Lindy and her brother outside their home in Likasi, Congo.In a village called Chitulu, in Democratic Republic of Congo, on a home-based care visit one day, my wife and I met a little girl named Lindy. She is five years old. She has dark, mourning eyes, and wispy little legs that poke out beneath her skirt. She is HIV-positive. No one seems to know where their father is, and their very sick mother died shortly after Lindy’s birth. She has a seven-year old brother who is healthy. The kids live now with their grandparents.

The grandfather is very old and works each day farming in their field outside town. He loves his grandchildren very much, and when Lindy began getting sick, he carried her on his back to the local clinic. The grandmother is completely blind. She sits on a soft chair in the middle of their house smiling with her eyes wide open: creamy white moons leaking slow drips onto her cheeks.
This is a broken family, but together somehow they are strong. The grandmother calls out to Lindy: “Lindy, is the door open?” or “Lindy, is it raining outside?” The little girl is her grandmother’s eyes. The grandfather relies heavily on his disabled wife for the emotional encouragement to keep working in his old age. Recently the grandmother became very ill, and it seemed for a while that she might not live. His old wife’s illness almost killed the grandfather.

The grandmother told us Lindy loved to go to school, that even though she was too young and was sick, she constantly whined and begged her grandparents to go to school.

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Last week on home-based care in Masoyi, South Africa I met a lady named Helena. She was about 50 and dying of AIDS. I've never seen anyone so skinny. Just bones. A neighbour lady would check in on her everyday—but this neighbour was an old granny who was looking after 8 orphans (some were her own grandkids, some were from the community). 8 little kids and a dying neighbour.

We got to wash this lady, and talk and sing with her. She wanted us to sing the South African national anthem—I'm afraid I wasn't much help. We washed all her clothes and blankets—African style, in the river. I was so happy to be there, to help this dear woman who was suffering so much. Helena died a few days later, but we were able to get her into a hospice for her remaining days so she could die comfortably.

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