A Jon Post

I see you standing there in the corner of the room. I’ve been noticing you more and more these days. Yesterday, you didn’t come around until late afternoon, but I noticed you looking over my shoulder as I played the guitar.

You are welcome here, old friend.

Yes, some days I tell you to leave us alone. To wait days, months, years. Some nights your presence is unwelcome as it is unavoidable.

But today,

Old friend,

You are welcome here in this room.

I saw you peek around my arm as I changed sheets, waiting to see if he would forget.

I wondered myself.

But then he remembered and his chest rose and fell and you moved a bit further back and kept waiting.

You are welcome here, old friend.

I saw your hand resting on his leg as I lifted both and moved him to a more comfortable position (Yes, I know that you already touched that one many days ago). I did not bat it away as I would have with another friend here in my home.

Today,

You are welcome here, old friend.

He’s so tired.

Are you? Do you get tired of coming to my house? Waiting for another friend of mine to forget? Watching to see if their chests will keep heaving back against the invitation you keep offering?

Are you a good dancer?

I bet you are.

I bet that’s one of the first things most of my friends want to do when you help them stand up. Maybe that’s why people have written so many times about “dancing with…” you.

Anyway, I bet you’re a good dancer.

My friend here has tried so many times to simply put his weight on his frail bones. What I would give to know his smile when he doesn’t need to worry about that. Do my friends often smile when you help them stand? Do they often laugh when you dance?

You are welcome here, old friend.

I know, I know… I’ve not been fair in that welcome. I have been so angry with you before in how quickly you showed up at my house. Can you forgive a young fool who thinks he knows better than you? Can you do me this favor today?

Can you come help my friend stand up and dance?

Some days I rail against you and hold you responsible for your timing. But I know… I know… I know you are just waiting for him to forget. Your hands do not hold the power to help him.

You wait for the One who does hold that power.

The power of life.

And yours.

I see you standing against the wall. Is it windy where you are? It’s windy here in this room but you seem as unmoved as the wall. With these windows open, this cool, clean air is brushing past and into my friend’s tired lungs. Do you feel it like I do? Like he does? Does it bring that fresh, new feeling to you too?

I see you there almost at the foot of his bed. I don’t wonder why you won’t meet my eyes. You stare so intently at my friend. You’re closer to him today than you were yesterday. Almost holding him. Will you pick him up tonight? Will he see your eyes the way you see his?

Hello, old friend. I may not have been a good friend to you these years. I may have cursed you, avoided you, accused you, or offended you. I hope you can forgive a young fool.

Because today,

You are welcome here,

Old friend.

A Jon Post

Is this what starting a ministry is supposed to feel like? My wife and I left the United States 8 years ago (November, 2009) to come here. I still have to pinch myself and make sure I feel all of this and not slip into the daily exercise of bare minimum missions.

Each day up early to administer medicine.

Each day in the car driving to the Central Hospital to coordinate with docs, patients, blood labs, radiology departments, and others.

Each day the administrative nit picks of property ownership, non-profit registration, ministry accounting, employee taxes, and bills to pay (personal and ministry).

And none of that feeds me.

…Give us this day our daily bread…

Each day when I wake up (after administering medicine to a strictly regimented hour), I pray a prayer Jesus taught me and repeat the words He gave me;

…Give us this day our daily bread…

I pray for daily bread knowing it’s so much more than flour, water, yeast and sugar mixed and baked.

The daily bread Jesus told me to ask for must mean more than that.

Saint Teresa of Calcutta wrote often about needing bread and water from her precious Jesus. She wrote about how much she hungered for something more than flour, water, yeast and sugar.

…Give us this day our daily bread…

When I feel the “each days” start to weigh on my soul…

When I begin to succumb to bare minimum missions…

When I’d rather stare in silence at the road than engage with my patient about Jesus…

When I’d rather sit on my couch than go wash a car with an old man recovering from cancer and asking me for a bucket and soap to do it himself…

…Give us this day our daily bread…

My soul cries out to a Merciful God whose mercies rise new each day with the sunrise.

…Give us this day our daily bread…

And it is there.

Maybe not enough to gorge myself or to become overfilled with its abundance.

But enough.

Saint John of the Cross wrote about the winnowing of the soul that the Holy Spirit wills for those He loves. He talked about the plant that grows on the dry and windy mountainside being stronger and more resistant than the lush green stalks that flourish in the soft soil next to the river. When the roots of each are put to the test, the plant in the arid and harsh places with little to no sustenance is the one with the deep and strong roots.

So when His mercies are doled out sparingly, I must remember that craggy and ugly plant growing on the side of a lonely mountain.

I was never called to be beautiful or to look fresh and lush and draw eyes to myself.

I am no water lily filled to the brim with all that is needed for its decorations.

But maybe I can learn to be a short and hardy Rocky Mountain Juniper, surviving in dry places and putting roots deep enough to find the mercy of God where there seem to be only high and hard things.

Rocky Mountain Juniper

Maybe I can find my daily bread in those places.

I truly think so.