It was just over a decade ago that I met Shannon “Chevy” Timmerman. Before I knew her name, I came to remember her amazing hair: auburn and curly and long. At the time she was painting with great frequency and would show up to ask for supplies like canvas and acrylic paint. It didn’t take long for our relationship to blossom. I don’t know when it started, but she came to adopt me, Dion and Cate as family, even referring to me as “mom” (though in reality our age difference made us more like siblings). 

Chevy lived with many challenges, some she would admit, of her own making. Over the years she willingly shared about her time living outside and all that went along with that. At one point she gave me a stack of hand-written pages containing her story. She hoped that in the future she might be able to teach others through her experience, a journey that included finding and losing and finding housing, addiction, Jesus, family, and friends.

Chevy found community at The Dale. She became a regular at most of our programming, almost always accompanied by one of her many pets. For a long time, that meant a cat, or two or three, all in a hand-constructed carrier/bundle buggy. The animal we came to know best though was Jacob, a little meek dog who only had eyes for Chevy. I have never known a dog to love its person like Jacob. 

I loved when Chevy began to attend The Dale’s Sunday service. She would often arrive while I was practicing songs at the piano, offer a hug, and disappear to the kitchen to make us both a cup of tea.  She had a particular spot she liked to sit near the front, with Jacob beside her. During our community prayer time Chevy would regularly share shockingly transparent prayers, ones that acknowledged her gratitude, struggle and longing for healing. She was hungry for communion and liked to offer the wine or juice to people with a “Jesus’ blood shed for you, get it in ya”. 

Chevy and I have shared a lot over the years. Just last week she was reminiscing about the Big Macs I would treat her to after successfully getting to important appointments. We have sat in countless waiting rooms together, visited the Art Gallery of Ontario, gone on walks, and shared meals in drop-ins. When my daughter Cate and I went on a trip to Italy, Chevy was insistent that I give her a picture of our experience, one that she framed and put on her living room wall. I have held her hand while she lay in the Intensive Care Unit, and she held mine when my mother died. 

Chevy could also drive me crazy. She liked to say, “I’m a loveable thorn in your side” and she was right. When she got a cell phone, I would sometimes get called more than twenty times a day. When she figured out voice-to-text, I would get streams of messages, often asking me for ice cream, Doritos, or Skittles (her favourite) and a long hug. Sometimes our interactions were challenging because she would ask me to do something that I simply could not. I do know that the depth of our relationship was possible, in part, to a strong commitment to boundaries. For that I am grateful. 

Just this morning we learned of Chevy’s death late last night. Right now, I am feeling a heavy sense of shock and deep sadness. I know the sadness is similarly felt by Joanna, Meagan and Olivia, along with the rest of the community. Chevy was one of many people I know who seemed to have more than nine lives, something that made it easy to feel like this day would never come. I want to extend my deepest sympathies to her family, those who knew her as Shannon. Shannon spoke often of wanting to get out to you in BC for another visit. I am so sorry for your loss.

Chev. Oh Chevy. I wish I could have been there to hold your hand. I trust you knew how much I loved you. You never let me forget that you loved me. Thank you. I wholeheartedly believe that you are being welcomed into the warm embrace of the Creator you always cried out to. This isn’t goodbye. 

Shannon Lee Timmerman June 21 1967 – May 5 2021