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Steve, Steve-O, Steven

I actually can’t remember the very first time that we met, just that it was when I first arrived in Parkdale, nearly 20 years ago. He would go by Steve generally, Steve-O to many, and Steven to his family. A proud Anishinaabe man from Beausoleil First Nation, Steve was a well-known fixture in Parkdale. I would usually spot Steve sitting in a bus shelter or on the steps of the church on Cowan. He almost always had a crew around him.

When I think of Steve in that crew of people, I picture him quietly in the middle of it all. He’d be listening to everything, often chuckling under his breath, until strategically dropping a one-liner that got everyone laughing. He had a great sense of humour- one that he maintained even in the most challenging times.

Steve had an apartment of his own, one that he shared with many. He was hospitable that way, unable to leave someone stranded on the street. His openness sometimes led to trouble, and so he’d have to clear people out, but only until a new round of hosting would begin.

Steve and I had a lot of conversations about the losses he experienced, especially being predeceased by his mother, Joanne; his father, Frederick; and his brothers, Freddy, Richard, and Kenny. He would talk about how hard it was to be the only one left in that immediate circle. His tears would fall easily, though he would lament that too: “Erinn, I don’t want to cry.” Often, he would wipe his eyes with both hands and start to smile as he named his extended family, including nieces, nephews, aunties, uncles, great-nieces, and great-nephews.

A number of years ago, Steve stopped me on the street and asked me to find his family. He had lost contact and didn’t know how to find them. I gulped, worried I would be unsuccessful, asked for some hints about their whereabouts, and decided to put on my investigator hat. Amazingly, I found them, only to discover that they, too, had been looking for Steve. Steve’s nephew came to the city to pick him up and drive him up north for a reunion. I will never forget that moment.

Nor will I forget the time Joanna and I drove Steve to see his niece in the Midland-Penetanguishene area. He kept us entertained with stories the whole way. They had a visit, and then the three of us got back in my van, stopped for subs, and drove all the way back. I wish I had recorded our laughter that day.

For so many years, it was common to see Steve around Parkdale: at the Health Centre, outside the LCBO, on a bench, or in a Dale drop-in. Lately, it became uncommon to see him out and about. His health had taken a real turn, in such a way that we were longing for him to get more medical attention. In true Steve fashion, though, he wanted to live on his own terms, which included staying in his place and not going to the hospital. And so, we would regularly visit him at home.

Last Saturday night, Steve died. Joanna and I were just about en route to see him when his niece shared the news. Because his family is not in Toronto, we were able to go in their stead and sit with Steve while the hospital made arrangements.

It was so sad, and felt so sacred, to be in that dimly lit hospital room. I prayed over Steve. Joanna and I shared memories and spoke words of love and encouragement to our friend. It was, and I still feel shocked to say it, our last visit.

It was not however, the last time I would see Steve. Today, Dion and I drove up to Cedar Point in Tiny, Ontario, to board the ferry to Christian Island, home of the Beausoleil First Nation. The hearse carrying Steve was on that same ferry, carrying him home. We joined his family as they gathered around him in remembrance. Steve will be laid to rest with his ancestors: his mom, dad, and brothers.

Steve, Steve-O, Steven- I love you, buddy. Chi miigwech for being my friend. You are already missed, by me and so many others. We are going to have a service for you at The Dale. You always asked me to play Will the Circle Be Unbroken, and so we will be sure to include it.

We will try to do you justice with our stories and, hopefully, some of your one-liners.

Rest now. This is a see you later, not goodbye.

Steven Ronald Jackson, June 21 1968 – August 15 2026

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The Againness of Things

I turned on the radio in my vehicle, not sure what I wanted to listen to, when I heard an interesting thought being shared in an interview about “the againness of things.” The premise was that when we lean into the repetitive, sensory routines of our lives, gratitude can have room to emerge. For instance, taking time to feel the warmth of the sun can help us engage with the present moment and shift how we inhabit the day. Even though I have felt the sunshine countless times before, I can experience it anew in its “againness.”

I was driving to the Kawartha region when I turned the radio on. I take time off from work every August, and every year I make this pilgrimage to a secluded cabin generously shared with me by friends. More often than not, I am alone. This time, my visit would be split between a few days with my daughter and a group of her friends, and a few solo days.

As I opened the door, I was greeted first by the familiar scent: a combination, I think, of pine, fresh air, and the faintest hint of woodsmoke. I unloaded the groceries I had purchased on the way up, my suitcase, a stack of books, and a miniature bookstore kit. Once settled, I immediately got ready to jump in the lake.

Which is when I thought, I want to notice the againness of floating around in this lake.

I jumped in and felt the coolness of the water envelope me. I took a deep breath and dove under the surface. When I popped up, I shook my hair, looked up at the sun, and grinned.

While soaking in the water, I took notice of how Cate’s friends were seeing this familiar place to me with first-time eyes. I loved hearing their oohs and ahhs. Their appreciation for the cabin and the land it sits on heightened my own, which I didn’t even think was possible.

In the evening, we all gathered around the long table in the kitchen to share a meal. We were each invited to share a high and a low from the day. My low was how long it took me to get out of the city because of traffic. My high was arriving.

As I thought about my answer, I realized my high wasn’t simply arriving. It was remembering how to be held by the lake. There is something about floating that resists hurry. It invites me to release my grip, to trust the water beneath me, and to notice what has been there all along, including the warmth of the sun, the sound of laughter drifting from the dock, and the scent of pine carried on the breeze.

Maybe that’s the invitation. To notice the againness of things. To receive familiar gifts as though they are new. Because when we do, we become present to the extraordinary hidden within the ordinary.

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A City of Neighbours

I am sitting near Lake Ontario in the middle of the city. An impressive storm has finally tapered off, bringing a bit of freshness to what has been an especially hot and muggy day. Puddles are everywhere. The trees hang low, a blend of greens in every shade. Nearby, a dog pauses to smell the air.

To my right, sailboats line the shore. To my left, buildings rise above the waterfront, including the very top of the CN Tower. The cloud cover is low, forming a mist around the skyline. This view reminds me how much I love this place.

My love for Toronto runs deep. I was born and raised here. I stayed when I became an adult and have continued to nurture my roots. I get to be part of a number of vibrant neighbourhoods and find community on both sides of the Don Valley (something many Torontonians avoid crossing). Walking along Queen Street West in Parkdale is one of my favourite things to do, though you could plunk me down in almost any neighbourhood and I would gladly explore it.

I know cities can get a bad rap. They are big, noisy, and, to some, intimidating. But to me, the city is home. I love that I can walk through a ravine in the morning and skip stones at the lake by evening. The diversity provides a window to the world. And the food! While I recognize this is not everyone’s experience, I am almost always running into someone I know. It is possible to experience a neighbourhood in a village-like way.

At the same time, I am painfully aware of how the city can contribute to deep isolation. Being surrounded by people can heighten the loneliness of someone who feels completely disconnected. The cost of living is high and, for some, debilitating. The number of people without access to housing continues to rise rather than fall. These are just a few of the sobering realities many people face.

For me, all of this poses a challenge: How do I embrace the good while helping to disrupt what causes harm? Simply put, it starts with being present. I want to keep walking these city streets and learning people’s names. I want to build relationships. I want to listen to what people need and respond accordingly, whether that means offering help myself or connecting someone with a person who can.

I know that problems are rarely solved through individual effort. The challenges facing our city- including housing, affordability, mental health, and social isolation, require collective action, public investment, and systemic change. We need a city that works for all people, including those most often left behind. Personal acts of kindness are important, but they are not a substitute for this kind of justice.

At the same time, I believe cities are changed through countless small acts of presence, care, and connection. Systemic change is often fueled by people who have taken the time to know their neighbours, understand their community, and refuse to look away from what they see. Perhaps that is one reason I love Toronto so much. Here, there are millions of ordinary opportunities to be neighbours. And maybe that is how we begin to imagine and build a better city together.

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The Story We Carry Forward

I am very influenced by the art of storytelling.

This is true in my life generally and in my work specifically. When I think back to my early days in Parkdale, especially when it was time to reimagine what was PNC into The Dale, it became very clear that both the story that led us to that moment and the emerging story ahead of us needed to be told.

There is something fundamentally human about storytelling. It can build empathy and trust. It connects us to one another. Stories help us make sense of the world and connect us to the past. As one Inuit saying goes, “Stories help the heart remember who we are.” At the same time, the stories we tell can teach us valuable lessons- lessons that shape how we live and influence our actions.

I recently read a book that emphasized telling the history of an organization is crucial because it transforms it into a community with a shared identity. I know that one of the key parts of The Dale’s history is how our nomadic way of being was made possible because our community shared honestly about the realities of living a transient life. There is an irony in how our transience has led to deep roots throughout a neighbourhood. Giving up a building was birthed out of crisis and has now become one of our greatest gifts. Not knowing that trajectory would diminish our story.

Over the years, The Dale has experienced a variety of changes. As a community, we have woven our individual stories into a collective one. As a church and community organization that fundraises its budget, we have consistently experienced the provision of what we need, even when uncertainty about how it will come has lingered. The size of our staff team has grown. We are more broadly recognized, our partnerships have increased, and we have a stable network of supporters.

I think one reason these changes have been possible is because our sense of identity has remained strong throughout. Our history has not held us back; it has propelled us forward. This does not mean that change has always come easily or without a lot of effort. Sometimes change is scary, even when it is good.

In his book Switch, author Chip Heath writes, “Rather than focusing solely on what’s new and different about the change to come, make an effort to remind people what’s already been conquered.” This resonates with me as I think about some of the shifts being made to my own role right now. As I divest some tasks and take on new ones, I find myself reflecting on The Dale’s larger story. The organization has never stood still. It has adapted, evolved, and discovered new possibilities while remaining rooted in its identity. Remembering that history gives me confidence for what comes next.

Looking back reminds us that the story has never been static. It has always been shaped by people willing to respond to change, embrace uncertainty, and remain rooted in what matters most. The next chapter of The Dale is still being written, and while we cannot yet see all that it will hold, the story so far gives me every reason to believe it is worth telling.

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Still Fathering Me

I went to my Dad’s grave on the weekend. It was my alternative to figuring out a gift for him on Father’s Day. It has now been eighteen years since that fateful night when I learned of his death. Somehow, it also feels like no time at all.

I have been thinking about my Dad a lot recently. One day I caught a whiff of cologne strikingly similar to the one he wore. As I ironed some shirts, I remembered him showing me how to make crisp creases in the sleeves. I pulled out my sewing machine and was immediately transported back to a day when we sat hunched side-by-side, trying to figure out how to do an invisible hem on his new pants. I found myself in a space that could have been designed by him: the curve of a handle, the flow of a room, the attention to architectural details. Whenever I drink coffee late in the day, I thank him for passing along a similar countenance for caffeine.

Maybe more than anything, I have been missing the opportunity to talk with him. Sometimes I wish for his interior design eye on a project, or for him to suggest a recipe. I long to share about The Dale and how far it has come. But mostly, I want to tell him about the challenges I am facing and have him father me through them. It was in his last years that my Dad leaned into listening in a more pronounced way. I remember how that felt and wish there had been more time for us to practice listening deeply to one another.

Though he is not here, I feel confident he would be a doting grandfather to all of his grandchildren, that he would be concerned about Dion’s health challenges, that he would continue to be inspired by good food, and that he would still use his hands when telling a story.

My Dad’s gravestone is inscribed with his name, his dates of birth and death, and a phrase he said frequently: “Life is not a dress rehearsal.” To him, that meant this life is not a practice run for something else. We do not get a chance to go back and replay our days, redo our choices, or wait indefinitely for the “real” moment to begin. The life we are living right now is the real thing.

As I brushed away a few leaves and bits of mown grass from the stone, I found myself imagining my Dad encouraging me to be present, to take meaningful risks, and to pursue what matters.

I guess, in a way, I got to have a sort of conversation with him.

I left the cemetery carrying both grief and gratitude. Grief for all the conversations we never got to have, and gratitude for the ways he remains with me eighteen years after his death. His words still echo. Every day is a gift we do not get to rehearse, only to live. And that feels like wisdom worth carrying home.

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Being Present to Time

I always thought the adults were wrong. As a child I would hear them say how “time just keeps moving more quickly” and I would shake my head. To me, summer vacation felt like I was gifted an eternity before school was to start again. When I felt bored, time did not move fast.

But guess what? They were right.

Now an adult- and one who has an adult child, I am noticing the passage of time more acutely. I recently had a birthday and could hardly believe my last one was actually a year ago. My school days feel very distant. I have worked in Parkdale since 2007, which means nearly twenty years.

It was in 2012 that I started this blog. At the time, I was looking for a way to invite people into the changing story of what would become The Dale. It also created a space for me to reflect on and process my own journey. One of my earliest posts was simply titled, “Therapy”.

All these years later, I am still in therapy. I have an appointment every other week. It is a standing commitment, one that only gets shifted due to emergencies or an unusual conflict. My counsellor offers me a safe space to share, consistently asks perspective shifting questions, helps me through times of crisis, and challenges me to continue the work of self-reflection while things are relatively stable.

I am different than I was when I started, and I suspect change will continue in the years to come. I do not mean that I am another person. Actually, I believe that I am more authentically myself and slowly growing more comfortable in my own skin. I give a lot of credit to therapy as a conduit of the healing grace of God.

One of the things I have been practicing along the way is being present to the moment. Most recently, I have added journaling with all five senses to my “presence” toolkit. It helps me notice my surroundings in a grounded way, one that actually slows down the clock.

I suspect time will keep moving at a quick clip. I wonder what it means to be present to time, whatever its speed. Summers still seem to disappear quickly. I am rarely bored, though now I sometimes wish I could be. I still both want and need therapy. The story of The Dale continues, as does mine.

When I look back, I do not primarily see the passage of time. I see people, stories, friendships, healing, and community. While time keeps moving at a surprising rate, the invitation, I think, is not to keep up with it but to be present within it.

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Making Room for One Another

I think a lot about community and what it means to belong to one. If I have learned anything over the years, it is that community takes time and is far from a linear experience.

When we talk about creating a sense of family at The Dale, we do not mean it in the sentimental Norman Rockwell sense. It is hard fought, often messy, and dare I say, redemptive.

For me, restorative justice is about repairing harm, transformative accountability, and radical reconciliation. Some of my greatest teachers in restoration, redemption, and generosity have been core community members at The Dale.

Take the two people who, after being at serious odds, sit beside each other at one of our drop-ins and offer peace by saying they are praying for one another.

Take the person who caused so much harm at gatherings that we had to ask him to stop coming for a time, believing it was in the best interest of everyone involved, including him. For years, our relationship teetered on the edge. Then something slowly began to shift. Out of many difficult but consistent interactions, a mutual respect was formed. Now we express our love for one another.

Take the person who hardly ever says a word and yet showed up with a pint of blueberries from the food bank for my birthday and gave me a hug.

Take the people who had an explosive fight in the middle of lunch, the kind you would expect to be irreparable, and then quietly shook hands the next week.

Take the person who regularly admits, out loud and in front of a crowd, that they hear bad voices, are bored with God, and struggle with anger. Then they pray in a way that is so raw and full of emotion it takes your breath away. Because of their vulnerability, others begin to share too.

Take the person who is easily overstimulated and yet makes space for the guy who has to sing at the top of his lungs at least once every time we are together — and then even leads the applause.

Take the person who took the last meal of the day and then shared it with the person who came behind them, likely the only meal either of them would have that day.

Take the person on a fixed income who somehow saves $50 to donate ever so discreetly because they want someone else to have a nice Christmas.

This is the kind of community that has shaped me. Far from performative. Not perfect harmony. Not easy belonging. But people learning to give and receive, to forgive, and to love. People choosing, over and over again, to make room for one another.

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Story Day in Newfoundland: Holding Many Emotions

It’s early morning and the sky is red. Red at night, sailor’s delight; red in the morning, sailor’s warning. Isn’t that what they say? I have been thinking about references like that ever since landing in St. John’s, Newfoundland, the site of the most recent Story Day.

Newfoundland is the home of my husband. The first time I was ever here was to meet his family. That was in the 90’s. The first time I saw St. John’s was on that same trip. We took a bus from his hometown of Springdale on a May long weekend- it snowed. I have the pictures printed on film to prove it.

Since that time I have grown to love this island: the salt water air, the ever present scent of wood smoke, the ponds and lakes and massive ocean, the tea with carnation milk, the boil-ups of just picked mussels on the beach, the hospitality of the people and the lyrical quality of their speech, and the way I have been enfolded- despite being a mainlander from Toronto.

As is the case so often for me, I am holding both sorrow and joy as I reflect on being back in this province, what many call The Rock. I am here with my daughter Cate, my team from The Dale, and many beloved colleagues and friends. My husband’s absence is glaring. Dion lives in Long Term Care because of Multiple Sclerosis. Though we looked into ways to get him here, the obstacles to travel were simply too big. Commercial flights need to do better for people who are in wheelchairs.

And so, I am holding a variety of emotions. As a poem that a friend showed me yesterday says, “Some of you say, ‘Joy is greater than sorrow’, and others say, ‘Nay, sorrow is the greater.’ But I say unto you, they are inseparable”. (Gibran)

My sorrow has peaked at moments that I know Dion would have loved. I hate what MS continues to take from him and our family. While he has been supportive of all of this happening, I know that it has come at a cost.

My joy has been found in helping to curate and co-create a space where people shared vulnerable stories of their own experiences of isolation and belonging. The theme, “You Are Not Alone” has proved appropriate and necessary. I have loved standing back and listening to the murmur of people connecting through conversation, laughter and tears. Witnessing people listen across difference, even when it may have caused discomfort or concern has been beautiful. I was asked to dance at a pub in front of all of my people, and instead of saying no I said yes. Another friend curated a moment for me on the edge of the easternmost point of North America at Cape Spear, by slipping her headphones over my ears and playing a song that helped me consider the landscape and the Creator with awe. Travelling with The Dale team is always a dream, as is hearing people comment on our deep connection. Having my beloved Cate in the mix is the best.

Story Day is no longer in its infancy. We were in pandemic times when I first started to dream of an event where people motivated by faith in Jesus to address issues of poverty and injustice could gather around storytelling, music and food. Since then we have held multiple gatherings in Toronto, with an expansion to Montreal last year. It was just this past Wednesday that people from across Canada came together in St. John’s.

Something is growing. There is an undeniable momentum to Story Day. I can feel it- in the rooms, in the conversations, in the courage it takes for people to show up and share. It’s exciting. And, if I’m honest, a little bit scary. I care deeply about what is happening, and I want to hold what is mine well, and what is not, loosely.

From the poem I referenced before: “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain”. As I look back out the window, I notice the sky is no longer red with warning. It has dissolved into a soft and light blue.

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Come See What Happened

At The Dale, we begin with belonging. We believe that everyone needs a place to be seen, known, and welcomed. In a world where many are pushed to the margins, we work to cultivate a community where each person is valued and invited to participate fully in shared life. What follows is more than a report on programs; it is a story of lives woven together, of gifts shared freely, and of community shaped by compassion, grace, and faith. This was our 2025.

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My Yellow Shoes

I got some new yellow shoes.

There is a lot to process in my life right now. Dion’s ongoing reality with Multiple Sclerosis, numerous losses at The Dale, and the fragile state of the world all sit with weight together. It makes for a heavy heart and a churning mind.

So you might wonder why I’m talking about my shoes.

At different points of crisis in my life, I’ve been reminded of the necessity of being present to the moment. Not dwelling in the past or living in an imagined future has never come easily to me. The last fourteen years, especially, have been a long season of learning. Sometimes that learning has been very physical. I’ve placed a hand on either side of my head and quite literally guided myself back to what is right in front of me: a cup of coffee, dishes in the sink, the squirrel that munches on the mulberries in my backyard, a board game at the drop-in. It has taken that kind of intentionality to begin building a new muscle.

Any personality test I’ve ever taken points to my tendency toward caregiving. It’s true. I often focus on the needs of others, sometimes to the detriment of my own. My mind easily shifts into anticipating and preparing for the next challenge or crisis. There is some good in that, but left unchecked it can quietly pull me away from the present.

Over time, I’ve come to understand how important it is for me to balance that heart-focus with something more physical and grounding. This means paying attention to my body. And this is where my shoes come in, helping me feel my feet on the ground.

Given the intensity of this season, I decided a new pair of shoes might help anchor me, in my body and in the present moment. I put them on and notice the cushioning beneath my feet. The bright pop of yellow makes me smile. As I walk, I try to settle into each step. I imagine myself rooted.

I’ve long been drawn to John O’Donohue’s reflection on the quiet poise of trees, their ability to integrate loss, change, and darkness with a kind of dignity. He writes, “Letting go of old forms of life, a tree practices hospitality towards new forms of life.” That’s what I long for, to be so deeply rooted that I can withstand the storms.

I know this kind of rootedness isn’t something I can manufacture through effort alone. My faith shapes how I move through all of this, leaning on a strength that is not my own. On my first walk in those yellow shoes, a simple refrain kept rising: “I am weak, but Thou art strong.”

They are, in the end, just a regular pair of shoes.
But for me, they are a reminder of so much.