Update on Mennonite man miraculously healed in Tanzania

A happy Thursday (Edit:…just kidding… it’s Wednesday!  this sitting at home thing…!) to you all! What a delight it is to be alive! To see the sunshine, and hear the birds sing! I love these things at any time — and even the snow that many abhor — but especially now, when the world looks upside down. To see that God’s creation still sings and shines, that makes my heart happy!

And I have no doubt that is how Jason and Mel Hunt and their family feel, in Tanzania. A few days ago I shared the story of Jason collapsing, believing he was at the end, only to miraculously revive again. That is one of the best things I had heard in a week or two, so I shared it. I have no regrets about sharing his testimony of unexpected healing. It is truly good news.

My only regret , and there was one… though I don’t like that word, came when friends cautioned that many will take his experience as ‘the cure‘ and act irresponsibly because of it. I had not thought of that, and at first thought my friends were overreacting and their concern not warranted. Especially given I had put in a disclaimer that I was *not* promoting it as a cure, but rather because it seemed to me a story of hope in the midst of tragic times.  Nonetheless, I listened to their cautions and edited the post, removing anything that might hint at the experience being touted as a cure.

Others were less gracious and said he is a liar, to declare so boldly he had COVID-19 without test results. My response immediately to that criticism was that this does not make him a liar; it makes him overly enthusiastic.

Then, yesterday toward evening, I received word that test results for COVID-19 came back negative for their family. (Keep his wife and daughter in your prayers. Last I hear, yesterday night, they are still sick and in need of prayer). This means he did not likely have COVID-19 in the first place. The post was causing enough of a stir that I decided to remove it until such a time as I had time to edit out any ‘offending parts’. This is something I have rarely done, but in the interest of avoiding unnecessary offence, I removed the post entirely.

We can somewhat assume the tests are conclusive and he likely did not have COVID-19. But that is not really the bottom line, and his overstatement is not the greatest tragedy in the world.

It is only a tragedy that he was too sure of himself if:

  1. he is not humble enough to learn from it. Otherwise, is is an incredible learning experience, not only for him but for all of us, me included. Or maybe especially me and him, but I think all of us.
  2. the church has no grace for a testimony that is powerful but overly enthusiastic and certain of details that were not relevant to the miraculous outcome. To write off such a profound recovery because the recipient is human — as are we all — is to limit the work of Christ among humans. It means I can only see Him if you are more/less perfect. If I took that approach, given the hell and horror I see in Christian community, I would have turned to atheism long ago.

Before posting the original story I checked into the legitimacy of the claims, and again numerous times since. I added a disclaimer in the original blog, and I would have been wise to edit out any reference to COVID-19. In that I erred. Yet, I had and still have every reason to believe that the story told, happened as told.

In spite of the kerfluffle and humanity of his way of verbalizing it, I am no less amazed by God, and I think no less of Jason for it.

If there is not grace for his humanity, then the church has nothing left to offer the world. Nothing. Because that’s who Jesus is.

I have said many times, there is grace enough for the vilest sinner (including sex offenders) and if they are truly repentant they can receive that grace. I believe that with all my heart. (That does not equate to giving sex offenders free regn under the guise of forgiveness, but that’s another topic for another day).

What has baffled me in this is that it seems there is less grace for a man who is overconfident in a medical self-diagnosis and includes it in his testimony, than there is for the sex offender who sheds a few tears and does not change his ways. Surely, surely, there is grace for both, but especially in a case of ‘intending no harm or sin’ in the process.

I do not regret telling the story. If I did not think we can learn from it, then I would have regrets. I hope and pray that we can see past the humanity and see Jesus at work among us. If we can’t see Him in our collective brokenness, what have we got — what has Jesus got — that will bring any measure of peace and wholeness to us and those around us?

Having removed the original post, here is the portion of his testimony that does not make any assumptions about what his illness was.  Praise Jesus!

Last night as I desperately fought for breath to live, I just kept stumbling through the house around the fireplace and kitchen trying to hang on to a measure of breath. The rest were holding me up, crying and praying, (and probably wondering who was going to cart my body out to the coffee field). Finally at 3am I was really fading so wheezed out my goodbyes as I slumped up against the fireplace. I told them no one was to do mouth to mouth on me because I didn’t want the infection to increase in their lungs. As I sat there fading out to everyone’s amazement I got so hot from the fire at my back that I started to sweat buckets and my lungs suddenly started opening up and oxygen came into my lungs. God intervened.


The improvements over the last few hours has been exponential. Even Mel has made incredible progress. God is intervening.


I will mention the whole household came down with symptoms today. And the whole household has made exponential gains in the last eight hours. Most are sleeping peacefully now. […] We need to run forth knowing that love will always conquer fear.


All the prayers are being answered.


My prayer is that you all stay safe and healthy, and if your health has been compromised, that God will heal and restore you.

Remember, God is kind.

As always…

With love,
~ T ~


© Trudy Metzger

Part of Healing is Learning to Think of Others

In honesty, writing a blog tonight is not easy. I could think of a thousand and one things to say, I’m sure, but all fall flat as I think about the tragedy in Paris, France. It’s a current crisis and dreadful thing for any human to suffer, ever…  And it is not a crime against one city, or one nation. It is a crime against all of us, as is every careless and violent act political or otherwise.

Inevitably, because this is a crime that does not fall into sexual victimization, my heart is drawn to the importance of taking time from our own pain and working through things, as victims of sexual violence, to think of others in pain.

Together let’s remember Paris, France, and the families and loved ones of those left behind, and stand in solidarity with them, praying for them. Remembering them doesn’t mean that sexual abuse victims are less important than victims of terrorist attacks. Nor does it minimize the pain and suffering of those who have been violated sexually, or make less glaring the wickedness of sexual violence.  One is an act of terror against the body and the country, and ultimately the world–instilling fear, causing grief  and forever changing lives of those left behind–the other is an act of terror against the mind, body and spirit–instilling fear and shame, causing grief and forever changing the life of the victim.

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There is always the risk in grief, that we forget to see the pain and suffering of others, and become so deeply lost in our own pain that it even consumes us, and robs us of a full life. So it is good to look away, every now and then, even when we are in the deepest throes of personal sorrow.

With time, we will look away most of the time, and every now and then remember what we once suffered. But until then, we have to be intentional about it.

~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger

Remembering 9/11; Remembering that Love Conquers, Hate Divides

love conquers, hate divides 2It’s cloudy and dreary outside today. And it should be. Why shouldn’t the heavens grieve and mourn? For, on this day, fourteen years ago, the world changed. My country changed. I changed. A general trust in humanity, believing that most were kind-hearted and a few were corrupt to the core, shattered and gave way to suspicion, distrust and with a heightened sensitivity, all around… at least for a time.

This morning I made Mexican bread pudding, yes, that’s what I’ll call it, since I haven’t a name for it at all. And only those who have made it and loved it, will understand why I craved it in the first place. Bread, cut in slices and dried out completely, slowly toasted in the oven and cooled… Pour hot coffee over it until it is spongy, then drain coffee off and squeeze by placing another similar bowl inside, and pressing. Fluff the bread with a fork, and spread with favourite jam, and drizzle cream over it. (No, it’s not healthy. But I’ve probably done it 5 times in 20 years, so no harm done.) My father loved this food. And while it wasn’t a frequent thing, it was a favourite and every now and then, I give into the cravings. (Even though hubby says, ‘no kisses until you brush your teeth’ and generally turns up his nose at it.)

Just before I made it, I read that our very good friends, John and Cindy Yutzy, said goodbye to a father and father-in-law in the wee hours of this morning. I thought of my father in the hospital on this day, fourteen years ago, and the months that ensued before his passing. I remembered the world being rocked fourteen years ago today…

Fourteen years ago. Yet a memory that still seems etched on fresh canvas, moist to the touch…

I remember where I was, at that moment when I heard. Our daughters, then only five and six, had left for school, like every ordinary day, and Tim was at work, having started his new job at Floradale Feed Mill. (The best move ever!) Our oldest two sons, ages two and three, were home with me, oblivious to the wrongness of that day. And I was 2 months pregnant with baby number five; we had only just found out…  And my father was in Tillsonburg hospital, facing a potential amputation.

I called my friend Danette Martin that morning for one thing or another, oblivious, and she said she heard of some dreadful thing happening in New York–and mentioned a possible bombing of Twin Towers. She was trying to call her family in USA, to see if they know more, but the phone lines were overloaded and she was having trouble getting through…

We didn’t have TV at the time, and my mind was fragile, being pregnant and all. And with my dad’s health declining, my childhood story was constantly in my face. Once or twice a week I would go see dad, and sit and talk. We went places, conversationally, I had never dreamed of entering with this man; places I wouldn’t have thought possible, or even would have trusted. And, while it was healing, it also brought the terror and insecurity of the past back in my face, leaving me vulnerable. Violence and death threats…

Violence and death threats that had made me pace the floor in childhood, now made me pace with the ‘not knowing’ of this bomb, or plane crash, or whatever horrible thing had happened. In childhood I knew my ‘enemy’ and had observed from birth what drove him, why he threatened, how he thought. And, while disarming, it was an advantage. This new threat was a stranger and that stranger might come for our country, our home, our children.

As each subsequent attack was reported, I felt weak. I wandered to the couch and lay down, numb and confused. Who would do such a thing? And, more importantly, why? And where next? Were our children safe? What kind of a world had we birthed them into? I placed my hand on my abdomen, as if to protect the unborn… My mind raced…

Little by little the story unravelled, it was a terrorist attack. Osama Bin Laden, a name that would forever be associated with the darkness and terror of that day, claimed responsibility, as an Islam extremist. Conspiracy theories soon challenged that, and swore up and down the government was involved, adding to the confusion and chaos…

And that is how that part of the story remains, even now, fourteen years later. On Facebook this morning the conspiracy theories still cross my newsfeed, as does the memory of terrorist attacks. Bin Laden’s name, while blame rests heavily on him, has not. He may be associated with that dark day, but he lost the spotlight quickly. However, most importantly, the newsfeeds are filled with stories of hope, courage and recovering; of building again and uniting as a nation; of being brought together through tragedy rather than torn apart and divided.

The ripples of a day like that never really end, both good and bad. Nations have united and risen above, but we also remember the losses. Today there are thirteen year old sons and daughters, who were in the womb that day, who will never know their fathers. There are adolescents now who, as toddlers, waited for mom or dad to pick them up that day; they never came. Today there are widows and widowers–and some who have remarried and started a new life–who relive that feeling of panic and anxiety, as they waited to hear from their spouse. They relive picking up the phone and dialling, over and over again, saying “come on… come on… answer… Please! … ” and crying out to God–whether they believe in Him or not–in a desperate attempt to make their world right… But their world was never made right. That moment robbed them of something precious. But in that robbing, for most if not all, resilience was born, and people rose up with new determination.

This morning it all collides in my mind, as I stare into my bowl of Mexican bread pudding; nostalgia and painful memories blended with tears of grief and gratefulness. Life is filled with loss. Innocent trust was stolen. My dad, with whom I watched the footage of the attack for the first time, has since passed on. Today my friend’s dad passed away. And you, my readers, have crises and losses… I have losses…. And in the middle of loss, my heart finds joy and peace in one thing; the kindness of God.

What the enemy means for evil, God is using for good and for His glory. Not only does He speak hope in every dark place, He is Hope in every dark place. And with that adjusting of my focus, innocent trust comes alive again. Because my God goes before me as a shield, and behind me as a guard. I am covered. I am safe. 

He is Sovereign Over Us. The words of this song, by Michael W. Smith, comfort me, and turn my heart to the One who redeems all things.

May we never forget. Never forget the suffering of others… Never forget the courage and authority that come from standing together. Never forget that the real enemy is hatred and lies, and the one from whom those are birthed.

And may we never, never forget the kindness of God.

~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger