I had been sitting for almost an hour, the conversation in Mongolian swirling about me. I have never been good at these kinds of things.
There was no light in the room except for the faint evening sun that was blocked by the building directly to the south. On the table in front of me sat three tall thermos flasks filled with milk tea;

several plates with sliced salami and cucumbers; and a large bowl piled high with candies, dried curds called aaruul, and other small treats.
I was waiting for my friend Bold who had left before I arrived to obtain his sister's death certificate.
Bold's sister Oyungerel had surgery several months ago to completely remove a cancerous kidney. Her surgery had been followed by a series of chemotherapy treatments. As far as I knew from Bold her recovery had been slow but steady until about a month ago.
On a warm Wednesday in September, I came at my regular time to meet with Bold to work on Mongolian translation work. I found the whole house in a panic; Bold was very apologetic. "I'm sorry," he said, "I cannot meet with you today. This morning my sister suddenly discovered that she has no feeling in her right leg from her hip to her knee. We're just getting ready to take her to the hospital."
I felt awkward because I had already loaned out my jeep to a Mongolian friend to use to take his mother-in-law to the hospital to continue her cancer treatments and could not help Bold transport his sister to the hospital. Instead I began to pray and asked the church to pray.
Bold too was praying. Bold was saved about eight years ago and was left in charge of a house church when some missionaries from Germany returned home about four years ago. Our time of working on translation together has drawn us close. Sometimes instead of translating we will spend almost an entire session discussing a Biblical response to Mongolian culture or the latest news among Christians in Ulan Bator. It has been very helpful to me to have a Mongolian friend with whom I can discuss such things.
His sister Suvda is also a Christian, but the rest of his family continue to worship false gods though they respect his "religious beliefs".
Bold's pre-occupation with his sister and my parents-in-law's visit kept us from our regular meetings for the past month. But through a phone call and sneaking in visits I was able to follow his sister's condition.
The doctors came to realize that the cancer that they had thought was confined to her kidneys had already begun to spread before her surgery. Although the doctors completely removed her kidney, the already metastasized cancer was swiftly working its way into her spinal column. Its growth there caused pressure on her spinal cord which resulted in the loss of feeling first in one leg and then the other.
Because of the delicate nature of the spinal cord and the spread of the cancer, the doctors were not certain that more surgery would be successful. Besides Oyungerel did not want to go through surgery again and declined further treatment. Barring direct intervention by God, it became a matter of waiting.
I will close the curtain of privacy on the details of her decline. But the family reached a point where they needed some relief from caring night and day for Oyungerel. Someone suggested hospice care, and for two weeks she was in the kind and gentle hands of Christian people who exhibit far more grace and skill than I have.
She returned home last week. On Wednesday Bold and I met briefly and talked. She was not doing well. As a church we began to pray. Almost every day I communicated briefly with Bold telling him that we were praying.
Monday morning I received the message that she had passed away.
Though I had not ruled out God's direct intervention, I was led to pray for the salvation of Oyungerel and Bold's mother and for the comfort & peace of the Holy Spirit for Bold and Suvda. God answered one of those requests as I found out Monday from Bold that while Oyungerel was in hospice care she had told people multiple times that she had received Jesus and trusted Him.
Because the Mongolian custom is to visit the home of the deceased as soon as one can after receiving the news, I found myself at Bold's house sipping milk tea and eating the aaruul.
The Mongolians spoke their language around me sometimes addressing the whole group of almost a dozen of us, sometimes chatting more informally in little groups of three or four. Even in English I feel uncertain what to say at times of grief, and in Mongolian I am concerned that I might say the wrong thing and intensify everyone's grief. So I sat silently, speaking if spoken to and waiting for Bold to return.
Finally, the group that was there, primarily people from Bold's church, took time to pray and then left. I was left alone with Bold's mother and sister Suvda and aunt. There was some light joking as I was introduced as Jeff because before me had been another foreigner to visit also named Jeff.
Shortly after that an even larger group of people, teachers from the school where Bold's mother taught, came to visit. The room quickly filled and then began to overflow with people. The family invited me to wait in another, smaller room.
I had only been waiting a few minutes when Bold returned from his visits to the officials. He came into the room where I was and we exchanged the usual Mongolian pleasantries. He began to explain mechanically the nature of his errands even showing me the newly acquired death certificate.
I put my arm around him and said in Mongolian (even though he speaks good English), "I don't have any fancy words to say. I want to say I love you." Mongolian men do not usually cry but Bold did. We embraced, and I gave Bold the chance to recover.
"It's hard for me," he said, "being the only man in my family." His father had passed away when he was a boy, and he has no brothers. "Everyone wants me to be tough." Nothing was said for a minute or two and then his aunt came in to discuss more burial preparations.
Oyungerel's death is real; her eternity is now decided. The recent news is another painful reminder that death is all around us. We tend to try to sanitize death and its details to insulate ourselves emotionally from it. But death is real. Which makes our work here in Mongolia all the more urgent and important.