Category: Hospital Ministry

A Jon Post

It’s been hard recently. The number of people coming in on legs or in wheel chairs and leaving under a blanket has been higher than usual. I have known some well, others I have met only once or twice, and there are even some few who I don’t have the privilege of knowing before I hear “Another one died last night”.

I have been pondering our ministry and our reasons for what we do over the last few days and our mission to speak and find the “Voices of the World”. I wrote down some thoughts tonight as I was thinking about those voices. There are very many.

Here in this dark place
Where death reigns and corrupted flesh fouls the air
Here in this dreary room
Where poison drips drips drips through plastic tubes and needles
Here in a lonely bed
A heart still beats slowly slowly slowly unrested since the day it was born

I have a name 

Faces and tears and hands are easy to imagine, easy to pity and easy to forget.
Broken bodies and stained bed sheets pull prayers like shoulders from their sockets
But names slip in and out of memory faster than the prayers stop 

I have a name

A person lies here. A person who grew up far from this bed. A person who learned to live and play and love and walk and dance and curse and work and sing and offer grace and hurt people and trust people and run away and stand and fight.
A person lies here still.
Though eyes loll back and lips mutter meaningless words and muscles spasm…
A person lies here still.

I have a name

Born so many years ago and named by laughing and smiling parents.
From infant, to toddler, to child, to teenager, to adult… this name has marked for good and ill.
Whispered by a lover in a secret meeting place
Derided in a mocking voice by the school bully
Yelled from across the busy street by a friend in the marketplace
Spoken sternly by a disciplining father
Whimpered in disbelief by a mother who has just found out the gravity of this sickness

I have a name

Now at the end of life and legacy that name means more than it ever has.
Though flesh falls away
Though family has stopped visiting
Though the pain replaces the family

I have a name

It is not forgotten.

A Layne Post

There is a strange cycle that seems to happen at the hospital; we will go for some time when it seems like people are improving and pushing through, and then suddenly we hit a season of loss. Over the past couple of weeks we have lost four friends.

I was driving home from the hospital the other day, through tears I imagined leaving behind Jon and Anaya and the difficulties they would face of being a single parent and a daughter without a Mom. That is what is happening when we lose a friend. It is not only about them; it is the three children at home, who have not seen their Mommy in 6 months.
And now never will.
It is the siblings who said goodbye to their brother for a short hospital visit, and a year later hear the news he is not coming home.
It’s the tired wife at home hundreds of miles away, who was desperately counting down her husband’s treatment cycles, who hears from a stranger on the phone that death came; it was sudden, unexpected.

Rosa, Fernando, Belvindo, Georgina…

I’ll be honest, sometimes it is overwhelming. Sometimes gathering the strength to walk back into that room of strangers, occupying the beds other friends have died in, is nearly impossible.

But then the lover of our souls comes. He romances us, dances with us, and puts in us His heart of pursuit for the ones He loves. Somehow Spring comes.

Dance With Me by Chris Dupre

Dance with me
O lover of my soul
To the song of all songs
Romance me
O lover of my soul
To the song of all songs

Behold You have come
Over the hills
Upon the mountains
To me You have run
My beloved
You’ve captured my heart

With You I will go
You are my love
You are my fair one
Winter is past
And the springtime has come

Dance with me

A Jon Post

Fernando is 16. He arrived at the hospital a few months ago sick, in pain, and unable to walk on his right leg. He had been waiting for a few weeks for analysis on the growth there.
Finally the word came back. It’s cancer, and we have to amputate your leg.
He waited another few weeks for the surgery to be scheduled and for his white blood cell count to be high enough to withstand the surgery and went to the operating table.
When he recovered enough from the amputation he was transferred to the oncology ward to receive 6 months of chemo.
Though brave, strong and optimistic in his first months, he steadily got worse and worse. He grew weaker every week and started sleeping more. I used to have long conversations with him when I visited but he would be asleep during my time there more and more often.
His 18 year old cousin Leito, who has known him since the two were young boys together in their village far to the north, has stood with him for his whole journey. Leito massages his remaining leg because the cancer has spread to the knee and causes pain. Leito helps him to the bathroom, brings him food, and stays nearby in case there’s a need.
Last week when I arrived I found Leito standing outside just looking at the ground.
“Fernando has been discharged” he told me.
My smile turned to ashes… I know what Leito’s words mean.
“Fernando has been discharged”, spoken in abject weariness in Leito’s voice, kept repeating itself in my head. Fernando will not be getting better.
Though Fernando lives in the extreme north of the country with his mother, his father actually lives here in Maputo city.
In the 4 months Fernando has been in the hospital his father has visited him twice. Fernando and Leito left the hospital that afternoon to go to his father’s house.

I once had a conversation with Fernando about what he wanted to do when he was older. He spoke about many of his dreams  and he used the phrase “When my real life begins” as he spoke of his future. I remember sitting next to him when he said that, feeling the hope rise in me that pressed against a reality that stared me in the face that indeed his dreams would come true and he would recover from this cancer.
Fernando and I also spoke of Christ and His resurrection. We held hands and our hearts rejoiced in our shared faith.
Now, in his fathers home, he waits to die.
Fernando is waiting for his real life to begin.

He will not have to wait long.