I met Ashmeed, more simply Ash, in my earliest Parkdale days. If I wanted to connect with him, all I usually needed to do was go out to the steps of the church where PNC (now The Dale) was housed. If not there, he wasn’t far- maybe by the big globe outside the library, or around the corner on Queen Street. We had a lot of conversations sitting on a bench in the bus shelter. It was often about Scripture and how he was writing down long passages in a notebook stashed in his pocket, family, or the regret and pain that was pushed down and masked by other things. Ash would attentively listen to me too, quietly nodding and affirming my feelings.
I have a lot of memories with Ash. One particularly poignant one happened on a Maundy Thursday (the day before Good Friday, when we remember the way Jesus ate the last supper with his friends and washed their feet). We were gathered with another community for a traditional Seder supper, which includes having an empty chair at the table in honour of the prophet Elijah. Ash entered the room, grief-stricken and worked up. He sat in the empty chair and poured out his anguish over the reality of poverty. “You all don’t know what it is like”. And he was right. I remain convinced that Ash came as a prophet of sorts that night. He was one crying in the wilderness.
Years ago, though he had arrived in Canada at a tender age with his beloved brother, Ash was being threatened with deportation. Ash asked me to write him letters and vouch for him as a person. I went to the hearing in order to stand with him in solidarity, along with a couple of his family members and another friend. I was so proud of Ash that day- the way he managed through intense scrutiny, being asked questions that no one should need to answer in front of strangers. There was nothing easy about that experience, though it miraculously ended with Ash being allowed to stay.
I think getting through that storm helped launch Ash into a new stage of life. Over the last number of years he found a different kind of stability. It was beautiful and exciting to participate in. Already an artist, Ash began frequently painting again. He became a regular at our Sunday thing, almost always requesting #41 in our songbook: Bridge Over Troubled Waters. Since Covid he has been the face greeting and giving food to the community at our meals-to-go. Not long ago we were sitting together when he looked at me and said, “we are together whenever it counts, both good and bad.” Through tears, I agreed. Together on the journey.
Just this past summer Ash moved into his own apartment, the first time living independently in years. A group of us got to help him move in, an honour that I will never forget. We had a picnic of coffee and pastries before picking up all his belongings in two vehicles- mine, and Morrison, The Dale van. Ash was so excited and nervous. He couldn’t shake his smile. Even though his place was not in Parkdale, he made sure to be consistently around.
In the early hours of this morning, we received word that Ash died this weekend. At first it did not feel real and I just sat in stunned silence. I looked at the picture included here, one I took just this past Thursday. It wasn’t until calling the Dale team with the news that the tears began to pour. I imagine the sense of disbelief will return periodically, as it usually does. The weight of this loss is heavy. I want to extend my deepest condolences to Ash’s family and friends who knew him best. I am so sorry.
Ash. I don’t even know where to start. Thank you for letting me in all those years ago. I will always be grateful for our friendship, and that you were willing to count me also as pastor. Our Mondays and Thursdays will not be the same without you. If you weren’t available for a meal-to-go we would always say, “who wants to Ash today?” It was your role and you did it so well. I will miss praying together on the street, laughing, working through the hard stuff, and trusting that when we parted it wasn’t a goodbye, but a see you later. I do believe that last part is mysteriously still true. I trust this isn’t goodbye. I will keep singing #41.
When you’re down and out
When you’re on the street
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you
I’ll take your part
Oh, when darkness comes
And pain is all around
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.