07/24/2026
Telling Lady That She Matters!
Today, Thursday, July 23, at 4:57 PM, Jeremy and I went to the Wailua Post Office to look at a used car.
We arrived a little early, so we sat and waited.
While we were there, I noticed one of my local houseless friends, a woman who goes by the name Lady. People outside the feed store and near Jerry's Pizza were yelling at her.
"Go away."
"Get out of here."
Hearing that stirred something deep inside me. I felt angry. Not necessarily at the individuals themselves, but at the darkness, the emptiness, and the subzero temperatures that can settle into people's hearts.
I've known Lady since January of 2021.
I met her through a houseless man everyone knew as Drifter. Most people only knew him by that name. One day he told me his real name.
"Thomas Clifford, like the big red dog," he said.
Drifter had come to Oahu from St. Louis, Missouri. He was living with stage four liver failure when I knew him. Despite everything he was carrying, he still managed to hold onto a sense of humor.
Through Drifter, I met Lady.
When I first met her, she spent her days making artwork out of whatever nature provided. Rocks, shells, flowers, string, glue, and pieces of plant life. She would carefully assemble them into small pieces of art and try to sell them for a dollar or two.
Most people walked by without stopping.
Some wouldn't even make eye contact.
Others managed to send a message without saying a single word.
You don't belong here.
I knew that look because I had seen it before.
When I was seventeen years old and living on the streets in San Jose, California, people would pass by you, sometimes even step over you, wearing that same expression.
You don't belong here.
It is difficult to explain what that does to a person. It isn't just loneliness. It isn't just hunger. It's the feeling that your existence itself has become unwelcome.
Maybe that's why moments like today affect me the way they do.
As I walked over, Lady saw me and called out.
She asked if I could get her a couple of beers and a grape Swisher. I told her I don't normally buy alcohol or to***co for people, but I told her I would get her the grape Swisher.
I went into the store and stood in line. When I got to the register, I asked for a grape Swisher. The cashier asked if I wanted a pack or a box.
I went back outside and asked Lady.
"The box is fine," she said.
When I returned to the register, the cashier asked if it was for her.
I answered honestly.
"Yes."
The sale ended right there.
She refused to sell it to me.
So I walked over to the gas station.
After I had the Swisher in my hand, I told the cashier there what had happened at the first store. She told me she wouldn't have sold it to me either.
Then she began telling me how awful Lady was.
I listened.
She shared stories about difficult encounters and things she had experienced.
The truth is, I understood what she was saying.
For nearly ten years now, I have been building relationships with the houseless in my community. I've worked with some of the hardest people out there. I've been spit on. I've had dead birds thrown at me. I've had f***s thrown at me.
I know what people are capable of.
I understand frustration.
I understand exhaustion.
I understand why some people reach the end of their patience.
What floored me wasn't the stories.
What floored me was the lack of compassion.
The absence of grace.
It felt as though people had stopped seeing a human being and started seeing only a problem.
Somewhere along the way, we've convinced ourselves that broken people deserve to be discarded.
I believe the opposite.
Instead of destroying what's left of broken people, we should be actively trying to restore dignity in the hearts of our brothers and sisters.
Eventually, I walked back over to Lady.
Before I left, I looked at her and said,
"You matter."
She looked at me in a way that caught me off guard.
"Don't look at me like I just said something cheesy," I told her with a smile.
She told me it was difficult to hear someone say that because she didn't feel like she mattered.
So I said it again.
"You matter."
Then I told her something else.
"I love you."
Not because she has everything together.
Not because she's easy to love.
Not because she's earned it.
But because she is a human being.
She matters.
I told her I would see her soon, and then I left.
For nearly eight years now, I haven't been capable of tears. They simply don't come. But as I walked away, I felt the weight of a question that has stayed with me for a long time:
What happens to us when our hearts grow cold toward people who are already carrying more pain than most of us can imagine?
Because regardless of someone's struggles, addictions, mistakes, failures, or circumstances, they remain human beings.
And sometimes the most important thing a person can hear is the very thing they've stopped believing about themselves:
You matter.
You are loved.
