Thin Air, High Hope

We lost a dear friend this week—a young man with a radiant smile and a tender heart. His journey over the past year was a rollercoaster of emotions. From pursuing a culinary career one day to facing the grim reality of losing his leg to cancer the next, his resilience was truly admirable. He was the same age as my younger brother.

Despite the amputation, the cancer spread rapidly, mercilessly invading his lungs. Our HOPE program did everything in its power to support him, and the local church embraced him and his family with open arms. How do you come to terms with the wasting away of someone so young, beautiful, and strong? It’s heart-wrenching to witness a family grapple with the impending loss of a son, a brother, a grandson, a cousin, a friend.

In his final days, our friend’s brother never left his side, and his grandfather was a constant presence, providing comfort whenever needed. And then, he passed away.

I didn’t spend much time with him toward the end. My limited Spanish left me feeling helpless, unable to speak words of comfort or connection. However, one memory will forever warm my heart—the night he spent at our home, devouring half a dozen muffins, laughing at our attempts to speak Spanish, and beating my son at video games. I’ll always cherish the image of his smile before his baptism, with his father standing lovingly behind him. All my recollections of him revolve around that radiant smile.

The day after he passed, a small group from HOPE and the church loaded into a minibus and made the two-hour journey to his home. In the yard, local church women were busy preparing a grand dinner in his honor, peeling potatoes and sorting “chuño.” We hugged his grieving family, realizing there’s no real comfort for such a loss. His brother and father were still busy attending to his body, washing and dressing him, even though he was no longer really there. His family appeared at peace, but his mother’s teary-eyed confession, “But I will still miss him,” pierced our hearts.

Unsure of what else to do, we sat down to help peel potatoes and sort chuño. Slowly, laughter broke the silence as we worked together. Our limited Spanish brought giggles from the women. The neighbors wielded their knives with impressive speed as I fumbled with mine. We sat together for over an hour, the sun beating down on us, but none of us wanting to move. I said nothing; I just wanted to remain in that moment. Then, I felt a hat being placed on my head. A young woman gently set her hat on me and smiled—a smile I will never forget.

We bid our farewells, sharing more hugs, more laughter, more smiles. His father expressed gratitude for our assistance with the preparations, but it was more than that. It was unity, transcending faith and culture. The women offered bananas and water to share. We prayed together, all of us, holding each other. And then, we reluctantly parted ways.

Suffering is a peculiar thing, encompassing both profound beauty and deep pain. I’m writing about this day to etch it into my memory—to remember sharing this time with our friend’s family, these wonderful women, and the authenticity of love that blooms amidst anguish.

My prayers go out to his family, wishing them the comfort that only God can provide. I hope we can maintain our connection with them. And I imagine our friend in heaven, standing strong on both legs and flashing that radiant smile once more.