First Impressions

She looked like a homeless person and when she entered the coffee shop at Hamilton this morning, I wasn't the only one who noticed her. She wore dirty jeans and a torn jacket. Her dark hair was tangled and messy. She looked so incongruous there among the well-dressed office workers and business people. Other patrons stared at her and when she made eye contact, they quickly looked away. I did too. As she stood waiting in line to place her order, the man behind her stepped back a little. A lady at the counter turned with coffee in hand and I watched her wrinkle her nose as she squeezed past the disheveled drifter, being careful not to touch her.

The woman spoke quietly when she placed her order. I wondered what she'd ordered and if she had enough money.

"Well," I thought, "at least she's not buying booze or drugs."

I assumed her hunger for food had won out this time, Ms J. She'd get the drugs a bit later, I supposed, by whatever means necessary. I noticed then how still it was in the little coffee shop. No conversation at the tables. No laughter. No discussion of the Olympics or Canada's medals. Nothing. I imagined the other patrons were as uncomfortable as I was, and I secretly hoped this woman would take her food and leave.

She didn't. Instead, she sat alone at the only empty table in the place, near the exit, and facing me.

Gradually, she was forgotten. Bit by bit, the atmosphere returned to normal. People resumed their conversations. Collectively, we relaxed.

From across the room I watched this creature as she wriggled out of her grimy coat. She'd bought a bagel, a plain bagel. It had been sliced in half and placed on a white paper plate.

"She'll have a hard time eating that," I thought. "She probably has no teeth. God, how can people live like that? How can they care so little about themselves? Or about anything?"

The woman was sitting there motionless, staring off into space.

"She's probably deranged," I thought. "Probably crazy as a shithouse rat. I wish she'd take her stupid bagel and eat it somewhere else."

Then she did something that completely changed the way I felt about her.

She bowed her head, Ms J, folded her hands and prayed. I don't know what she said, for it was a silent prayer, known only to her and God, but I imagine she was offering thanks for the food she was about to eat.

I felt my eyes moisten as my heart opened. And I smiled as I watched her.

In a moment, she raised her head and picked up a slice of bagel, broke it and ate a piece. Calmly, confidently, she fixed her gaze on me and her dark eyes shone as she returned my smile.

She is not a worthless stemmer, Ms J. Not a dirty, old derelict undeserving of Love and respect. She is a child of God. She is as precious to Him as any flower or tiny bird. She is as precious to Him as my own children are to me.

And I am ashamed that I judged her so harshly.

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