On Thursday, I was standing in the middle of a mess that would make most people turn and walk away. A sweet lady in her 70s had asked for help clearing out her home after the devastating floods, and I’d been there for hours—knee-deep in waterlogged furniture, boxes of ruined belongings, and all sorts of debris that carried the heavy smell of mildew and mud.
It wasn’t just the weight of the work that made it hard—it was the emotional toll of watching someone’s life reduced to piles of unsalvageable things. We were making slow progress when I heard the rumble of another truck pulling up outside.
Out stepped a man I’d never seen before. Tall, with a warm smile and a deep British accent, he introduced himself simply: “My name is Anthony… how can I help?”
I thought maybe he was a friend of the lady we were helping, but no—Anthony wasn’t even from West Virginia. In fact, he wasn’t even from the United States.
It turns out Anthony had heard about the flood damage from friends in West Virginia, and later saw more coverage through international news. He couldn’t shake the thought of people struggling thousands of miles away, so he made a decision that most of us would never even consider—he booked a flight from London to Charlotte, North Carolina, rented a truck, filled it with supplies, and drove it straight to Clendenin.
No organization sent him. No one promised him a place to stay. He just came.
That day, Anthony rolled up his sleeves and got right to work on the toughest jobs—the ones that required muscle and a strong stomach. He hauled heavy, soaked furniture to the curb, sorted through ruined boxes, and helped clear away the kind of mess you can only get after floodwaters recede. He never once complained, and he had a way of making even the grimiest, hardest tasks feel lighter with his quick wit and good humor.
When the day wound down, I invited him to stay with my family. He accepted with that easy charm of his, and from the moment he walked through the door, he fit right in. Over dinners and late-night conversations, we swapped military stories, shared laughs, and learned about each other’s lives. By the second night, it felt like we’d known him for years.
Every morning, Anthony was up early, ready to get back out and help. He never waited to be told where to go—he just went wherever the need was greatest. On Sunday, I didn’t go out with him, but he still spent the day helping strangers. That afternoon, he met an elderly woman who had been displaced by the floods and had nowhere to go. Without a second thought, Anthony paid for her to stay two nights at a Motel 8 in Dunbar—out of his own pocket.
He didn’t tell anyone about it. I only found out later. That’s the kind of man he is—someone who helps because it’s the right thing to do, not because he’s looking for credit.
By the time Anthony left, he was no longer just a volunteer or a visitor from across the ocean—he was family. My kids adored him, my friends admired him, and my whole family was touched by his generosity and genuine heart. His big smile, his willingness to get his hands dirty, and that charming British humor made him unforgettable.
Anthony came to West Virginia as a stranger. He left as someone we will always remember and cherish.
Thank you, Anthony—for traveling halfway across the world to help people you’d never met, for giving your time and energy so freely, and for reminding all of us that kindness knows no borders, no oceans, and no limits.
