What
would you do if your wife and two daughters returned from Africa
filled with descriptions of the great poverty and need, and
with a passion to help? A good friend once advised me regarding
the pending engagement of one of our daughters. She had invited
us to come to BYU over a weekend to meet the young man with
whom she was getting serious. My friend wisely counseled, “It
sounds like this train might be pulling out of the station with
or without you. I think you should get on before you’re left
behind.” And so I got aboard – on that occasion and again with
Cindy’s new found project in Africa.
There
are many days even now nearly four years later when I’m not
sure where this train is heading, but I am on board. We have
faith that even though we may not know the end from the beginning,
someone else does. We feel divine guidance frequently and see
evidence of it everywhere.
Six
months after Cindy returned from her first trip to Mozambique,
the two of us headed back for another look. We had already explored
how to organize a non-profit organization to work in Africa,
and plans were well underway in assembling a group of about
18 volunteers for a summer 2001 trip. We needed to arrange the
logistics of that 7-week project while on the ground in Mozambique,
and I needed to understand first-hand what Cindy had already
experienced.
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to enlarge
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A
visit to a single mother's home with Cindy, Branch
Pres. Gimo and Elder Anthony Wilkenson
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The
stories told, the videos and photos viewed, and my own research
did not adequately prepare me for what I would see and experience
upon arrival in this desperately poor country. Culture shock
is an expression wholly inadequate to describe the real experience.
In a popular novel about missionary work in Africa known as
The Poisonwood Bible, a fictional character, one of four
daughters of a Baptist minister and wife who move their family
to Africa, relates how she stopped writing home to friends because
she can’t find words to describe what she is experiencing in
Africa. And, she added, if words were found then she’d have
to take time to explain those words. What I know now is that
while I may find words, I’m not confident those words can fully
express our experiences.
Sleepless Nights
For
several nights after arriving in Mozambique Cindy and I had
difficulty getting a full night’s sleep in a hotel room in Beira.
One morning I looked over in the dark to discover that we were
both on our backs staring at the ceiling long before we should
have been awake. Somewhere deeper than our minds we processed
what we were seeing and experiencing on this trip, and it wasn’t
easy. We talked about it as emotions were close to the surface
and tears rolled backward down our cheeks. Although I hadn't
yet witnessed that elusive African sunset, I somehow already
knew that my heart was now different. It could not be indifferent.
My life really would never be the same again.
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This
illusive African sunset finally peaked through the
clouds on our second to last day in Africa on my first
trip - "Once you have seen the sun set in Africa
your life will never be the same again."
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We
had been in Mozambique for a week and I had not even seen the
sun, let alone that proverbial life-changing sunset that Cindy
mentioned in her earlier article. In February 2001, this first
trip to Mozambique for me (Cindy’s second) coincided with the
second major flooding in two years, both worsened from cyclones
that had slammed into the Mozambican coastline from the Indian
Ocean adding to the woes of an impoverished nation and people.
The
day we arrived in Beira at the airport we spotted the familiar
white shirts and nametags of the only four LDS missionaries
serving anywhere in Mozambique at the time other than the capitol
of Maputo. They had exchanged a companion traveling back to
Maputo on the same flight we had arrived on. After getting the
last available rental car and being laughed at when I asked
for a map of the city, we took the elders up on their offer
to guide us into town. There were no street maps, no street
signs, and there were barely what you would describe as streets.
The months of rain had left all roads into and within town essentially
mogeled trails with water filled potholes deep enough to swallow
small cars. I gladly followed the Elders in their beat-up 4-wheeled
drive pickup as we negotiated the roadway by closely following
the vehicle in front of us.
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Baptism
day in the Indian Ocean - Care for Life
employee Zioni's being led into the water by Elder DeAgostini |
We
had the chance a day later to visit with the two branch presidents
in the area, President Cherequejanhe and President Gimo and
one other branch president, Pres. Dique Sosa from Marromeu who
was stranded in Beira due to heavy flooding around his branch
along the Zambezi River, the central focus of flooding and relief
efforts that were ongoing when we arrived. We had a wonderful
visit with these three dedicated men. They had each showed up
at the rented church building in the middle of the week wearing
white shirts and ties, even in the hot, rainy summer season.
Life's Reality
The
next day we arranged to go with Pres. Gimo to visit several
families in his branch. We needed to get a sense of what the
people faced in order to formulate ideas about how we might
help. The homes we visited were all similarly constructed of
horizontal and vertical bamboo poles in two planes about 4 inches
apart allowing rocks to fill up the space in between. Sometimes
stucco covered the rocks. More often it didn’t. Windows were
fashioned simply by framing around an area where rocks were
not placed. Netting may or may not have been included in the
window areas letting mosquitoes have free reign over the house’s
inhabitants. The roofs were either thatch or bare corrugated
metal. The floor was usually dirt hardened with a little concrete
mixed with sand. Most homes were one or two rooms. Often the
mother was a single parent. In one, the husband was home with
four children but his wife, Catarina, returned home as we were
preparing to leave. She was the one employed in this household.
She was also seven months pregnant with twins, plus she was
the branch relief society president.
Cindy
asked Pres. Gimo what he could do to help people in these circumstances.
He could do very little. There was no functioning welfare program
in the area as yet. Home or visiting teachers couldn’t afford
even transportation money for a visit, let alone something to
share. We learned of many families with little to eat and of
children dieing from sickness and malnutrition. Once when the
missionaries were teaching a family about the law of the fast
and the practice of missing two meals, the family asked if that
meant they should go for two days without eating since they
only had one meal per day.
This
was the night that I awoke very early and we talked through
our feelings in the dark. When learning of the plight of the
Willie and Martin handcart companies, Pres. Brigham Young dismissed
general conference early with a call for able-bodied men to
go rescue those saints. Here in Mozambique was surely a modern
day version of saints and others struggling no less than early
pioneers and in sure need of help. While I couldn’t be the personal
rescuer to all, I did know many others with talent, energy,
means and influence and I felt that night a very strong impressions
that, over time, Cindy and I needed to share with others the
struggles that these humble people were having. We committed
that we would not recruit; we would simply share our experiences
and let the Spirit guide.
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During
rainy season in Mozambique. Stepping stones to a
clinic in Dondo, ironically providing care primarily for
malaria patients.
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People
always want to know if you can contract any diseases if you
go to Africa. I quickly respond that “yes you can, and it’s
called the African Disease.” It’s also contagious. You get it
from spending time in Africa and getting to know these wonderful,
humble and loving people who, as Cindy previously noted, have
as much to offer us as we do them. It was James who said:
Hearken,
my beloved brethren, Hath not God chosen the poor of this world
rich in faith, and heirs of the kingdom which he hath promised
to them that love him? (James 2:5)
Care for Life
We
returned from that trip committed to going forward, formally
organizing a non-profit organization known as Care for Life,
and gradually adding a small cadre of individuals to our board,
each of whom also traveled to Mozambique to see and feel what
we experienced and have become infected with the African Disease.
On the next to last day of our trip, as we ended a tour of Kruger
Park in South Africa, the sun finally came out from the clouds
and we witnessed my first glorious African sunset. I hardly
needed the reminder by then, but it was a beautiful symbol.
A
month ago Cindy returned from her eleventh trip to Mozambique
in the last three and a half years. I have made four round trips.
My second trip was our longest. In the summer of 2002 Cindy
and I left home and my work as a physical therapist and spent
3 months establishing the Care for Life Learning Center and
Clinic and putting into place local leadership in Manga, about
10 kilometers outside of Beira. We hope to share more about
our work in Manga. During those 3 months I kept a detailed journal
of our experiences. To me, this journaling was my therapy, my
processing of events that weighed daily on our psyches and spirits.
Cindy on the other hand, processes things verbally as sisters
often do with each other. She was so busy giving charitable
care that she rarely had time left to write about it. She previously
mentioned the sorrow in watching a little 5-year-old die from
AIDS-related complications. I’d like to share this day in the
life from the perspective of what I wrote two years ago.
Tuesday
July 23, 2002
One
of the first patients in the Care for Life clinic this
morning is a little boy brought in by his aunt who walked while
carrying him about 3 miles. His name is Elvis Jose. He is five
years old, but has a body weight and size of someone about one.
He is dieing of AIDS. Cindy calls me away from my task of debriding
a burn on another little boy’s abdomen to see him. She suggested
a photo to document some of the serious clinical cases that
we are seeing. For several minutes she and Tanis talked to the
woman and care for the child. Its one of those moments, however,
where I just can’t intrude with a camera until time passes and
permission is asked and granted. I watch in awe as these two
great women offer tender compassion to another. They are not
sure if the aunt is aware of his disease, and she does not offer
what she knows at first. After Cindy approaches this subject
through Peter, our interpreter, the woman then admits that the
boy’s father, her own brother, died of AIDS and that his mother
abandoned the boy years ago and has probably died herself by
now. She knows he has the disease but it is just not talked
about. The aunt lives with her sister and aged mother. At some
point I do take a single photo of Jose on his aunt’s lap. Some
food for the family and medicine is offered and we drive them
home so we can follow-up with additional support in the days
ahead while not requiring her to walk the distance to the clinic
carrying Jose.
Down
a wet and narrow lane their little home is dark and poorly lit,
the bare concrete walls may have been painted 20 years ago.
They are now damp from the previous day’s heavy rain and the
frame windows wide open with torn screens only half covering
a space allows mosquitoes clear entry. Cindy offers counsel
and comfort as we drive. The grandmother asked if there is anything
else she should do. I asked Peter to inquire if she has a faith,
or if she is a religious person. My only impression is to offer
a blessing for this little boy. Not a blessing of healing, but
one of comfort and peace. The aunt willingly accepts. In circumstances
like this I often think of the apostle Peter’s statement to
the lame man who asked his help. Peter said, “Silver and gold
have I none, but such as I have give I thee (Acts 3:6).” Sometimes,
like today, I would sure like to add the last phrase of this
verse: “In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth rise up and
walk,” but I realize that I lack Peter’s commission and certainly
as great of faith, plus there are times when circumstances simply
call for compassion and comfort.
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In
front of the Care for Life Learning Center with Elder
and Sister Harmon - Southeast African Area Welfare Agents,
Elder and Sister Roberts - Country Welfare Agents for
Mozambique, and Blair & Cindy |
In
the home we explain to the woman’s sister and her mother who
we are. The older woman is not aware of the child’s disease.
We ask and receive permission to talk to all there openly and
Cindy explains the terminal nature of AIDS-related diseases.
I provide a blessing to the child. Afterward Jose’s aunt/caregiver
weeps for several minutes in Cindy’s arms, probably for the
first time facing the reality of the impending death of this
little boy in the not too distant future. It is again a very
tender moment. Cindy then asked if they have any questions we
can answer. The sister is concerned about her own sister’s health
since she has observed that she gradually has become so much
thinner and she wonders if she could have the disease from caring
for their nephew. Cindy tells her that she probably has only
been working too hard and worrying, but explains the methods
of transmission and that it is unlikely that she could have
the disease. During this time Jose’s aunt holds him close to
her probably aware that his life will not last long. As we leave
there are embraces for all. After we walk to the lane and start
our car’s engine, the aunt comes out again and there are thank
yous and a long hug of gratitude for Cindy.
The Journal Entry
Thursday
July 25, 2002
Elvis
Jose died this afternoon. Since birth his body had been fighting
the effects of AIDS-related illness acquired through infected
parents. We visited the family again yesterday and Maria, Jose’
aunt, was encouraged that he had actually eaten a few bites
of food that morning.
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The
final resting place of little Elvis Jose, an
AIDS baby who lived until 5 years old.
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On
today’s visit in the late afternoon, as I turned the car into
the lane of Maria’s neighborhood, I heard a distant call from
someone and I turned to see Maria, barefoot and in the only
ragged outfit I’d ever seen her in, running down the main road
towards us screaming hysterically. She ran to our car and clung
to me and cried through the driver’s side window as all around
stopped and froze to watch this scene. We couldn’t determine
immediately if she had been going for help or if Jose had died
or not. Just a short drive from the turnoff we reached their
home, now with Maria in our car and being comforted by Cindy.
Entering the tiny three-room home we saw Jose on the bed, still
alive with eyes open and taking everything in as he looked around
at each of us. By now he was in the labored breathing pattern
of someone close to death, but he would never loose consciousness
to the end.
At
Cindy’s request I made a quick trip back to our clinic for someone
to translate and for some supplies, leaving Cindy and Allison
(a new nursing graduate with us in her first week) at Jose’
bedside. My return 20 minutes later wasn’t soon enough. Reentering
the home, all were sitting quietly at bedside. Maria again offered
me one of her frequent and freely given hugs. Cindy later reported
to me that after Jose took his last breath and died a few minutes
earlier, there was another older woman there, probably a close
friend or neighbor, who just seemed to take over. She was accustomed
to death and seemed to know exactly what to do. She took his
little body, turned Jose on his back, straightened his curled
up limbs, closed his eyes and covered him with a baby’s blanket
before leaving. Uncovering him now I could see this little guy
far more at peace than he had ever appeared in the few days
we knew him. Before long, probably at the older woman’s request,
three young men from their local church appeared and one offered
a prayer, he explained in Portuguese, “for the living.” I think
that included us.
Life
here in Mozambique, in great contrast to the life we live in
the States, is lived out in the open. People walk, work, sweat,
smell, play, take care of bodily needs, nurse babies, raise
children, laugh, love, get sick, die and mourn all so much out
in the open for all to see and share. The concept of community
is far more real here. I’m sure they don’t refer to it either
as a “concept” or as “community.” It’s just their way of life.
By contrast, the tool that is my electronic garage door opener
and closer appears, in one little box, the symbolic antithesis
of an African community and makes me wonder what I miss in the
lives of those around me in my life in America.
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Two
weeks after Elvis Jose' death, Cindy
fellowships his Aunt Marie who later joins the Church
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We
see life and death all around us, we make frequent trips to
the infant orphanage and hear the children’s laughter, and we
experience intimately a caregiver’s grief. Randall Voss, one
of our board members, once said that living in Mozambique is
like trying to get a drink out of a fire hose. There is just
too much to take it all in. We are privileged to be experiencing
each day here in Mozambique.
