A Jon Post

Grief is not a disease from which I recover, it is not something that I hope has a cure, it is nothing to which I will ever seek a vaccine.

This week Lurde died at home with her family. She lived in mine and with mine for a full year and we grew to know much of what was beautiful and much of what was not in her.

Just like a family should.

Lurde loved deeply at times, selfishly at times, lazily at times, and lavishly at times. She ate too much and laughed more than her fair share. She didn’t clean up after herself much and she always ensured that I knew that she cared about how my family and I were feeling. She went out of her way to ask how rested we felt each day.

Now she is gone. Now we grieve.

I’ve learned something in the eleven years I’ve been privileged to spend with the sick and dying in Mozambique: Grief itself can be a ritual.

No, I do not mean grief rituals; things like funerals, wakes, gathering in remembrance, nightly prayers, etc. I mean grieving on purpose as a ritual.

I wake up each morning and sit in the still of the darkness before the sunrise. I practice breathing, I practice praying, and I practice grieving, then I come inside and have a cup of coffee.

Breath, prayer, grief, coffee. These are my morning rituals. I do not pretend that they are the best morning rituals nor that I am any good at them but they seem to do their job of keeping in in touch with the my Father, with the living, and with the dead.

I stay connected to Lurde, to Luisa, to Mariana, to Loice, to Torres, to Manejo, to Teresa, to Justino, to Maeza, to Augusto… the ones I love and grieve from this last year. There are many more names on that list from the years prior. If I do not make my grief my own, I think my grief would own me.

So I practice a simple ritual. I breathe. I pray. I grieve. And I have a cup of coffee.  

P.S.

It feels remiss to post this without mentioning the state of the world and this virus. I can’t help but notice how I feel that much of the reaction I see en masse among those I know and those I don’t bears a striking resemblance to grief.

Questions like, “what if we had locked down sooner?” “What if we had closed this border or that?” “What if it’s not that bad?” “What if this is all for nothing?” “What if someone else was leading?”

All seem so similar to questions like, “What if he hadn’t gotten in the car that day?” “What if she hadn’t smoked for all those years?” “What if we had gotten a screening for the disease sooner?” “What if I had just called her and told her how I felt?” “What if things had been different . . . would he/she/they still be dead?”

These are not questions that lead to answers and, it seems to me, they are questions spurred by grieving without knowing it. Oh, how I wish we could learn to see and know our grief.  

One time, a man looking at his own coming death, called his closest loved ones and asked them to join him in a garden. “Stay here and keep watch with me” he said and fell on his face on the ground and grieved before a Holy Father. I like to think of that man as the one in whose steps I am trying to walk. Maybe at least I can stay here and keep watch over the dying and grieve with them when they ask it of me.

In 2019 you did a great thing. These are the 2019 patients we loved and grieved with you and the help of our loving Savior, who has now redeemed all the tears and suffering endured and made their bodies new. We are grateful that all but one was able to make it home to spend some time with their loved ones before passing to the next life.

And here are the 2019 patients that stayed at Casa Ahavá, which we are still loving on, some at our home and some now back at their homes in the north. I wish you could know them personally and that they could bring as much joy to you as they do us. It is because of your partnership we get to offer a home and family to these precious souls at one of the hardest times of their lives. We are so very grateful, and so are they.

In 2019 Jesus carried us through some lows. He gave us strength when we were weary. He also lavished on us His generous blessings and gave us glimpses of His kingdom here on earth. We had a super busy start/mid year with up to 13 patients, 5 wounds at once and 7 patients on morphine. The patients then slowed down to about 4, and we caught our breath. We crept back up and now we are 5 ladies with a handful ready for us after the holiday. We are excited for the new year!

This year my girls blew me away with their growth, education, and maturity. They have put in the work and excelled in school and their extracurriculars. They started chores this year, and they have become such helpers in the house. They do it all with a smile… all except maybe the dog poops, but I’m not sure I even do that with a smile! They love playing outside, having friends over, and coming up with extravagant games.

Jon just wrapped up his first year into his master’s degree in thanatology and has been acing it. (Are we surprised?) The content has been relevant and applicable to our ministry and we are excited for future potential. He especially connected with some professors, which has been a personal encouragement.

I am about three quarters through my master’s degree in palliative care and will finish in July! It has been a rich time of learning and connecting with other professionals, but I will also be happy to end this phase of study and have the time to put into practice some of the gems learned.

Our family is taking off on a two week journey today. We have long wanted to take to our girls to Botswana, where Jon and I met and where our careers in missions really started. So! Here we go! We will be going to from South Africa with dear friends to Botswana, to Zimbabwe to visit Victoria Falls, back to Botswana to reconnect in two different cities with friends we haven’t seen in close to 10 years, and then back to South Africa to let the girls go to a waterpark, and then home! It will be a total of about 45 hours in the car. Pray for safety and patience and the Holy Spirit to go with us!

In the meantime, Pedro, our loved colleague will be staying at our home and holding down the fort. We are so thankful for him!

Here is to 2020! And more blogging! Happy New Year!

We came home from furlough into a whirlwind of challenges, pain, and grief. It wrapped us up and nearly blinded us to its effects. Only stumbling out the other side and reflecting, we realized that since coming home in February, we have lost five friends. Thankfully, each of these made it home to their families before their deaths, something we count as grace. We have also delivered the terminal diagnosis to another three and sent them to their homes to spend their last days with family. As we wait, we still carry them in our hearts. No wonder it has felt heavy.

We had a season with every bed full and not just full, full of patients with intense suffering. It is true that every patient with cancer suffers, however, sometimes the stages of our patients’ sickness are different, and those stages and the number of patients determine the atmosphere around here. It was a hard season. The morphine and wounds kept us tethered to the affliction of those we were trying to love, demanding our attention, our compassion. Really, we’d have it no other way. It is why we chose this… or better said, were chosen for this. When we stop breaking with those around us, it would be time to quit. It is Christ alone that carries us, enables us, humbly uses us. Your prayers have meant so much.

Even still, I feel like we are just beginning to catch our breath and beginning to feel the atmosphere changing. We have let the number of patients dwindle a bit, as we currently have 8 patients and a couple of those soon to be going to their homes. In reality, the hospital does not have patients to send to us right now and that feels like God’s blessing on our season of slowing… recovering.

Our girls are growing and thriving. It is such a wonder to behold such intense joyful moments of life alongside such pain. What a gift these four daughters of mine are, not just to me, but to the Casa Ahavá community.

We cherish your support and love for us and for our patients. Here are some current pictures

Maeza

Augusto

Moises

Lurde

Luisa

Madelena

Olinda

Heller girls

How is it possible that we’ve been home over six weeks? I am sorry for the silence. Here is an update!

When we arrived home, it was only a few days later that Loice and her Mama came to our house. Many of you heard me talk about Loice and urge you to pray for her. The Holy Spirit was so tender and sweet and spoke to Loice and her mom while they were at our home. It was only about a week later, with peace in their hearts, they made the journey home so that Loice could have some time with her three girls. Please continue to pray for my dear friend, as the days are not easy. May God’s mercy keep pain at bay and may many memories be made.

Such a gift to get a picture of these two together.

This Mama right here is gold. She cares so well for her girl.

Once Loice and her Mama were gone, our house began to fill up with new and former patients. Meet our newest family:

Luisa, mother of 10 and grandmother to many!

Rosa, back with us from last year. Joyful and God fearing.

Maria, mom to one 5 year old girl. Young and full of ambition.

Lurdes, Mom of two teens. Full of spunk and always ready to chat!

Torres, back from last year. A grandpa figure here at our home. Well loved.

Maeza, full of energy. Dad of 3. Ready to work. Loves the Lord and prayer.

I am missing a photo of our last patient Manejo, but he hasn’t been feeling well. I told him we’d wait. We also have a new man coming Monday, which will put us at 8 patients. And towards the end of the month we also will welcome back two men during their short stay for what we call “control”… a check-up! That will be our first time with 6 men! It is so nice to have a lively community out back.

Big thank you to Dr. John Singer, who so generously organized and donated some wigs for our patients! What joy and fun it brought them in the midst of sickness and sorrow.

As for our family we are doing well. The girls spent hours outside the first day we got home. They are enjoying climbing trees, building things with their tools, dressing up the cat, and other things kids do. They have slipped back into schooling without much trouble. They are extra busy these days as we have added Portuguese class three times a week at a nearby school! Time to buckle down and learn the language. They are enjoying it, but it does have this Mama running around more than she is used to. They also have ballet and swimming, which makes for going to “school” everyday!

We are so very thankful for your love and support.

Prayer points:

Loice and her mom taking care of her. Her 3 daughters.

Rosa and Manejo’s pain.

Maria to gain some strength after her last cycle.

Our community to bond. And for people to not feel lonely.

My girls acquisition of Portuguese.

A Jon Post

It has been 45 days since I’ve lived with the dying. 45 days ago I drove away from the dying and entered once again the homes and communities of the living.

While it’s been comfortable, joyful, loving, and restful to be with the living, I still miss the dying.

I have spent 45 days thinking and praying over the dying I left there. My friend and brother Torres, whose lymphoma darkens his veins and thoughts but not his spirit. My daughter and precious Loice, whose advancing breast cancer throws its tendrils from corner to corner of her tired and young body while she hopes for more time with her young children. My sister and cherished Mariana, whose metastatic breast cancer sears her with pain and weariness while she boldly looks at the difficulty of her coming days. Rosa, Eugênio, Armîndo, Joana, Custódio, and so many others dying or with whom I witnessed death…

All of them left the land of the living and welcomed me into theirs.

I’ve come to revere and love the company of the dying. I’ve come to appreciate that, though most of us would rather not, we will all be a part of adding to it one day.

 Most of us are afraid of that day. Most of us are afraid of being one of the dying.

Why is that? Why are we so afraid of dying?

When I say dying I do not mean the moment your heart stops, when brain activity ceases, when cardio-pulmonary activity has not been detected for however many minutes the doctor in the room deems necessary to declare a time.

I mean dying as an active verb. I mean dying instead of living. No one I have ever met has been afraid of being one of the living. Not that I’ve known of, anyway. Nearly everyone I’ve met, however, is afraid of being one of the dying. We are afraid of that time, be it years or days, in which we go from living our lives to dying our deaths. In fact, I believe most of us pursue every medical option possible, no matter how painful, how detrimental to relationship, no matter how much it ruins our ability to be wise, caring, loving or faithful, in order to stay in the land of the living.

Maybe, and I’m not sure on this, but maybe there comes a time for each of us where entering the land of the dying is the wisest, most loving, and most faithful thing we can do.

Christ seemed to think so.

His last week before his death seems to have been in the land of the dying, no matter how much his friends and disciples wanted him to remain in the land of the living. Maybe even more than a week. When he knew his death was coming, he spoke freely and often to his friends and disciples about it. He prepared them for it and, in the context of the coming of His own suffering and death, prepared them for theirs.

Through shortness of breath I have heard deep truths and seen profound wisdom. Through the lips and hands of the dying, I have begun to understand how to prepare for my own. By the example and encouragement of the dying, I have learned a deeper peace in Christ than I have ever known.

If you know someone who is dying, do not go to them in pity or thinking that you offer some great sacrifice by visiting them or seeing them. Go to the dying and try to learn from them what Christ tried to teach his disciples. Try to learn how to suffer well. Try to learn how to hope for home. Try to learn and be sustained by the dying, rather than offer sustenance or gifts of your own.

If you are one of the dying, know that I love you and wish I could learn from you. Please take this time that you are dying, the only one you’ll ever have, and teach it to those of us who are not in it yet. Help sustain the rest of us, who badly need sustenance, with your wisdom given to you in your dying. Please show us how to transition from living your life to dying your death and doing that in a way that knows Christ and the fellowship of His sufferings.