It bothered me that they didn’t seem to care. But I was wrong. People do care. They care very deeply. But people get frustrated when the care but they can’t do anything except maybe write a check. So it wasn’t that they didn’t care, it was that I was unknowingly frustrating them because I wasn’t giving them any new options besides giving money. You see, we want to DO something about global hunger, but our only option has been to write a check to some organization hoping that they do the right thing with it. People needed a new option. It occurred to me that the only option people had to respond with when I was telling them the story was for them to either go with me or write me a check. Either way, I was asking for their money.

While in Nicaragua, I discovered a 7×9 inch bags of food that was being passed out that had been packaged by volunteers in the U.S. My sister Carmen Miller and I flew back to West Virginia to meet Lyle Mullins of Food for Children to check out his process. Lyle is an incredible man with a great worldwide impact out of a small town in the Appalachian town of Princeton. In his office is a plaque that reads, “Make no little plans here!”

Lyle was very encouraging to me and gave me several options to consider. Never at any time did he pressure me to become an extension of his work- he just wanted to help me in any way he could. I have found since that time that the collegiality of people who care about global hunger issues is refreshing. With those who really care, there is no competition because the need for us all to work together is so overwhelming. 25,000 people die each day, every day of the year, because of hunger. That’s obscene. That’s like watching 71 “747″ jets full of people crashing into the ground every day.

Little two little kids, Carmen and I travelled home from our meeting with Lyle excited to get our own Packaging system started back in Kansas. We were already talking about what building we could use and how we would fund it. We thought we could be up and running in a month.

That was seven years ago. From my first encounter with the little girl in Nicaragua, it took almost 8 full years before we packaged our first meal.

By Rick McNary – Numana

(Note:  This was written before the earthquake. Capt. Bob Poff, who is mentioned in this article, was the first spokesperson from Haiti on all the major news channels reporting via satellite phone)

I am one of the most reluctant world travelers you will ever meet.  My wife likes dashing off into the wild blue yonder to explore new vistas, but I’m happy exploring my backyard -the Flint Hills of Kansas.  I can be there and back home in my bed the same day.  I’m the kind of guy that sits in my easy chair wishing I was having an adventure, but when I’m having an adventure I wish I was sitting at home in my easy chair.

So when I think of going to a new country, like Haiti, I am not always that excited about it. I wonder how many flights I’ll miss and get stuck in airports- a contemporary version of Dante’s Inferno.  I wonder if I’ll get carsick from treacherous roads and maniacal taxi-drivers.  I wonder if my traveling companions will have B.O.  I wonder if I’ll have to hold a pig on my lap riding public transportation.  Since all of these things have happened in the past, I assume it might happen again.  I just like to be prepared. Flexibility is a very important part of world travel.  And Dramamine.  And Ipods.  And hand sanitizer. And Right Guard.

The most enjoyable part of traveling is meeting new friends.  While I’ve been blessed to travel to some of the most beautiful places on earth, when I sit on my deck as the evening sun sets, I miss the people- not so much the place.  My last trip gave me new friends to miss.  I like that.

The first one is Jerry Wirths.  Jerry owns a construction company near me but would really prefer to make a living as a fly-fisherman.  He’s my kind of guy.  Tougher-than-shoe-leather kind of construction worker on one hand and, on the other hand, a can’t-see-because-of-the-tears in his eyes when he thinks of children not having any food to eat.

I have learned, as I talk about issues of global hunger with people, that it is kind of like fly-fishing.  I see a big rainbow lurking in the deep and I tie on a wet fly and casually cast it so it drifts slowly by their nose.  If that doesn’t work, I tie on a dry-fly and see if it coaxes them to rise to the surface.  Some folks, like some fish, just aren’t too interested in world hunger issues so I just quit casting.

But every once in a while, I tie on the right fly for the right rainbow and they come surging up out of the water with passion and fury. Jerry was that kind of rainbow (my half-hearted apologies to Jerry for calling him a fish). Once I told him of the vision of Numana, he exploded into one of the most passionate people about feeding kids I’ve ever met.

Another new friend is Captain Bob Poff of the Salvation Army.  Bob is the project office in Haiti and the most expert driver I know. I am still amazed that he navigated us calmly through the worst traffic I have ever seen.  My idea of a traffic jam is pulling over to the side of the road while the farmer tootles along in his combine. Haiti’s idea of a traffic jam is to toss five million vehicles in a ten square mile area with no cops and pot-holes small villages could be lost in.  I never worried about dying because you can’t get enough speed built up, but I sure thought I was in the Demolition Derby at the County Fair. We honk in America because of road rage.  They honk in Haiti out of politeness. They are just warning you that you are about to hit or be hit.

Bob was unflappable. He would crawl out of the truck at the end of the day as nonchalant as John Wayne sauntering down the street.  I would jump out as wound up as Chihuahua on a sugar high.  I am convinced that anyone would has high blood pressure should hang around Bob for a couple of days. His gentleness rubs off on you.

Ah, then there’s my New York friend, Major George Polarek.  Major Polarek is the Assistant Director of SAWSO (Salvation Army World Services Organization) who lives in D.C. but came down to Haiti to meet with us.   Have you ever known someone that just by being in their presence, it made you want to be a better person?  That’s George.  I noticed I sat up straighter, tried to be more articulate, minded my manners at the dinner table, and had greater vision.  I like people like that.

George is one of the most articulate people I have ever met.  He can size up a situation and define it so clearly that you just stand there in awe.  I had a video camera with me and asked him if he would mind saying a few things on camera about the village of Balan at which we had just arrived.  Twenty seconds after I started the camera, I turned it off and with mouth agape, said, “How did you do that?”  Not only had he assessed the dire situation in the village and clearly articulated it, he had convinced me to write a check to Numana and I’m the one that founded it!

George is also a great story-teller.  I felt like a little kid sometimes just wanting him to tell me another story.   He was in New York City during 9-11 and was in charge of the entire Salvation Army relief effort at Ground Zero.  But he has a hard time telling those stories.

And I cannot forget my new friend, Major Lucien Lamartiniere.  He is the Divisional Commander over all of Haiti for Salvation Army.  He has a smile that could disarm a nuclear bomb.  Seriously, I think any one who ever studies conflict-management should learn how to smile like him.  He smiles and suddenly you believe you’re the most valuable person in the room, that there is hope for humanity, and that any problem can easily be solved.  He taught me to say, “Tra-bon,” which means “Very good.”

Major Lemartinerre was right in the middle of preparing for the arrival of the Salvation Army General who was to arrive the week after we were there.  It had been quite some time since a General had visited Haiti, so they were in the throes of preparation. Regardless, the Major made time for us and made us feel like we were the most important people that have ever visited Haiti.

And I loved to hear him laugh!  One night at dinner, one of the Salvation Army officers cracked a joke in Creole so I didn’t understand what they said, but the Major started laughing and we soon found ourselves laughing with him.  I discovered that the Haitian people are some of the most joyous people I have ever met.  They laugh easily. And often. And it’s good for my soul to hear.

These are my new friends.  I hope you get to meet them sometime.  They have made my world a much better place in which to live.

They are making the world a much better place in which to live.

I once watched a lop-sided rugby match masquerading as a biddy-basketball game. Like a pack of lemmings, the little guys would run down the court and pile on top of each other under the goal. Arms flailed, bodies writhed, and whistles blew as the pint-sized pugilists duked it out for the leathered orb. March Madness turned into March Mayhem.

Our team was winning the skirmish. Mostly because the other team –in just the first half- had nineteen fouls to our one. One ref had issues with a parent on the other team and made it abundantly unfair. It’s hard to feel good about winning when things aren’t fair.

I believe the reason people yell at refs during a game is because we have an innate desire for fairness. Even if the refs are terrible, fans feel better if they are terrible for both teams. “Call it the same both ways!” We learned to cry, “Not fair!” from diaper-time and just want the playing field leveled. If you’re going to call the point-guard for a touch foul, then you better arrest the forwards underneath who are committing aggravated assault.

But, as my Dad taught me, “Son, life ain’t fair.”

Traveling to countries like Haiti where 76% of the people live on two dollars a day stirs up the same emotions –only exponentially more intense– that you get watching refs call a game unfairly. An impoverished African boy who drank putrid water from a puddle once asked an American, “Is it true you use fresh water to flush your toilets?” Life is not fair. After I took my teenage sons to Nicaragua a few years back, one of them pasted this on our fridge: “Someone slap me if I ever whine again.”

Anger and despair are siblings of poverty and they find a home within your own soul once you are slapped in the face with the horrific conditions of poverty. They creep into your heart and wake you at night with the haunting faces of starvation.

I not only think it is our Divine prerogative, but our privilege to do what we can to make life fair. So we learn to share. In fact, I have learned that there are certain joys in life that only come when we share. The happiest people I know are people who share. The converse is true as well: the most miserable people I know are people who don’t share.

Making life fair. Sure, it seems like a pipe dream. Sure, it seems impossible. Sure, all our good efforts can be wiped out by one hurricane. Sure, other well-meaning people before us have tried and failed. But it’s sure worth trying!

So, if obesity is a problem in the U.S., and malnutrition is a problem in Haiti, then it becomes our privilege to share and make life as fair as we can. If life is so desperate in Haiti that a woman who had never met me stops me and asks if I would please take her seven year old daughter because she can’t feed her any more, then I need to do what I can to make sure that girl gets to stay with her Momma.

And doing what is right is always right even if it doesn’t turn out right. Walter Wink once said, “I must go into the world believing I have the power to transform it without any demonstrable proof that I am succeeding.”

We’ve had nearly 20,000 people in the last 3½ weeks package 2.1 Million Meals that are being sent to Haiti. I’d say we’re doing our best to make life fair.

I have traveled enough to lose any romantic notion of world travel. It is inconvenient, smelly, loud, packed-like-sardines-in-a-can tight, smelly, noisy, chaotic, full of delays, smelly, and sometimes dangerous. Did I mention smelly?

I do not understand what it is about air travel, but it often seems that some fellow with copious amounts of flatulence decides to spread his love. Perhaps he enjoys the anonymity of being squeezed together like pigs in a stock trailer. Or, maybe, it’s the constant engine roar that drowns out the sounds associated with such dispersion. Regardless, it seems like the air is frequently filled with aromatic assaults on the olfactory senses. Seriously, one time it was so bad that some desperate guy finally stood up and said, “Would whoever keeps farting please stop before you gag all of us!”

It worked. I was glad I did it.

Each city has its own smell. I live in a Kansas town of 450 people. We are surrounded by cattle feedlots, wheat-fields, hog-lots, and oil wells. Typically, it smells very fresh since the wind blows most of the time. But, depending on the humidity and wind direction, our town can smell like crude oil, freshly cut wheat, recently tilled soil, or pig poop.

Haiti has its own collection of smells. After traveling in the worst traffic I’ve ever seen, I will never be able to see a tiny pickup without getting nauseous. I will be sick by association, because they will always smell like diesel smoke belching from a “tap-tap.” A “tap-tap” is a bizarrely painted little pickup with stock racks and a fiberglass topper that doubles as a Haitian taxi. Throw two hundred and fifty people in the back of a little Datsun pickup and you have a “tap-tap,” which should really be named, “putt-putt” or “belch-belch.” I never rode in one but frequently thought my life was going to end because of one.

Another frequent smell was rotting trash lying in sewer water. Recycling has not caught on in Haiti yet, so about any spare space in the city becomes a handy place to toss trash. While they don’t have garbage trucks to collect it, they do manage to keep the pile from getting too big as starving people rummage through the refuse looking for food.

However, once you’re outside of town where people swarm like ants on a lollipop, the aromatic assault diminishes and is replaced by delightful smells such as the gentle spice of sea air breezing through banana trees. Haiti is a remarkably beautiful place in spite of the pillaging it has received at the hand of man and of nature. If Haiti is not having it resources plundered with deforestation at the hand of man, it is then assaulted by countless hurricanes that pummel it as senseless as Mike Tyson.

I liked best the somewhat pungent smell of a sage-brush-like tree that dots the plain near Lake Saumathe. Sprawling quietly in an arid plain five miles from that lake lays the Haitian village of Balan. (ba-lawn) It is the first village at which the food of Numana will be used to feed some 250 children in the Salvation Army School. I guess I should say 150 kids instead of 250. It should be 250, but 100 of the kids are out with their parents each day looking for food and they can’t go to school. But once we get food there, then all 250 kids will attend! Hopefully, their parents won’t give them away or sell them first. Human trafficking is the third biggest industry in the world.

Balan, in Creole, means “balance.” I find it delightfully divine that Numana – which has taken several years to develop – will serve a village that signifies justice. The name actually refers to the type of scales that you see the blindfolded figure of “lady justice” have in both hands. Is that cool or what!

76% of the people in Haiti live on less that $2 a day. We, in America, spend that on a cup of coffee.

Numana is going to see to it that we level the playing field and bring balance to the earth. We have so much. They have so little. And Americans like to share so we are helping them to do that!

And sharing smells very, very, very good!

Seven years ago I had hair.

We had spent a lot of time feeding starving people in Central America and Africa and were brainstorming ideas to get more people involved in feeding starving people.  We had just visited my good friend Lyle Mullin’s operation in West Virginia (www.hsminc.com) and were impressed with the food packaging program they did and wanted to replicate it in Kansas.

Seven years ago I had a mustache.

It’s been a long seven years full of dreams and disappointments trying to launch Numana – a brilliant name that a marketing company Jajo (www.jajo.net) gave us.  We thought we had our first event scheduled several times only to find out that our timing couldn’t have been worse – I mean, who foresaw the whole world economy tanking?

But because it did, the hunger crisis has only worsened.  The numbers had been 825 million people in the world starving every day.  It has increased 150 million to a staggering 975 million!  Almost a billion people are starving. Today.

Although we’ve been discouraged and disappointed, I always knew that when the right time came to get our first event launched, a bell would sound in my head.  Remember the Rocky movie w here he was getting the ever-living stuffing knocked out of him and suddenly the bell sounded and the fight was one – it was time to conquer.

The bell has sounded It’s time for our first event! This wonderful concept-which is not mine any longer but the result of some committed people around me-is coming of age.

We will have our first event on Dec. 29-30 at the Civic Center in El Dorado, KS.  Our goal is to package 100,000 meals.  Our intent is to send the first container to Haiti, where children are eating mudcakes to fill their tummies.

Come help us.  30 cents a meal gives a child a nutritious meal. You can do it right after Christmas with your family, your church, your civic group, your friends, gosh, we’ll even let you bring your enemies – just let us help you save the starving.

Just so you know in case you want to send ransom money, my abductor is a six pound, eleven ounce, 19 1/4” long blue eyed beauty going by the alias of Cailyn Joy McNary. I say it’s an alias because she’s really too beautiful for her real name to be of this earth. She’s got to have an angelic name that Someone is keeping from us. But we’ll happily call her Cailyn Joy until the angels reveal their secret.

I was warned that the journey from father to grandpa was better than any trip I had ever made before and I’d never want to go back. And now that I’ve gone over to the other side, so to speak, I wonder why I didn’t do this decades earlier.

I’m an emotional mess. How could I possibly love someone so much that I hadn’t even known a week earlier? How could I possibly go to work each day and not be able to concentrate because I missed her so much? And it was just four days earlier she was a figment of imagination living lovingly inside my daughter-in-law? For crying out loud! How could those blue eyes melt me and she can’t even speak!

I paused to take a break while yesterday and sat staring at the wall wondering what she was doing. Was she eating okay? Was her Daddy holding her or her Mommy? What was she wearing? Was she warm? Was her diaper okay? Did she miss me, too?

Good grief. I’m a mature, responsible adult that ought to be in better control.

But I’m not. I’m toast. Wasted. Undone. Abducted. Ambushed. Smitten. Ravished.

And she doesn’t have a clue how much she is loved.

And neither do I most of the time.

Until times like these and God reminds me, as I feel a love that is has so mysteriously appeared and captured me, that this is the way He feels about me all the time.

He just likes to give me these beautiful occasions when He lets me feel about someone like He feels about me.
How awful to ever have to watch one starve.
Unbelievable, unexplainable, life-changing love.
By the way, the address to send ransom money to is: Box 572, El Dorado, Ks. Make it to the attention of: Cailyn Joy McNary.