Whaddya call it

Relief work, they call it. 

Sorting out the already-opened kid's puzzles that arrived in relief goods and putting them together to make sure all the pieces are there. Going to Toys R Us to buy stuff for kid's Christmas gift bags. 

Listening to a lonely woman's don't-forget-me story. Her dad is very ill and heading into senility, and she and Dad would have stayed home after the quake if her older brother hadn't convinced her to load Dad in the car and head for higher ground just in case. Their house and store are just plain gone. The government prioritized families of the ill, persons with disabilities, the elderly, and small children for available housing. But now that they're in apartments and houses, they get very little aid anymore. 

Preparing ornaments. Delivering Christmas trees, tiny and large. Hearing of plans to decorate, oh, four or five different places. Asking a little girl to choose a teeny bouncy ball. Hearing of a temporary housing unit that needs knitted hats. Taking knitting patterns to another temporary housing unit. 

Hearing again that the smaller units don't get nearly as much of the aid or the fun as the big units do. Hmm. What can we do about that?

Accepting a couple of mandarin oranges. (Those peelable Christmas ones that come in wooden boxes in the States, only fresher.) They come from hands that just received relief goods. Hands that don't hold much right now but want to give something. Accepting oranges may be the most important thing we did all day. 

Relief work, they call it. Silly name, if you ask me. I'd just call it "being here."