Returning to my room at the Breakwater Inn in Kennebunkport, I see the young Latina girl out of the corner of my eye. I turn and our green-hazel eyes meet.
“I can do your room later if you like,” she says shyly as she kneels in the hallway with cleaning supplies by her side and tying up bags of trash.
The occupant of the room next to mine shuts her door abruptly.
“Oh, that’s not necessary. No need to do my room today,” I smile. “We just need our wastebaskets emptied, if you don’t mind.”
And the next thing I know, I’m kneeling beside the Latina girl with eyes like mine tying up trash in the hallway of the Breakwater Inn.
And then I notice it—on her forearm—and the connection begins.
“Your tattoo is really pretty. Tell me about it.”
“It’s a lotus flower. It means hope.”
“So pretty,” I say, and she continues.
“I especially like these lines that come down from the flower. They remind me of the chains on a clock.”
“Oh, like the chains you pull on a clock to set the time? So, your tattoo reminds you that this is your set time to hope?”
She smiles and nods in happy agreement. She knows I get her, and He gets her, too.
And one more bag of trash is tied up and tossed out in a quiet moment of sharing God’s love with a young Latina girl with eyes like mine.
Jesus never forced his opinion or himself on people. Instead, he stooped down low to associate with people of all walks of life. He spoke their language in a way that helped them connect to God.