When asked, what difference does Second Harvest make to The Dale Ministries, I always reply, “we could not do this without them”. Take the Monday lunch a few weeks ago: there were fifteen different fruits and vegetables in the meal our community prepared. Souad Sharabani, our volunteer kitchen coordinator, beautifully described it during the announcement period right before serving, reminding everyone how important it is that they “eat the vegetables first! Munchkins, angels, I beg you!”

At The Dale we believe a unique kind of community is built around a table. For someone who is largely isolated, having to pass the potatoes can create a sense of connection. The hope is by returning each week, that same person might come to know the others who have also gathered. We also place a high value on making healthy, nutritious food available, the kind that access is limited to amongst people who experience poverty. The day of our fruit and vegetable-packed meal, a person sitting across from me said, “this food tastes like it was made with love. I haven’t shared a meal like this in years“.

Second Harvest is the largest food rescue organization in Canada. They are reducing the amount of food waste by recovering it before being thrown out. Every Sunday we receive a delivery of food that has been salvaged: oftentimes cases of produce, sometimes meat, bread, and dairy products, occasionally treats like baked goods, juice or even ice-cream sandwiches. It is good food, just maybe surplus or near its best before date and therefore removed from retail shelves. Our menu is built on what we receive.

From September 1, 2017 to February 28, 2018, Second Harvest delivered 11,870 pounds of food to The Dale, a donation valued at $29,675.00. Isn’t that incredible? Those numbers give shape to what I mean when I say we can’t do this without them. Together we are reducing waste AND hunger, with a whole lot of love mixed in.

The sun is shining. I’m trying to position myself close to its rays as I write. Cate had four friends over last night for a sleepover. They surround our dining room table, groggily  eating breakfast (I won’t divulge how late they were up). There is laughter. It all feels normal. Which is a relief when there is so much about life that is the opposite.

Last night, hidden away from the noise of our house guests, I found myself thinking about control. At various points in my life I have been made all too aware that control is not in my hands. By that I mean, I couldn’t/can’t fix everything and make it look the way I want. Except for maybe how clean my house is. Which is why I’ve become a tad obsessive compulsive about keeping things especially neat. But I digress.

I’ve been reading a book by Kate Bowler titled “Everything Happens for a Reason: And Other Lies I’ve Loved”. It is, among other things, an exploration of suffering and surrender. Maybe not a surprise that such a topic would speak to me. Take this: “What would it mean…to give up that little piece of the American Dream that says, ‘You are limitless’? Everything is not possible. The mighty Kingdom of God is not yet here. What if rich did not have to mean wealthy, and whole did not have to mean healed? What if being people of ‘the gospel’ meant that we are simply people with good news? God is here. We are loved. It is enough.”

This made me think of my mom. She was not wealthy, but would have described herself as rich; not physically whole, but definitely experienced healing in other ways. Though I could see how beautiful her surrender was, I still hated that she had to go through so much. To borrow again from Kate Bowler, she was a “superhero. But I wish [she] didn’t have to be”.

I can’t help but wonder why everything is happening as it is right now. Why does MS exist? Why are we going through so much as a family? Just in case you’re wondering, those are rhetorical questions. I don’t think there’s an obvious answer, and even the most well-intentioned attempts can do more harm than good. All I know is to work on what’s right in front of me to do, to relinquish the idea that I can fix it all, to remain rooted in my faith, and to remember that I am loved. WE are loved. In the eye of this storm, that truth, along with sunshine and teenage chatter, brings much comfort.

I was listening to the radio this morning and heard a portion of an interview with a grief psycho-therapist. Two things she said have stuck with me. The first: unresolved grief contributes to 15% of psychiatric referrals, and the second: how our fear of talking about death thwarts our ability to deal with its consequences. This also got me thinking about how grief can meander into our lives for other reasons too. While grief is what we usually associate with the loss brought on by death, the dictionary allows for a broader meaning: “keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.” 

I know something of grief. It has touched my life a lot. I try very hard to allow myself to fully experience what I call the “waves” of grief. They often come at the most unexpected and even inconvenient moments. I once wrote a blog about being hit with such a wave, all related to my dad, while standing in an aisle at Canadian Tire of all places. These days I feel like I have been hit by a tsunami. I’m in the first year of grief over my mom, on March 3rd it became ten years since my dad died, and on January 25th Dion entered the hospital system, where he remains for the immediate future.

Grieving relatively publicly is hard work. I don’t think I need to share everything here (which is why I can be very quiet at times). I desire to be as transparent as possible AND it comes at a cost: I feel exposed and rather raw. In my day-to-day I occasionally want to avoid conversations about how I am because I almost inevitably start crying. I can understand the compulsion to disguise the pain of loss, or sweep it under the carpet (so to speak) because that feels safer, less vulnerable. I sat to write this and worried immediately that all my recent posts are too sad. I don’t want to exhaust everyone with my struggle.

Last week I was walking through the little park beside the Health Centre in Parkdale. Three of my Dale friends were sitting there, so I stopped to say hello. Each earnestly wanted to know if Dion was seeing any improvement, and how I was managing. I shared a bit and then explained that I’m not having an easy time. I keep crying, though I can’t believe there are any tears left. One of them turned to me and said, “there is a fountain inside all of us, making tears always possible. This just means you’re human. You can cry with us any time”. These words, coming from one who knows so much grief, were soothing.

Grief is a journey, one that doesn’t fix everything. It changes along the way, yes, and it never truly goes away.  My hope is to not suppress the effects of grief: I’ve learned over the years that by being present to it, room is made for more than sadness. It’s true that I  spend a lot of time discovering and feeling joy. As hard as this road is, I am glad to be walking it, am aware of God’s presence, and when I can, am willing to share it.

I’m hanging in. That is generally my response when people ask how I am. What does “hanging in” mean? All sorts of things really. It means: I’m able to give expression to my deep sadness; I’m putting one foot in front of the other; I’m encouraged by all the support being offered; I’m consumed with trying to figure out how to make good decisions; I’m tired, but not the kind of tired that is solved with a nap; I’m praying, but usually with groans instead of words. This is a very trying time.

One evening Cate looked at me and earnestly asked, “do you think going to work a bit might help?” A good question, especially coming from one who knows that going to school has helped maintain a sense of normalcy. I began to consider what parts of my usual routine would be worth resuming and decided that I needed to 1) connect more with friends and 2) go to work (even if just a little). And so, last Tuesday I arrived in Parkdale for the first time since Dion was hospitalized in January.

People greeted me with concern and love. Hardly anyone asked a lot of questions. Most simply acknowledged how difficult things must be. One woman who likes to greet me as ‘Ms Padre-ess’, hugged me and repeatedly said, “I’ve been worried about you. I want to help. You’re here for me and I’m here for you. That’s how we do things.” Other friends stopped panhandling long enough to give me knowing looks about how hard life is and offer words of encouragement.

Today was our morning breakfast and art drop-in. A community member, who also happens to be a refugee from Syria, cooked pancakes and bacon for everyone.  A group of us had a pretty hilarious conversation about…squirrels (I still don’t know how it started). One person was beading, another colouring, another sketching. A friend hovered around me while I did dishes, telling me about what it’s like living outside in the rain and the nasty cold that he caught while there. Before he left though he said, “mama, I’m gonna give you a hug”.

One of my folks recently got moved to Bridgepoint, the same facility Dion is in. This afternoon a group of the nomadic tribe which is The Dale gathered with him and Dion in order to share communion, pray, and sing the gospel song, ‘Soon and Very Soon’. And then tonight our Dinner Shuffle had pizza together in a lounge at the hospital, so that we could all be together. In both cases, it was a sweet merging of worlds.

This period of life feels like an in between place, neither here nor there. What will be is not yet clear. In the midst of a lot of change, there is something grounding about returning to some regular rhythms, like being at The Dale and gathering with our Dinner Shuffle friends. I have no illusions of being self-sufficient. If anything, this is all causing me to more fully surrender to my/our need for support. Through my helplessness, the door to grace is again opening.

The view of Toronto from Bridgepoint, the hospital where Dion has been moved, is pretty spectacular. You can peer over the Don Valley and see the downtown core. On Thursday, a therapist directed me to a lounge, handed me a box of tissues, and left me to stare out the windows at the skyline of my beloved city. I was in a contemplative, sad mood. Having just had a moment of panic, I needed to slow my breathing and turn my attention to something else. The new vantage point helped.

When asked how we are doing, I find it difficult to muster an answer. I am hesitant to try to describe how Dion and Cate are because I don’t want to put words in their mouths. As for me, I’m feeling a very long list of things: sad and angry, exhausted and…less exhausted, strong and weak, overwhelmed and focused. There are a lot of decisions to be made, many of which are still based on hypothetical situations. The first steps toward a possible renovation are being taken. There is a lot going on.

Multiple Sclerosis is a brutal disease, one that has stolen much from Dion and by extension, us. I know there is something beautiful about our faith propelling us through the challenge of it. We have learned much and have opportunity to teach because of it. And, it SUCKS. There is no way around it. I guess many of my tears over the last number of weeks have been ones of grief.

It is clear that I have been invited to enter places of pain: to actually share in sorrow and weakness and confusion while at the same time acknowledging my own. The strange paradox is that when I touch pain I also see the light. Hope is evident in the darkness: this situation is evidence of that. I was reminded of this as I looked out of that lounge window: at the former Don Jail, now owned by Bridgepoint and repurposed as a place of healing; at the west where The Dale is collectively moving toward deeper wholeness and health; at Moss Park where an armoury was turned into a shelter.

Dion is in a good place at Bridgepoint. It seems possible that life can settle, at the very least, into a new routine. This sense of hope urges me forward, restores joy, and invites me to express gratitude. Thank you to everyone for the variety of expressions of support. I am not sure of much, but I do know that in this dark valley we are not alone.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ. 2 Corinthians 1:3-5

I watched a movie from bed the other night. In one scene a primary character is seated across from an old friend and reacts to hearing about her life with tears. Giving a bit of a self-deprecating grin he says something like, “I have this problem with my face. It leaks”. I immediately thought, that’s me!

Crying is one way I give expression to my feelings. I am easily moved to tears when something makes me happy OR sad. This is a part of myself that I have always embraced, though I must confess that right now it is mostly proving exhausting.

As of today, Dion has been in the hospital for a week. We really don’t know what is next and are waiting for a plan. Yesterday one of the doctor’s came up to me in the hall and, with great concern, asked me about how I was doing. “It seems like every time I see you, you are on the verge of tears”. I agreed and tried to explain what has been going on in me.

My emotions are all over the place. I am trying to be present to the moment, except that most moments are terribly hard. Added to the mix is that we are in the hospital where my mom died less than a year ago. It’s almost too much to bear. I don’t know where the relief is for Dion, for Cate, or for me.

During one of my meltdowns, an elderly patient walked up to me and asked for help. He seemed oblivious to my state and was understandably focused on his own. There we were, waiting for help in the middle of a crowded hall, he struggling with some undergarments, me trying to wipe my eyes. In retrospect it almost felt skit-like, except it was very, very real.

I guess that’s the thing right now: everything feels all too real. We cannot ignore the challenge of Dion’s Multiple Sclerosis. Having never done major renovations before, I have to get them started under pressure. There are big decisions to make. And somehow parts of our regular life need to continue, like Cate getting to school. The Dale has freed me to be present at the hospital, though Dion and others are encouraging me to feel like I can re-engage as I want to, and as a way to bring balance.

I can’t imagine what this would all be like without the kind of network of people we have. The meals, the messages, and the prayer are reaching us. I know many are at the ready to offer practical support in a variety of ways, including toward the renovations. I keep saying that now is the time for a collective action of the community, in other words, it’s ‘barn raising time’. Thinking about the village around us makes me feel deep gratitude.

In a good way it’s making this face leak again.