Last night I gave a glance out my kitchen window before it was time to lock up for the night. Gates closed. Silence. My heart sank a little, and I went about the nightly routine. As of yesterday afternoon, we officially have no patients. My home feels strange with just my immediate family here… empty. Even Pedro will stay home this week and rest with his family before moving into our home for the next while. We leave for America in one week.

We were able to arrange for all of our patients to go to their homes while we are gone, except one. My dear Loice had to be admitted to the hospital again. The plan was for her and I to go to church and then I’d drop her off the hospital. Beds are hard to secure there, especially on week days, so the head nurse advised that Sunday was the best day to guarantee she had a space. All morning I could tell she was dragging her feet. Honestly, I was too. Just the night before she had asked me, “Are you sure they won’t have a bed later in the week?” My heart broke a little as I explained that we just have to do what the nurses have told us. I assured her I hated this. I told her this is the hardest part of this trip. I reminded her of all the people here I have begged to visit and care for her while we are gone. Then I told her goodnight.

She put her two small bags in the car. I kept sizing them up. Not nearly enough for three months of living, but the hospital doesn’t allow you much. She had to leave the rest with us. My heart broke a little more. I tried to keep the conversation light on the way to church, chatting about our family and what we are going to do in the States. We chatted some about her kids. Finally, we pulled into church, late from dragging our feet, and both hoping the pastor would speak a little extra. He did.

The distance from church to the hospital is short. Too short. I used those minutes to tell her the things the Lord had ministered to my heart during church. I assured her that if I am so worried about her, that I know God is even more concerned. I reminded her how God’s ways are often opposite of what we expect. Because of the that, I am praying and believing that while we expect her to suffer more in the hospital, that God will do the exact opposite, that she will experience His presence and blessing more there than at our house. (Will you pray that too?) She agreed in word and confessed that with God nothing is impossible. I reminded my soul that it is truth.

We turned into the entrance and she gave a little laugh and said, “We already here!” My heart sunk, but I laughed instead. I turned off the car, and grabbed one of her bags and headed up the dreaded stairs, pretending to happily greet people as I went. Cama 18. As we walked the corridor, smelled the bathrooms, saw the rooms full of sickness and metal, I could feel the tears rising. I willed them to stop and made it to her room. What a dreary place. All gray and metal with white sheets. It is a hospital, Layne, what do you expect? My ministry now is from my home and it has been a long time since I’ve been in those hospital rooms. Jon is the one that goes to the hospital. I’d forgotten.

I didn’t want to say “Tchiau”. I hugged her. An American hug, not cheek kissing as is normal here. I squeezed her. I told her I wasn’t going to cry. I told her I’d come visit this week.

I got in the car, shut the door, and I sobbed. My heart broke the rest of the way. I have spent years working to take people out of that hospital and I just dropped someone off to stay. What a horrible feeling.

Dear God, do what only you can do. Do the of opposite what we expect. Be GOD. Draw near to my dear sister. Bless her. Overwhelm her. Take care of her.

Also, our sweet Mariana, home with her family while we are stateside, is struggling with pain management. We are attempting to give advice and adjustments from here, but would you pray that she would be able to experience some comfort and rest and be able to enjoy her family while home? This is weighing heavy on our hearts.

Prayer points for our upcoming trip:

• That our children will fully recover from their recent illness, including their current congestion and coughs
• That the actual travel will be uneventful and that we would be filled with the Holy Spirit and the fruit that results
• That the Lord would be merciful as our family adjusts to jet lag
• That our immune systems would stay strong and that the Lord would protect us from American illnesses that our bodies are not protected against
• That the Lord would supernaturally care for my children’s emotions and souls as this is such a big long transition and that Jon and I will have wisdom in tending to their needs

We love you all and are so anxious to hug so many of your necks so very soon!

I stood on the roof rack of my Toyota Landcruiser, cautiously eyeing the grey sky but wanting to get the corrugated sheeting on the roof of my kids’ playhouse. It was a project that had eluded being finished for far too long and I finally had a no-commitment morning to try to slap those things on the makeshift roof frame I’d made for the makeshift playhouse.

I slid three sheets off and stood them up leaning on the side of The Bison (the name my younger brother, Paul, lovingly gave my Landcruiser), and reached down for another three. They are heavy and unwieldy when stacked together so I didn’t want to move all at once for fear of their weight taking over and bringing me off the top of the truck with them.

Torres ambled over, anxious to feel useful and anxious to avoid Jon’s inevitable tumble and resulting hospitalization. He quietly gripped the three metal sheets already down and hefted them up and began walking them over to where I’d designated. I paused and watched him as he made his way to a nonspecific patch of my lawn about 10 meters away. He swayed and almost stumbled then set them down.

Torres was a metalworker/welder before Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and its treatment became his every day pattern. Instead of hoisting a welding machine and metal grinder onto his strong back and walking to a client’s location every day, he now wakes every day to body aches, low energy levels, and dizziness. Instead of feeling resilient and capable, he deals with fragility and forgetfulness. Where once he would have picked up six sheets of 3 meter long corrugated metal, laughing at my caution to “be careful” he sways and stumbles as he carries half the load a few short meters.

Still, without a complaint he smiled at me and said, “Today, we will work together!” even as pain and weariness tried to convince him that was not possible.

He is a metalworker after all.

After we had stacked all the heavy sheets of corrugated metal together, lined all the ends up and clamped them down so that one cut can create 9 even pieces of roofing, the rain began. It was light and felt refreshing on our shoulders so we continued working together. The metal grinder with its cutting wheel began its journey across the roofing and Torres’s welder-scarred hands held steady with no fear of the sparks and shards of molten metal pin wheeling through the air and threatening to create more scars.

The rain grew heavier.

We both glanced up at the rain and decided it was probably not good for the tools if we continued to get them wet so agreed it was best to pause and wait for it to let up.

I could see a bit of relief in Torres’s face.

He needs frequent breaks now.

Sometimes it’s nice to work a bit in the rain, stretching aching muscles, being reminded of a youth without the weariness we feel now.

Sometimes we need to pause and wait for it to let up.

It feels like we’ve been working in the rain a lot lately. Sometimes it comes in torrential downpours, sometimes it slow drizzles. Our dear Isabel passed away and brought the torrent. Our dear Mariana is living through the steady deluge of advancing pain, cancer, despair, and loss. Precious Loice, just 27 years old and mother to three young children, lives through metastasis, prolonged time away from her children, and the frustration of a slow system that may not know how to treat her aggressive sickness. Torres’s relapsed lymphoma brought a deluge when he came back to Casa Ahava two months ago and it has continued to pour as his body has weakened and succumbed to his cancer’s slow advance.

It’s been raining a lot here.

Please pray that, while Mariana, Loice, and Torres do their best to wait for a break from the rain, the One who gives strength to the weary, is merciful. Join us in praying that the rain lets up while accepting that the storm may only be building.

Your prayers matter.

Some days the weight of reality, of new lumps, of biopsies, of extra treatments, of extra symptoms… it just all feels so dark, so hopeless.

But some days… some days are for forgetting.

For laughing.

For running.

For finding our inner child.

For joy.

For light.

So thankful for this gift of a day. The Lord is gracious.

Have you ever watched a mother in labor? Have you watched her breathe through immense pain, strain muscles to prepare for the anguish of what she is about to do, and then put her head down and begin the hard and holy work of enduring what the curse of sin requires of her?

Have you ever watched a child look up a cliff face? Have you watched that child stare in wonder at the waterfall that comes down from above, marvel at the rainbow refracted off the mist in the air, then put her head down and begin the hard and holy work of climbing the cliff face, reflecting that mystery of the eternal that the Father placed in each of us to see what’s at the top?

Have you ever watched an old widow die of cancer? Watched her body fail her, her flesh begin to wilt, her pain rise above what is tolerable or humane, then see her put her head down and begin the hard and holy work of enduring what the sting of death gives, but also part of the mystery of the eternal which says to climb this hard thing and get to the top?

When that mother holds her newborn baby in her arms, the pain is not gone. Her body still trembles from its laborsong and Eve’s curse still lingers for days over that mother’s recovering body. The pain of childbirth is not relieved by simple birth.

When that child reaches the top of that cliff and looks over the edge, the torrent of water still rushing over the edge singing its hymn of creation. The waterfall doesn’t abate, doesn’t slow, doesn’t offer safety when viewed from the top, the child simply stands at the edge of dangerous places and witnesses the beauty of the difficult.

And when the old widow finally closes her eyes for the last time, maybe… just maybe… like the beauty of the birth is made sweeter by the travails of the labor, the widow’s entrance into a new home is made sweeter by the cliff face climbed through pain. Maybe, though the pain still roars by like the waterfall over the escarpment, the widow’s climb can be seen as beautiful.

There are hard and holy things that I do not understand.

Last week Isabel lay panting on our floor looking at me. Her abdominal pain excruciating and demanding. “This is suffering” she said through tears. “This hurts” she said again, as she reached for another handhold up the cliff. For a moment, through the mist created by her waterfall of pain I glimpsed the spiritual light behind it creating a riot of color and beauty.

“I see” I responded. “I see your pain.” I told her as she rolled onto her side hoping for relief.

Isabel still lives in pain here at Casa Ahavá. Her climb is not yet over, and the waterfall still rages over and through her.

But she is near the top.

And I believe the view from there is one of the things that you cannot see and live.

Please pray that we support her well in her climb and that what little strength we can lend her is enough.