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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.

Posted on by erinnoxford · 1 Comment

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.

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Mints in Our Pockets

There was a message on The Dale phone from a peer asking me to call because they had some bad news to share. I can honestly say I was not at all expecting to hear that our beloved Rachael had died. The Dale team and I had seen her just two days before. She was upbeat, gave each of us a hug, and said she planned to be at church on Sunday. To hear that she died later that day from a stroke has left me stunned.

As I sit with this grief, a few things keep rolling around in my heart.

When Rachael first started coming to The Dale on Sundays, she found it very hard to sit still. In fact, she would pace and move around the room throughout the service. This went on for quite a long time. Nearly every week, she would give thanks in prayer for a place that both allowed and embraced her emotional and physical needs. Her self-awareness, vulnerability, and gratitude were striking.

Rachael had a hospitable heart. She greeted everyone in the room and offered each person a handful of mints. We started referring to this as her “Mint Ministry.” Even if she arrived a little late, she would quietly go about her distribution. I recently found some of her mints in my pocket and suspect that will keep happening for a while. It’s amazing how a small act of kindness can have such a lasting impact.

Every time I saw Rachael, she gave me a long hug and earnestly asked how I was. I know she regularly prayed for me, Dion, and Cate. She shared openly about her own life and always invited me to pray for her and for those she loved — especially her daughters. Sometimes we would tuck ourselves into a corner to pray together before she left for the day.

Rachael was good at noticing what needed to be done and simply doing it. During communion, we have a bowl where people place their cups when they are finished. Rachael quietly became the one who carried the bowl around the room. At our Bible study at St. Francis Table, she would arrange the chairs and take the Bibles out of the storage closet before we even arrived.

I still remember the first time Rachael sat through an entire Sunday service. And then another, and another. It was remarkable to witness — not only for me, but for our whole community, many of whom long to experience similar healing and hope. Rachael both received welcome and offered it. She reminded us that true belonging isn’t passive — it’s mutual participation. The one who once struggled to sit still became someone who steadied the room with her faithful presence.

It was hard to tell everyone last Sunday about Rachael’s death. A few had already heard; many had not. People shared stories about her. We cried. One person said she is the reason they always carry mints. Then someone picked up the communion bowl, making sure it was carried around the room just as Rachael always did.

Rachael’s legacy lives on — through mints in pockets, the passing of a bowl, and a community that learned from her how to welcome and serve.

1962 – 2026

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Remembering Reyray

One of my earliest memories of Reyray is of him beatboxing while standing on a sidewalk. He was with other people I already knew, and they introduced us. Reyray proceeded to excitedly share his aspiration of becoming a full-time performer. I told him I had once considered pursuing musical theatre, and we quickly connected over music and the life of an artist.

Over time, we got to know each other more. I learned more of his story, and he learned mine. Reyray would often come to drop-ins at The Dale. Many times, we would sit together at a table, our heads hunkered down as we talked about life. Often, I would simply listen—especially when he shared his biggest challenges. I remember how meaningful it was to be trusted with his tears.

In addition to drop-ins, Reyray began participating in other ways at The Dale. He helped bake cookies to share at our annual Christmas carolling night, attended Sunday services, and joined our yearly retreats to a camp near Parry Sound. I will never forget the time he climbed so high into a very tall tree that we worried he might be stuck. Or when he went out in a pedal boat, got scared by the wind, and called 911—even though he was still within eyesight of the camp. “I guess I’m just a city slicker,” he said.

In 2016, Reyray asked me to baptize him. On a sunny Sunday in June, he and I stood in a blow-up plastic pool in the parking lot of one of our partner buildings. Surrounded by community members, Reyray professed his faith before I laid him in the water. As he came up, everyone cheered. I will never forget it.

I remember when Reyray and Chantelle met. We witnessed their blossoming relationship at The Dale. In time, they had two children, both a striking mix of their parents. I still have a picture of their firstborn in the hospital, taken shortly after they arrived.

I am thinking of them as I write this. On December 8, 2025 Reyray died. He was just 39. Since that terrible day, I have been reflecting on the parts of his life that I knew, learning about parts that I did not, and wishing deeply that we had more time. There was a lot of struggle in Reyray’s life, and I trust that he is now at peace. And wow—how I wish that peace could have come while he was still alive.

Reyray, you are missed. So many people gathered to honour and remember you. I kept thinking that you would have been wowed. “My head ain’t down / looking to the ground / it’s lifted up high”—your words, from the rap you performed so often. You called it COG (Child of God). May you be basking in that truth now more than ever.

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From Despair to Respair: Small Moments of Hope

Respair: an archaic English word meaning “fresh hope” or “recovery from despair.” From the Latin respirare—to breathe again. The opposite of despair. A return to optimism or renewed spirit after hardship. It can be used as both a noun and a verb.

I recently heard about the word respair and how there is a resurgence in its use. I find myself clinging to it during what has been a difficult month.

In just one week, The Dale lost three people. While no time of year is good to be without a home, winter presents especially challenging conditions. Folks who live outside are cold and wet. Our outreach times have notably been marked by people expressing their desperation.

I could go on about everything that is happening around the world: mass shootings, violent crimes, war, political unrest, and on and on and on.

And so, how do we turn despair into respair? Is it even possible—or is that too much to hope for?

This week, I challenged myself to look at the world with my senses, a practice I started during my sabbatical earlier this year. I saw gray clouds and two birds flying through them. I smelled a clementine as I peeled it and noticed the spray of its juice in the air. I heard the wind. I touched the icy cold of the snow and noticed the beauty of an individual snowflake. I slowly drank and enjoyed the flavour of a coffee.

I saw a friend who looks healthier than they have in a while.

A donor gave The Dale money to buy a significant amount of food from a grocery store. Tomorrow, a group of volunteers will help create 150 gift bags for us to distribute to our community.

The Dale’s art exhibit opening at Gallery 1313 buzzed with guests. I heard from multiple visitors how inspired they were by the beautiful range of work on the walls.

I had to call a funeral home and found myself talking with someone I have known their whole life and who lives doors away from me—now a funeral director.

While looking for a picture of one of the people who just died, I stumbled upon videos of their baptism at The Dale. He and I are standing in the blow-up pool/baptistry that we bought from Canadian Tire and set up in the driveway of the church. He is beatboxing while I sing, “Every good and perfect gift comes from You, Father of Lights.” The camera pans around the group gathered to witness the baptism, many of whom have since passed. It nearly took my breath away. Since then, whenever I think of it, I smile.

I watched a young girl standing on a sidewalk while it was snowing—her head tilted back, trying to catch flakes on her tongue, looking happy and content.

A friend whose finances are limited handed The Dale an envelope of money, saying, “This is to help make someone’s Christmas brighter.”

I received an apology and a hug (from someone who usually reserves an embrace for once a year).

These are arguably small moments, some of them bittersweet. None of them have fixed the bigger issues. And yet, they have helped me breathe again. Eating a clementine, making art, finding ways to give, receiving an apology, participating in community—these are things of light that penetrate the darkness. They are the good gifts that I sang about on that baptism day, and continue to sing about now.

Respair does not arrive all at once, and it does not erase grief or injustice. It comes quietly, in fragments. These moments do not solve the world’s pain, but they remind me that breath is still possible. And for now, breathing again is enough—for today.

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A New Step in Community Health at The Dale: Introducing Jacquie

The stories are endless. One person has a wound that is just not healing- the struggle to keep the bandage on and clean is nearly impossible while living outside. Another has a foot injury, but they can’t keep off it because they walk everywhere to access food and shelter. Someone else refuses to seek medical care because it triggers past trauma.

These challenges, and so many others, are why The Dale has long dreamt of incorporating a health-care component into our work.

Over the years we have been able to forge a tight connection to Parkdale Queen West Community Health Centre. Our partnership has allowed us to introduce our friends from the community to our friends who are clinicians. In many cases we are able to create a circle of care around an individual. They have also provided space for The Dale to do outreach and run a drop-in.

It was at our Wednesday gathering outside the Health Centre that we first got to know Jacquie Burkhardt. At the time, Jacquie was engaged in nursing studies and had been referred to The Dale. She quickly became a regular participant and, over time, a deeply engaged community member.

More recently, Jacquie indicated a desire to share her ability and gifting as a nurse with The Dale. In the spirit of raising up community members to contribute to programs and outreach, we now have the opportunity to add Jacquie as a Community Nurse. To begin, Jacquie will offer 12-15 hours per week. The role is still taking shape, and we are committed to slowly and thoughtfully walking with Jacquie as we discover all that this can become together.

And now, in Jacquie’s own words:

Each Sunday during our service at The Dale we are invited into a time of offering. During this time we are reminded that God gives each of us gifts and whether they are big or small they are all valuable to God. The basket is at the front and we acknowledge each person’s gifts might look different and some may not fit in the basket. These gifts may be things like a piece of artwork or a call to a friend or helping clean up after drop-in. Then we are invited to share a portion of what God has given with each other in community. I have recently graduated as a registered practical nurse. In the posture of our offering, I am excited to be joining The Dale as a community nurse using the gifts God has given me in service of our community.

I have experienced joy and belonging at The Dale. Five years ago, when I first approached Erinn about volunteering, she welcomed me to come to the health centre and “hang out” at Outreach. Since then I have been increasingly connected to the community. Together we have experienced church on Sunday, eating together, drop-in, playing games, Bible study, carolling, camping trips, BBQs, open mic’s, celebrations and memorials. During this time, I have received support, care, and encouragement and have had the opportunity to share in the lives of community members with trust and acceptance. As my nursing skills expanded, I have had the privilege of hearing people’s stories, accompanying people to appointments, sharing health knowledge, and helping to navigate health challenges. Through a process of discernment and attentiveness to God’s leading, I am excited about stepping into this new and evolving role.

After we collect the offering, we pray. These prayers are consistently characterized by gratitude and humility. I am grateful to The Dale team and the community as they have affirmed and encouraged me to share my gifts in this way. I welcome your prayers, encouragement and support as we step more deeply into community together.