It is easy to give out supplies to disaster victims. You are making a difference and it makes you feel good.

 

It is hard to stop. I am the person who decides where to give out the supplies and how much to give. I am also the person who decides when to stop. Yesterday I decided it was time to stop.

 

People often tell me about themselves and say, “I am a good leader because I am a decision maker.” They are always wrong. Any fool can make a decision and a lot of them do. The hard part, the leadership part, is to face your decisions. It was my decision to stop so I got into the car to go talk to the various village matai (leaders) and to visit the victims for the last time.

 

We were at the last village near the end of the day. It had been the first village that I visited when I first arrived almost three weeks ago. The village had been completely destroyed by the tsunami. The small, white FEMA tents on concrete slabs dotted the land where houses used to be. Red Cross cots and sleeping mats were under the shade of the scattered trees. The village must have been idyllic, at one time, nestled at the edge of the blue ocean. It must have been a place where you could sit back and be soothed by the waves and the warm breezes at the end of the day. It must have had an innocence, of a sort, that would not be restored even when the houses were rebuilt.

 

I talked to the village leader as I had done with the other villages. He is an honorable man. I had watched him over the days struggle to make sure that what was offered was given out fairly to those most in need. He was sad that we would be leaving but he thanked me nevertheless. I knew that we had given him little more than a respite from his burdens. We made a difference by we didn’t solve the problems. I watched the people being handed the last, small pile of food, water and supplies. They waited with great patience for their turn, as they have done each day. My assistant, Karen, came up to me. She asked me to talk to the Red Cross supervisor who we put in charge. He was a huge man, as large as any of the Samoans. He had been here from the beginning, coming with me on the same flight from the mainland. I tapped him on the shoulder. “Karen says I should talk to you.” I looked him in the eye. He could barely talk.

 

You don’t do this job for the glamour. You don’t do it for a chance to boast to your friends. You do it because you are compassionate. You do it because your compassion outweighs the lack of sleep, the mosquitoes, the heat, the rain, and the sorrow. I am humbled each day to work with people with such great hearts.

 

“I have to shut this down.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You’ve made a difference to these people. Look at them. You have given them a little bit of hope and made their lives a little better.”

 

He nodded his head. There was nothing I could say today that would make him feel better – today. It may make a difference later, though, when he was back in the mainland. I owed it to him, for his blood, sweat and tears – for his great heart.

 

I had several packets of cookies in the car. I took them out and walked over to a small group of children. “You can keep them if you catch them,” I said. I tossed them one at a time gently into the air. They were all caught. They are always all caught.

 

I woke up at 3:00 AM this morning and waited for the first light of dawn so I could go outside. We live in the dorm alongside a large, Catholic church. I walked out onto the grounds in front of the church. The sky was turning pink and gold, the colors reflecting off the windows; the white done serene against the still dark sky. I have become a believer in churches since doing disaster relief, although I still prefer to be outside walking the grounds rather than inside.

 

I walked back to my dorm room to get ready for the day. It was almost time to go home.

 

 

 

Best wishes to each of you,

 

Richard