A Layne Post

I’d like to introduce you to Carlotta.

Carlotta is a friend of mine, an albino woman in the Oncology ward. I’ve visited with her for months, giving her a special place in my heart. She currently has a tumor coming out of her eye, which causes a lot of pain all day, every day. She is a young mom to a precious little girl, Bernacia, her pride and joy. Because Carlotta comes from the north, the time she spends in the hospital is time away from her quickly growing daughter.

Last month she was able to make a quick trip home between treatments, which was such a blessing. She didn’t have a cell phone, so it was her first contact with Bernacia in months. Being so young, Bernacia didn’t understand the large bandage on her mommy’s eye and continued to ask her to remove it. Now Carlotta has a phone, so she may get to check on her daughter every once and a while.

I always wonder if mommies will come back to finish their treatment after returning home. How hard it must be to leave, not only once, but twice, this time knowing how horrific the hospital is.

Carlotta returned last week.

She seems weaker. Thinner. Oh, she is so thin. Her pain seems stronger now… like it is spreading into the left side of her brain. Her body twitches from the knife like pain every few minutes. All I know to do is sit next to her and pray.

Carlotta had some money to buy juice, but she explained that she cannot walk to the store to get it. That was something I could do. I could walk just fine. Marcelino, a dear boy from Oncology, who was currently not on treatment, walked with me and showed me where I could get the juice. (I would have been so lost without him!)

Arriving back at the hospital, Carlotta was so grateful and quickly wanted to sip on her cold orange juice. I think I would have chugged it, but she drank a little and had to stop. A few minutes later I helped her as she vomited in her hospital alloted bucket.

If you can remember, pray for Carlotta this week; she seems to be struggling more.

A Jon Post

I spent the afternoon with a little boy in my lap, talking, laughing, holding… while poison dripped into his veins. He started day 1 of 5 of chemotherapy today. Little Tomé and his brave little smile.
Every time I come to the hospital Tomé comes running. He’s 10 years old and has lived at the hospital for 6 months now.
Alone.
His father dropped him off at the hospital 6 months ago with incredible pain in his stomach. He later had a cancerous tumor removed from his abdomen and has been doing 5 day chemo treatments on three week intervals ever since.
Alone.
He hasn’t seen his father or mother the entire time.
This post was actually supposed to be about the riots and civil unrest in the city of Maputo over the past week. Layne and I ended up stuck in our house while we waited for the violence that swept through the city to calm down. We weren’t able to go visit our friends at the hospital or even see if they were okay there. The hospital is right in the middle of city and was surrounded by rioters.
I was going to go on and on about the country of Mozambique and what would incite people to burn cars in the streets and bring the city to a stand-still.
But today I spent the afternoon with a little boy in my lap. A little boy usually a bundle of energy and looking for someone to hold him, someone to whom he can belong, someone to call him… mine. Usually Layne and I are called “Tio Jon and Tia Elayna”. Uncle Jon and Aunt Layne. But today, while little Tomé sat in my lap, a woman walked by, saw us, smiled and said “Tomé has been asking for his daddy. I’m glad you came. Tomé has been asking for you.”
I don’t think I’ve earned such a reverent title in Tomé’s life. I think he’s just desperate for someone to whom he can belong. And I’m glad he feels safe enough with me for that to be true of Layne and me.
This is the vision. This is it. We just want to do it in our own home. We want to look after the orphan in his distress. We want to visit the sick. We see Jesus there. Sitting in a hospital bed, arm swollen from countless IV chemo treatments, a piece of gauze taped over a painful sore, with a broad smile on His face.

Thanks friends and family and supporters. Tomé has a family because you keep us here. His broad smile is worth our time.

Thanks.

A Picture of Tomé on my Camera Phone