Homeless In Hawaii - A Begging Question

THE BEGGING QUESTION

Wrinkled raisin-brown from the sun,

twisted limb with no teeth in her gum.

Shaking, quaking man alone on the street

sleeping on the bench with no watcher to keep.

Children in a shopping cart

as daddy pushes them from park to park, not through Wal-mart.

Blankets strewn in the bathroom stall,

smelling of drugs and urine with dirt covering the wall,

 people are passed out beside the toilet where they fall.

“Excuse me!” they call.

“Do you have a Dollar?”

“Ya got any food?” they holler.

Mostly, it’s silence, though

when I hurry by these people each day as I go.

But in my head later it’s like a show

flickering from slide to slide like there’s some answer there I should know.

And, as I pass the gnarled old woman on the street,

I strain to hear her mumbling as I retreat-

listening, looking for something, anything, I can grasp…

Like maybe if I concentrate hard enough, their stories will clear in the jumbled rasp.

Not sure what I’m trying to discover;

perhaps the reason, the purpose, the why I’m looking to uncover?

I guess I’m looking for this answer to why –

“Why them and not me?” I ask as for them I cry.

I see the browned outstretched hands as a question mark,

“What can I do that will bring light to their world so dark?”

The need before me so stark

The call a herald, a trumpet-hark.

I just don’t know how to build the ark

that will help float those flooding the street corners and living in the park.

So, ever reaching out in high pitched strains,

like a shrill note, this begging question mark remains...

THE ISSUE IN THE QUESTION

The sound of laden carts bumping down the sidewalk is a part of the everyday city sounds; the smell of two-week unwashed bodies just another stench that mingles with car exhaust.  I view the overwhelming state of the Homeless in Hawaii each day...view these snapshots with me:

I am on my half-hour run, enjoying the beautiful sun as it reflects off the ocean.  Palm trees sway around me.  I veer around the corner, my feet picking up the pace.  I almost stop.  Did I just enter a campground?  On this side-street leading to the ocean-path, tent after tent after tent keeps going...

I consider turning around.  Running away.  But, somehow I can't.  Maybe it's not the safest thing, but I choose to run along this homeless neighborhood.  Counting.  I lose count.  Some of the "homes" are tarps, pulled over shopping carts.  It stinks.  I wonder where their toilet is?  I'm probably running over it.  Somehow, it doesn't really gross me out as much as it hurts my heart.  Some of the tents have the shoes all lined up outside - a few of the pairs are children's shoes.  I see one of the women sweeping her section of the street, a little kid plays in the pile of dust she makes.  When I first arrived in Hawaii, there were only two tents on this street - now it's homeless city.   I wonder...what's your story?

I heard a rumor yesterday that the "residents" on this homeless street are about to be kicked out.  Where will they go?

I'm walking to work.  I see a woman I've nicknamed in my head "the bird lady" pushing her cart across the parking lot in front of me.  I named her this because she keeps filthy old pidgins in cages towered on her cart.  I usually see her in Honolulu.  Today she's in Waikiki.  Before my eyes, I watch her abandon her precious cart.  I can't tell if the birds are still under the tarp covering her possessions.  She walks twenty feet to a patch of grass beside the road and falls down.  "AaAAAaaaaaAAAAAAh."  A loud wail starts piercing the air.  She's clutching at her legs, crying out, wriggling back and forth.  Between the screams I hear a slurred, "OH it stiiiiings..." I get closer.  Her legs are massively swollen.  It looks as if one of them got mauled by a shark.  They are red, scabbed, infected, her feet puffed like a blown-up surgical glove. 

"Are you ok?" I ask as I stop beside her.
Silence.  Sniffling.  "I'm fine.  I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm fine."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, I'm fine."

I hesitate and start to walk away, looking back.  What do I do?????

"I'm fine," broken record, "Don't call anyone, ok.  Please don't call anyone.  I'm fine."

I look down and notice I'm clutching my cell phone.  "Ok.  I won't. "  Clearly she's not fine.  As I walk onto work, I leave behind her wails that continue.  I join her crying, only mine is silent.  I walk past the tourists and sunbathers along the main street in Waikiki, my head bent under my hat to hide the tears bubbling over onto my cheeks.  I feel so helpless. 

People say all you can do is pray.  I do that.  But it doesn't feel like enough. The lady didn't want help.  What did she want?

I'm in the park.  Going along the path with the other walkers/joggers.  We're listening to our i-pods and wearing Nike.  Coming towards me is a man, gaunt and wrinkled despite his young 30-something age.  In the cart he pushes are two dark little children.  Bronzed by the sun and dirt.  The kid's eyes are glazed, stark white against their skin, and they lack the normal child-like energy.  Those eyes peep over the edges of the cart at me as they pass.  I can't help looking over my shoulder as that bumping sound of the cart fades behind me.  Their eyes, though, they don't fade.  They plee for something - but I don't know what. I wonder, where's their mommy?

THE QUESTION REMAINS...

This "family" was not going shopping for food or clothes, they were hunting for their next "home" for the night - probably under some sprawling tree in the park, or under a tarp on the sidewalk.  I bet the daddy was then going to hunt for dinner in a nearby garbage can.  I see it all the time.  Individuals with tattered clothes falling off of them are constantly digging through the garbage.  I see them pick up a half-full Starbucks cup and down the remains.  Or a bag of leftover hamburger from McDonalds.  And this is right along the shopping centers, not some ghetto area - but outside of Gucci and Neiman Marcas. 

I just finished a fast, and it makes me wonder what it's like to be hungry all the time, but not necessarily by choice; to have to hunt through the garbage for your next meal.  There's a scripture that simple screams to me every time I read it, "Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:  to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?  Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter - when you see the naked, to clothe him...and if you spend yourselves on behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness and your night will become like the noonday sun" (Isaiah 58:6-10).  

That question mark still hovers for me.  What to do? 

When this is before me every day. 

When I face hurt that doesn't want help. 

When the issue is so vast it overwhelms me. 

When it's suddenly become "normal" to everyone else and I'm the only one walking down the street crying. 

What to do?

I don't have the answer just yet, but I know I can't ignore it.  I can't forget that God does call us to feed, clothe, and take care of those hungry or oppressed.  So when He urges me with specific circumstances, I refuse to turn a blind eye.  I don't always feel that intense tug to "Give this person food," or "buy this lady diapers for her children," but every once in awhile I get the answer to my question, "What to do?"  I guess that's what we can all do - refuse to let our hearts callous over from the sight and respond to the call.  Instead of merely sacrificing things in your personal inner-life for God, sacrifice for others and give when the call comes to you strongly. 

Despite this, I can't lie:  that question still remains for me:

"What can I do - really do - to make a difference?"

This question begs for an answer...

I do know, “We should continue to remember the poor” (Galatians 2:10), and  not become so accustom  to the sight that we no longer cry with those who cry, and care for those who are hurting and oppressed. 

© Krinda Joy