Pearls, Pigs, and Perceptions

6:33 a.m. I sit at a small table on the twelfth floor of a hotel in Honolulu—a place previously only imagined. From my expansive window, I watch the sea rush to shore--a coastline full of towering condos, office buildings, and elegant shops knowing the ocean is more powerful than all this luxury and extravagance. I want to open the deck door and inhale the surroundings, but another struggles to stay asleep not wanting to experience life as I do—to drink it in, breathe it all in, in its fullness, face to face.

As a two-cupper gurgles on my mini countertop, as I apply eyeliner and lip gloss, as I slip on my most Hawaiian shirt, and as I picture a day in the sunlight with God’s almighty ocean teasing the shorelines; someone else, someone-in-reach, will soon tug at my heart.

I slip outside softly, take the elevator down to the lobby, take the escalator down to street level, and begin my morning walk. I see her in my peripheral vision but don’t want to stare. So I walk up one block and then turn back to her side of the street to get a better look. As I draw close, my eyes start to water; the stench is that of a pigsty. I determine to buy her a sandwich, maybe some fruit. I can’t help but gawk as she scratches and picks at her hair and, then, studies her fingertips. She sits cross-legged, her enormous belly covering most of her legs.  There are several sandwiches and snack items beside her. With one hand, she scratches body parts; with the other she shoos the pigeons as they greedily peck at her hoarded items.

How does it happen in our time when rockets penetrate space, giant submarines examine the complexities of the sea, and satellites send messages from the heavens that homeless persons are abandoned without care?

Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith and to inherit the kingdom he promised those who love him? But you have insulted the poor…. James 2: 5,6

Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.  Matthew 7:6

Should I talk to her? What would I say? The words, “crazy, mentally ill,” stumble through my mind. I feared her; and I was ashamed that I did.

Late afternoon, hubby and I wait for a cab outside the hotel lobby to attend a luau. Thunder crashes; rain drenches the streets.  Slick limos, bright umbrellas with walkers hidden beneath, and soaked bicyclists speed by.  In between traffic and splashes, I spot her—lying on the green grass, her hefty behind uncovered, asleep in the rain.  Her food lies sodden beside her—the birds no longer attentive.

The next morning, as the coffee pot gurgles on the countertop, I study the infinite waters: the vastness, the smell, the immense power, the mystery. Drinking it all in; breathing in life and seeking it face-to-face is both glorious and difficult. I cannot forget her.