"I could be in Pittsburgh!" (special from Hawai'i)

One of the more prominent features of Lahaina, the historic Royal Capital of the Kingdom of Hawai’i, is a spreading banyan tree outside the old court house. From a single trunk, its aerial root system spreads over 2/3 of an acre: the roots, which appear to be branches, dive down into the ground and take root, themselves; others spread outward and up.

The ficus benghalensis, which was planted in 1873, is a favorite spot for tourists to take photos, and people of all ages mill about, posing, snapping pictures, and gazing in wonder at the this tree. And nearly invisible are the half-dozen or so people who actually live there.

By “live there”, I don’t mean in Lahaina: I mean “live under the tree”. These are some of the homeless on Maui.

I know what some might be thinking: "So you're homeless - you're on Maui! Sleep on the beach ... under the stars ... must be nice!" Yeah - right.

One man is hunched over in a wheelchair, with what looks like a plate lunch in a Styrofoam container in his lap. He seems unwilling or unable to brush away the flies that seem to be enjoying the lunch more than he. A friend is sitting next to him and doesn't seem bothered by the flies, either. On a bench nearby, a man with a grey beard is lying on his back, a few shopping bags with belongings and cans on the ground beside him; a grey-haired, tanned woman is sitting beside him, reading a book to him.

Another fellow is sitting on a bench next to them with a dog beside him. Clean-shaven, tanned, and clear-eyed, he tells me the dog isn’t his: “I’m just watching her for her mom,” he says.

“Him,” I say, noting the obvious.

The man tells me his name is Mike and that he had been a casting director in Hollywood. “It was a lot of work: I’d go twenty straight days without a break, and I’d be just about to take some time off when they’d call me and I’d have to go to another set and work there. When I had my last heart attack, my doctor said I had to retire.”

“Your ‘last’ heart attack?”

“I had a mild one, then I had a serious one, and that’s when the doctor told me to get out of the business.”

But the Hollywood glamor did not come with a decent retirement plan, so with a Social Security income of $509.00 a month, Mike headed for Maui. “You can’t buy much on $509 a month,” he said, “and you can’t afford rent.”

“At least you don’t have to worry about heating bills,” I offered.

“My brother in Pittsburgh spends more in a month on heating than I get in Social Security,” he says. “If it gets ‘cold’,” he said, making “quotation” signs with his fingers, “you might need to use one sheet or a blanket. So, you know: I could be in Pittsburgh!”

At another point, he told me about working for his brother, who’s a lawyer. “I had a job going around to the pharmacies and picking up medication just before they were going to expire, then taking it to the homeless people.”

“What kind of medication?” I asked. “Prescriptions? Methadone?”

He shook his head. “Antibiotics. People on the streets – “ he looked around him “—they don’t take care of themselves. They get sick … they need antibiotics.” Around Lahaina, there are no facilities like The Lord’s Rain. Mike manages to get to the public swimming pool from time to time to wash up, but for the most part, it’s a basic human need that’s still unmet.

I thought those who support The Lord’s Rain would like to know that: that it's provided -- and continues to provide – something not readily available in other parts of the world. When I see some of the infections suffered by binners on Vancouver’s Downtown East Side – like the time, a few years ago, when Ron nearly lost an arm because a “nick” from a dumpster got infected (doctors had to open up Ron’s entire forearm to treat the infection) – I think how much worse things could be if The Lord’s Rain weren't there to at least provide an option. 

**

SROs, Maui-style

The next day, I learn that there are some individual efforts around Maui to help people get clean. I got the opportunity to ride along with “A Cup of Cold Water”, a mobile ministry set up by St Joseph’s Episcopal (Anglican) Church in Wailuku. (And whoever gives one of these little ones only a cup of cold water in the name of a disciple, assuredly, I say to you, he shall by no means lose his reward. – Matthew 10:42) Maui doesn't have a skid row area per se, so the trick in ministering to homeless people is to know where to look. 

ACCW is a white-and-blue van, which carries a stock of “basic” food items, and “on request” items like underwear, socks, t-shirts, dog food and hygiene products. In the van are Lawrence, his mother Juanita, and Dutch. All three are Hawai’ians by ancestry; Lawrence and another man, Keku, who organized this “ride-along” for me, are retired police officers. We go first to Kahului, leave the main road and hit a badly-maintained dirt road near the shore.  I had just explained what an SRO is (single-room occupancy hotel) is when Lawrence said, “Here are our SROs.” He pointed to a row of derelict cars and trucks along the dirt road.

Each vehicle had at least one person living in it. I was reminded of the "rubber tramps" that Rudy, a fellow I knew at Rainbow Mission, told me about after he'd finished his hitch in the Vietnam war.

We were first greeted by a small dog, leashed to a tent that had been made out of the back of a pickup truck. Presently a young woman squirmed out of the tent, pulling on a dress. We hand her a “single person” bag – one can each of cocktail sausages and Spam (As the late John Pinette said, “I love Hawai’i: there, Spam is a vegetable.”) – two bottles of water, a pudding cup, fruit cup, granola bar and Rice Krispie square.

There was a familiar pong in the air. Dutch motioned towards the buildings at the end of the dirt road – the sewage pumping station.

Lucy, a petite woman about my age, emerges from another truck. “How’re ya doing?” I ask. “Hanging in,” she says. “Hangin’ in.” She then reaches out to me and gives me a huge hug and clings to me for a long time.

“The owner of my place suddenly decided to sell,” she says. “We got 30 days’ notice and nowhere to go. I went to get a camping permit but you know what? They (the County) wanted $45 a day! I can’t pay $45 a day! So I’m here.”

We pray together, then she goes and gets her bag. As we drive away, Lawrence explains that the County inspectors had gone to the place where Lucy had been living and found that no one really knew who owned it. When they finally found out who the owners were, the owners decided to sell rather than upgrade. And Lucy and others were out on their collective ear.

We move on. There’s a little shack in a parking area behind the pumping station and we pull up and honk the horn. A reddish dog bounds out to say hello and in the doorway we see a large woman hurriedly putting on a robe. She comes out to us with one hand on her cheek.

“How are you?” Dutch asks.

“Got a bad toothache,” she says. “You don’t have any Tylenol, do you?” We don’t. We hand her the bag and a couple of tins of dog food and move on.

Dutch explains that there are some areas where they don’t always go – areas inhabited by known criminals and drug dealers. “We especially don’t let the women go in alone,” he says. “If it’s me and Keku,” Lawrence puts in, “we might, ‘cause we can take care of ourselves; but if it’s just ma and some of the other women, they don’t go.”

“We also don’t want to be ‘enablers’,” Dutch adds. “If we go to these guys, they’ll barge in and take whatever and then sell it.” He motioned to a group of tents across the river from our next stop. “But if they come across the river to us while we’re here, we’ll give them something. If they cross the river, they’re exposed, so if they're making that effort, we figure they really need it.”

I ask them about options for cleaning up. In Lahaina, they point out that there are hoses on the docks used for washing down the boats (wonderful! Let’s bathe in tepid sea-water!) and the Family Life Center in Kahului offers showers. Lawrence’s brother, a lifeguard at the public swimming pool in Kihei, has arranged to allow homeless people to shower at certain times of the day. Even that was a tough sell, but he was able to make it happen.

We drive on … to a spot where two men are living in a makeshift shack in a location where other shelters had been destroyed by the storms this past winter (yes, Maui gets winter storms, and they can be nasty). We had gone to see if anyone was left. As we left, we saw a County park inspector drive by – possibly to “encourage” them to move on.

We hit Kalama Beach Park, where a lot of un-housed people set up their homes. Because it was Wednesday, most of them had moved their vehicles out onto the road so the County could clean the park, which is done every week. “They call it ‘resting the park’,” Dutch explains. 

We come across one man – probably in his 60s – who’s installed solar panels on an old pickup truck and uses that to power his truck radio, a TV (with satellite dish) and a few other things. 

A young woman emerges from a minivan, carrying a little girl – maybe 18 months old. It’s not clear where the woman’s husband is, although it’s possible he’s at work, and doesn't make enough to afford a place to live. But where you might think there would be despair, there is love in the mother’s eyes, and joy in the baby’s: the little girl is still blowing kisses to us as we climb back into the van.

At our next stop in the park, we find three generations all together.

“There are actually three or four clans here,” Lawrence says, as Juanita and I throw together “family” bags.

“Why aren't you in school?” Dutch asks one little boy.

“I'm sick today,” he says.

Back into Kahului, we wind our way through the industrial area, past the warehouses and big-box stores, finding one or two people in various places. Lawrence has a keen eye: “There’s some (people) there,” he says, as we pull up at a traffic light. He’s spotted a shopping cart off to the side of the road, with four or five guys huddled around it. We hand out single bags and chat for a bit, then head on.

We then pull up near the Family Life Center, but Lawrence makes sure he parks on County property. The Family Life Center, which is run by another church organization, has made it clear it doesn’t want ACCW parking on its property. Whether it’s jealousy among ministries, a sense that one’s turf has to be protected, or a misunderstanding, it’s something I've noticed in Vancouver, too. A few couples come over for bags; one fellow pulls up on a bike laden with bags. As we drive off, Lawrence mentions the fellow with the bike.

“He was a great athlete,” he says, “but just couldn't handle it all. They get all that money, and then the drugs and something goes wrong …” Lawrence doesn't mention his name or what sport he played: right now, that doesn't make much difference.

Families … drug addicts … the mentally ill … but for the most part, Just Plain Poor – people who work but still can’t afford a house … others, too old to work but for whom the “social safety net” has holes a humpback whale could jump through … A Cup of Cold Water, like The Lord’s Rain, is “Jesus With The Skin On,” a reminder that they haven’t been forgotten, they are loved by people who hardly know them – and especially, that they are still precious to God.

That may not seem like much, but neither does a seed, until it’s planted.