you for your involvement in our ministry, your involvement in Sobú’s life. Thanks for making it possible for Jon and I to be here; it is such a privilege.

The following a song we’ve recently been singing from the Passion: Awakening album. It is our heart, our mission.

King of Heaven (Isaiah 61)

Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh
King of heaven come down

We’ll sing the gospel to the poor
We’ll go to comfort those who mourn
You’ll put together what’s been torn
King of Heaven

We come together in the wave of God
We stand together in Your great compassion
Pouring out our hearts and lives
Fill us up with an expectation

We’ll sing the news of all Your grace
We’ll help the broken-hearted praise
You’ll put Your glory on display
King of Heaven

You help the broken cities rise
Out of the wreckage You’ll bring life

October 11, 2010
Hospital Ministry
5 comments
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