The Pigs Before Father’s Day: A Lesson About Casting Your Pearls Before Swine

The day before Father’s Day, I got a visit from some unexpected guests. Not family, not neighbors, but a family of pigs. Yes, literal pigs, four of them at first, cruising through the hot, heavy Florida air like they owned the place.

When they first arrived, the smallest one, just a tiny piglet, lagged behind. The day was brutally hot and humid, and the little one struggled to keep up with the others. Before long, worn out by the heat and stress, that piglet lay down in my pole barn and squealed its last breath.

That part of the story hurt. No matter how friendly the others were, or how much we tried to help, the littlest one just didn’t make it. Sometimes, the weight of wandering and the heat of the world are simply too much, especially for the most vulnerable. It’s a hard thing to witness, and it stays with you.

The rest of the pigs carried on. The big male would trot right up to you, nuzzling your pockets for snacks, while the mama and her other baby followed close behind, tails twitching. These weren’t your average wild hogs, they were friendly, curious, and had no sense of personal space.

It was one of those thick, sticky June days in the Panhandle where even the chickens look for shade. The pigs found their oasis in my poultry pool, a shallow plastic tub meant for the birds, now commandeered by three hefty squatters. They flopped in, wallowed, and splashed, looking as content as any creature could be.

Then, as if they had a schedule to keep, they wandered across the road to my neighbor’s yard. My neighbors, amused and a little charmed, cooled them off with the garden hose and offered food. Fruit? Not interested. But offer them Cheerios or cookies, and suddenly you had their full attention.

All day long, the pigs went back and forth. They broke through my fence, shoved open my gate, and when my neighbors locked theirs, the pigs simply circled around and found another way in. Nothing short of a brick wall was going to keep them out.

We tried to do the right thing. We called animal control, tried to find someone to come get them. A couple of people offered, but only if they could shoot the pigs and take them home for meat. That wasn’t the ending we wanted.

Late in the afternoon, the female and her baby wandered down the road, disappearing into the oaks and brambles. The male didn’t notice right away. He kept searching, pacing between the yards, calling out for his family. We gave him one more chance to leave on his own. When morning came, Father’s Day itself, he finally headed out across my field, moving southwest, looking for his lost family. And as of this writing, hasn’t come back.

That was the end of the pig saga, but the story stuck with me. The whole thing felt oddly familiar, like an allegory I’d lived before.

There’s a line in the Bible that goes, “Do not cast your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.” It’s blunt, but sometimes life really is that simple.

I’ve known people like those pigs. You probably have, too. They wander into your life uninvited, charming at first, but quickly exhausting. They break through boundaries, ignore fences, and eat up your time and resources without a second thought. You try to help them, redirect them, set up barriers, but they always find a way around. And when you finally run out of patience (or Cheerios), they move on, leaving you drained, frustrated, and wondering what just happened.

But the lesson from that tiny piglet is just as important. Sometimes, even with all the kindness in the world, you can’t save everyone. Some are too worn out, too lost, or just too fragile for the road they’re on. That loss can hurt deeply, especially when your heart is open and willing to help. It’s a reminder to be gentle with those who struggle, and also gentle with yourself. You can offer care, but you can’t always control the outcome.

The pigs are gone now, and hopefully, they don’t come back, but the lesson lingers. Not every wandering soul is yours to rescue. Sometimes, you have to close the gate, wish them well, and let them find their own way. Some will move on and become a drain on others, some will find their way home, and some, sadly, might not make it at all. The key is for you to recognize when tough love is the order of the day. Saying no doesn’t mean you aren’t kind and compassionate, it means you refuse to cast your pearls before swine.

Shalom dear ones.
Sister Miri