A Final E-mail

Yesterday my roommate in the Catholic dorm we stay at asked me for the key to our room. Within the space of ten feet and five seconds he had thrown it in the trash in the mistaken belief, as nearly as we can reconstruct, that it was a used tea bag. I shouldn’t complain. On the previous evening I tried repeatedly, with increasing frustration, to open our car door by clicking on the send button of my cell phone. Disaster Relief Operations provide us with an exciting glimpse of what our mental acuity will be like twenty years from now.

It is subtle hints like these that indicate that perhaps it is time to go home. And finally, the rusty and snaggle-toothed gears of the Red Cross travel machinery have spit out a ticket to board a flight tomorrow for the three-day journey back to Española, New Mexico.

A disaster relief operation is such a swirl of fatigue, beauty, frustration, joy, sorrow, tears, sweat, anger and poignancy that it takes time to acquire some sense of perspective. I think this is about sixteen operations that I have done in nearly three years. To be honest, I have lost count. I have long ago given up the romantic notion that the Red Cross saves lives. We don’t save lives, we don’t rebuild homes, we don’t solve the problems of poverty and loss. We do provide hope though, and we let people know that they are not alone; that there are good people in the world who wish them well. The longer I am in this business the more I realize how important it is to have hope and to know that in your darkest hour you are not alone.

I was at a distribution site that we were operating along with Catholic Charities in a tiny village on the north shore. I was there with the local head of Catholic Charities, a wonderful woman named Cecilia. A Congregational Church preacher was talking to the villagers who had gathered there to receive their modest supplies of food, tools and clothes. He was, of course, speaking to them in Samoan. He said something to them and the villagers kind of stared at their toes. Cecilia, though, started laughing quietly.

"What did he say?"

"He said that people should only take the things that they need and that they should not cheat. He said that you can fool the Red Cross, and you can fool the Catholics, but Jesus will know the truth."

The distribution was quiet, orderly, and respectful. Several villagers stopped by to thank me as they went out. When we were nearly done, Cecilia chuckled again and spread her arms out to give me a hug. "I pity the tourists. They spend thousands of dollars coming to Samoa. They see the beaches and see the stores but they never see the heart of the Samoans. You have seen the heart of the Samoans!"

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