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The can sits on my desk, charred and covered in soot.  It is heavy, filled with coins.  Pocket change given to help those in need, people who survived a disaster.  The donor didn’t realize when he emptied his pockets each day and deposited the coins into the can that he would be a disaster survivor himself before the year’s end.

He had started collecting his change in the cans years ago when he volunteered on the Board of his local Red Cross.  The can was one simple way he could support his Red Cross.  He never missed the loose change, but it added up quickly and when a can was full he would turn it in and get another one.  Many of his belongings did not survive the fire that ripped through his home that December afternoon, but the can did.  And even now that almost everything is gone and he must start over, he gave the can to the Red Cross.

He is no stranger to the Red Cross.  He has been a volunteer, a blood donor and a client.  His son is a Marine serving in Afghanistan and he has turned to the Red Cross to send emergency messages before.  No message was sent about the fire. He doesn’t want to worry his son. He wants to tell him face to face the next time he sees him.

I stopped by his office to see him and to give him a few things donated by friends.  I wished him Happy Birthday.  His birthday was the day I visited him, four days after the fire.  He seemed to be in shock but doing well considering what he’d been through.  He was grateful for the support he received and unsure what he will need going forward.  I tell him I will check back with him and for him to let me know how he is doing.

Next Saturday he calls.  He asks me a few questions and tells me how things are going. He says he owes me a thank you note. Then he tells me about the can.  I tell him he doesn’t owe me a note and he doesn’t have to turn in the donation can considering all that he has lost, but he insists he wants to turn it in.  I tell him I will stop by and see him Monday.  When I stop by I find out he was not feeling well and left work early. The can is waiting for me at the front desk with a note of thanks.

I get in the car and place the can on the seat.  I drive to my next appointment.  I can’t stop looking at the can. I take a picture of  it with my phone. I keep thinking of the donor and his family. I begin to weep.  Eventually, I make it back to my office. It is late and no one is there. I put the can on the corner of my desk.  I need to take it to the bank when it opens and have the machine count the change so I can deposit it and give the donor a total. He always likes to know how much change is in the cans he turns in.

I will open the can and take it to the bank, but unlike other cans I open, I won’t throw this one away even though it can’t be re-used.  This one I will keep on my desk. People will no doubt ask me why I keep a dirty, charred donation can on my desk and I will tell them.  I will tell them about the donor, the volunteer, the giver of blood, the father of the Marine and the disaster survivor who while sifting through the ashes of his home was thinking about helping the Red Cross be there for the next family in need.

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