A Jon Post

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.