Part II
by Blair J. Packard
Editors Note: Care for Life is a non-profit charitable organization founded in 2000 by Cindy and Blair Packard. They are working to alleviate suffering in Mozambique through focused service, knowing that often survival and hope must come before self-reliance. Their website can be found at https://www.careforlife.org/
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.
Pres. Gimo and Elder Anthony Wilkenson
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.
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.”
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.
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.
clinic in Dondo, ironically providing care primarily for malaria patients.
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.
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.
AIDS baby who lived until 5 years old.
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.
fellowships his Aunt Marie who later joins the Church
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.
2003 Meridian Magazine. All Rights Reserved.
