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Rest, Even On the Roller Coaster

I was recently asked to describe the last six or so months of my life. As I shared the variety of things that have taken place, I stopped and for a moment thought “if nothing else, my life is consistently a roller coaster”. Up and down, up and down, sometimes all in one day. This existence is good, and hard, and full, punctuated by gratitude and grief. Which is why I’ve been thinking a lot about the idea of Sabbath: a day of ceasing, a time of rest.

Many people scoff at the idea of Sabbath. It feels like a punishment: as though you must stop everything you enjoy doing, risk falling behind at work, and feel guilty about both. I have come to understand that Sabbath is actually meant to be a beautiful gift, and isn’t just a means to be more productive during the week. As John Bradshaw put it, “we have become ‘human doings’ who define ourselves by what we do in the world. [Sabbath] teaches us to remember our true essence as ‘human beings’ and to practice the art of simply being”.

This is, at least for me, difficult. I enjoy being productive. I love being with people and very easily fill up my calendar. But rest calls me to something even more challenging than to cease being busy: it invites me to release the anxiety that I carry around. Many of the hardships I face are ones that I have no control over, and yet I somehow believe that if I worry or do enough, I will somehow be able to “fix” everything.

It takes discipline to create space for rest. I long for the kind of break where my mind is not preoccupied with all that I should be doing and everything that may or may not happen in the future. I suspect that if space is made, something that I’m not planning or counting on might actually happen. As author Marva Dawn once said and I’ve quoted before, “A great benefit of Sabbath keeping is that we learn to let God take care of us, not by becoming passive or lazy, but in the freedom of giving up our feeble attempts to be God in our own lives”.

I suspect the roller coaster is going to continue. As hard as it is, I’m grateful for all the experiences that are teaching me to touch life beyond the surface. My hope is that I will keep learning to put the brakes on. Maybe as I slow down I can be reminded how to be and not simply do. In the quiet, I might even catch a glimpse of the good things in store over the next crazy hill, and instead of being anxious, I can enjoy the anticipation.

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Morning on the Spit: Lessons from a Bike

Saturday was a really beautiful day. The sun was shining and the air crisp, good conditions for the ride and walk a group of us were about to embark on to raise money for and awareness of The Dale. I borrowed a nice bike from a friend since the one I could have been riding needed some major repair. We gathered at the start line and began our picturesque ride to the Leslie Street Spit. Well onto the road, as I chatted away with someone, I was suddenly aware of the murmurs of my teammates from directly behind me.

I can’t quote verbatim, but it went something like this: ‘Erinn’s seat is too low. Do you notice that she should be in a higher gear? I think her back tire is soft. She’s working way harder than necessary’. Though in mid-conversation I stopped and said, “I can hear you talking about me!” I think I even inferred that their commentary of the bike issues felt like a description of my sometimes-life: everything a little askew and more work as a result. What ensued was laughter and agreement that the situation was ripe to be made into a sermon illustration or life lesson.

We finally pulled over and Joanna raised my seat. I hadn’t even realized it was a problem until she pointed it out. Let me tell you, it is amazing the difference such a seemingly small change makes. Suddenly my legs could extend, creating momentum I didn’t have before. As Joanna’s dad pointed out, being up higher meant I had a better view. Eventually I sort of got the gears in the right place. The soft tire never got fixed, but I’m certain if it had my speed would have picked up.

Clearly, I’m no professional cyclist, though I do like to ride. I love the wind on my face. I love even more what being on a bike last Saturday reminded me of, that: I have friends who are looking out for me, noticing my weak spots, and finding ways to ease my load; a little air in my “tires” can go a long way; and small changes make a big impact. It is somehow comforting to be reminded of these simple truths, especially when life can be so overwhelming and such a lot of work.

By Saturday afternoon I was home. The stress I felt leading up to the big event (not so much the ride, but the fundraising) finally subsided, leaving me a good tired. I told Cate I needed to have a nap and escaped to my bed, where I’m certain I dreamt about the morning. I was riding along the spit, surrounded by my teammates on a bike the perfect size for me, with a properly positioned seat and fully inflated tires. I don’t remember much else, except that it felt like I could have cycled forever.

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Up with Hope

Recently he sat beside me saying, “Erinn, I’m sick in the head. There’s no getting better. I’m dying from the inside out”. I didn’t have any words, so I continued to listen. I heard descriptions of the torture done to him as a child at the hands of people who should have been his protectors. I was told about decisions that once landed him in jail. I had to sift through some non-sensical things thrown in the mix of our conversation, mostly born out of his mental health challenges. It was all desperately sad. I couldn’t help but cry with my friend, who I’ll call “Trevor”.

At some point along the way I asked if there was anything I could do for him right now. “Buy me some alcohol? Or score me a hit?” I declined. I asked again, explaining the resources I had available. Looking at the ground Trevor quietly said, “play a game with me, kinda like you would with Cate (my daughter)?” That I could do. For the next ten minutes we played a game that he won. That seemed to be all he needed, so we gave each other a hug and went on to do some other things.

Just this week I saw Trevor again. He was writing on a scrap piece of tracing paper with a purple pencil crayon. I sat beside him and asked what he was doing. “I’m making a list that I want you to see”. Together we went over what was actually a list of goals, things like: open a bank account, buy a notebook from the Dollar Store to keep track of spending, finish school (“even though school sucks”), get a haircut, and so on. At the bottom of the page, with me looking on, Trevor drew a picture of himself with a smile and the caption “up with hope, down with dope”. I know Trevor didn’t coin the phrase- I  also know he meant it, because for Trevor one follows the other.

Honestly, seeing Trevor feel even the slightest bit of hope made my heart swell. I know that his battle is a hard one: he fights a variety of voices in his head that repeatedly say he’s not worth it. He uses substances to try to manage his pain and regularly admits it isn’t working. There are days when he is lucid and more days that he is not. I count it a privilege that Trevor is willing to share his life with me and really does invite me to share mine with him.

When asked about what ‘success’ looks like at The Dale, I usually point out that it comes in a variety of forms. In Trevor’s case, I want to celebrate the success that it is for him to move from utter despair to a moment of hope. My prayer is that when the darkness seeps back in he will see there are people rooting for him; that he will find the folded up list of goals; and that when all else fails he will remember how playing a game with a friend is actually good therapy.

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Ten Years

It has occurred to me a few times since the beginning of this year that as of February, I have been working in Parkdale for ten years. I can’t believe that it has been a decade, which is maybe why I repeatedly forget to even mention it. Cate was in senior kindergarten at the time. Now she’s in high school. Needless to say, a lot has happened since 2007.

Over the years I have persistently felt a deep sense of call to my work, even when (or maybe especially when) I would rather hide under a blanket and never come out. In some of my darkest times, it has been God’s still small voice inviting me to stay that has kept me going. When I was asked to re-vision the ministry of Parkdale Neighbourhood Church I was terrified. Now, five years into being The Dale Ministries, I am entirely grateful that I decided to try.

The building of friendships in Parkdale has been slow, steady work. I have walked the strip of Queen Street West between Dufferin Street and Roncesvalles Avenue countless times. I know good shortcuts through alleys. If I can’t find a person in their usual spot, I can often guess where else they might be. I have sat with people in ambulances, accompanied many to the ER at St Joseph’s Hospital, and kept vigil in its ICU. Week after week, year after year, I have fallen in love with the people of the village-like neighbourhood that is Parkdale.

Being at The Dale has taught me a lot. I have learned about delegation, diffusing conflict, and decision-making. I now know how to identify bedbugs, safely dispose of needles, and administer Nolaxone. I can write a partnership agreement. I have come to realize that while I want to please everyone it is impossible to do (and that’s okay). I see my weaknesses. I better understand the beauty and blessedness in brokenness, and that in sharing our wounds we can begin to heal.

Sometimes I get overwhelmed. The amount of death experienced in this work is too much. Having to ask people for the money to cover my salary and the general fund of The Dale is daunting and downright hard. By the end of certain drop-ins my head is spinning because I’ve heard my name called easily one thousand times. And then a person walks up to me and reminds me of how I am valued and loved, and that The Dale is necessary and a primary source of community for so many people, including me. In that moment I take a deep breath and think, “I can’t imagine doing anything else”.

Being close to people who know poverty has helped me see the ways in which I am poor myself. Together we remind each other to take each day moment by moment. Often it is a Dale friend who pulls me back when I’m worrying about a future that has yet to happen. We are journeying toward a deeper understanding of God and the ways that Jesus transforms us. It’s far from neat and tidy AND it is so good.

As I reflect on ten years in Parkdale and nearly twenty-three in street ministry, I am reminded of the words of Isaiah: “Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins and will raise up the age-old foundations; you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.” I have the honour of working at The Dale, a place that has spilled into the streets. It is exciting to imagine how each little bit of repair we are involved in is leading us to hope. There is a Sara Groves song that says, “That’s a little stone, that’s a little mortar. That’s a little seed, that’s a little water. In the hearts of the sons and daughters…this kingdom’s coming”. I believe that to be true.

Ten

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Postcards from Newfoundland

Sometimes a camera does the talking for me. Here are a handful of images from Newfoundland that hopefully do a better job of showcasing its beauty than my feeble words ever could. I only wish I could help you smell the salt water air.

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A Time to Grieve and a Time to Rest

We held two memorial services this week. Needless to say, it’s a heavy time. It’s difficult enough to figure out how to grieve, let alone when there is so little space between deaths. There is definitely something healing about remembering, and so I’m grateful that we gathered to mourn. Comfort does linger when we sing, pray and share stories together.

Truthfully, I’m weary. Earlier this week, while folding bulletins for the services and editing eulogies, I was overcome with sadness. My eyes got hot with tears as the reality of loss sunk in. As difficult as the wave of emotion was, I also felt relieved that it came. I am far more fearful of feeling nothing. I often say to people, should I become cold to death, that’s when you should really start to worry about me. For me, the way through grief is by embracing it.

As of today I am on holidays. It is difficult to leave when so much is going on. I also know it is important for me to rest, and so this too I embrace. I hope to sleep (a lot), strum the ukulele and sing, do a little photography, float in a lake, sit around a few campfires, journal, and allow my brain and heart to slow down while being alongside friends and family.

I invite you to pray for Joanna and Meagan who are not on holidays right now. We have many friends who need significant support right now and it is not easy. I am so proud of these two women and count it a privilege to work alongside them. Pray for The Dale as a whole, that a peace that passes all understanding would permeate the community. And pray that we all might have moments of rejuvenating rest, the kind that fills us up and enables us to keep going.

A time

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Benediction for a Friend

The Dale has lost another friend. Just days ago Nicole died in an unexpected way.

Nicole was a quiet woman, often choosing to immerse herself in making art or doing a puzzle at our drop-ins. She looked younger than she was, with long dark hair and olive skin. It took a while to get to know Nicole, but once we learned to trust one another, the conversations got deep. I always felt it a privilege that Nicole would look me in the eye after sharing her own struggles and ask me about mine.

Last fall Nicole came on The Dale’s annual retreat to a camp near Parry Sound. At the time she was newly dating another community member, a relationship they were both very excited about. We haven’t had many couples emerge out of The Dale, so this was new for us too. A now infamous story of the weekend is how the two of them took a paddle boat out on the lake, only to get stuck because of the wind. One 9-1-1 call later and multiple rescuers sent in canoes, the two returned good-naturedly saying, “we failed! We’re such city slickers!”. Nicole did add an eye-roll.

Having just received confirmation of Nicole’s death, I find myself thinking of her constantly. I have some of her things stored in my house. They were supposed to be tucked away in the basement until she found better housing. As I went through a pile of papers today I found one of her drawings from a drop-in with the following inscription on the back: “January 2017. At God’s house. For God. Nicole. I love you! A great loving start”. It took my breath away.

I know that Nicole always hoped for life to be easier than it was. She longed for healing. I think Nicole worked hard to be resilient, even when it felt nearly impossible. She also had the capacity to both identify and celebrate beauty: the stack of colourful glass jars and artwork in my basement are a testament to that. As friends we did have some difficult interactions, though we always came out the other side. I will remember how she was a regular source of encouragement, especially during hard times, including our last conversation.

Nicole, you were loved and will be missed. Peace to you.

And now to him who is able to keep us from falling, and lift us from the dark valley of despair to the bright mountain of hope, from the midnight of desperation to the daybreak of joy; to him be power and authority, for ever and ever. Amen

dsc_0164.jpg1974 – 2017

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Built to Last

“I can remember my life before The Dale, but I can’t imagine my life after it” said my friend. All I could do was nod, smile and allow the tears to well up in my eyes. The words I thought to say got lodged behind the lump in my throat.

I took a long look at this person and was reminded of the journey we have shared. He was brought to The Dale by another friend who is now no longer alive. I remember that first meeting. In fact, I even have a picture of it. He seemed cautious about us, maybe even perplexed, which is why I was so surprised that he returned. Five years later and he’s at every single thing we do.

The transformation that we have been witness to in the life of this person is dramatic, though it happened (and continues to happen) incrementally. The anger that admittedly still takes up some residence, is managed in a better way. We can talk about difficult things AND laugh. He is learning to pray. We have been allowed to help with finances and housing. A lot of fun is had. The Dale has become his place of belonging.

This kind of community building helps fuel my passion for this work. It isn’t easy and more often than not, extremely messy. From an outside perspective I can imagine that it sometimes appears to be happening at a snail’s pace. But it’s in those little moments that hope begins to shine: when an apology replaces anger, when one decides to stay instead of flee, when a person identifies their gifts instead of only their perceived deficits.

For me, some of the best things in life have taken a long time to develop and nurture. My closest relationships are with people who have been willing to talk through the hard stuff, sometimes again and again (and again). At The Dale we endeavour to slowly build these type of friendships, the kind that last and as my friend says, might even leave you feeling like you can’t imagine your life without them.

 

 

 

 

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Let Justice Roll: The Difficult Work of Advocacy

I stumbled upon a draft of a blog that I wrote soon after speaking out about my mother’s potential displacement from the hospital she called home. I took a deep breath and read it, reminded of that period when things felt so up in the air, though the piece itself was about our relief that the situation might shift. I can hardly believe how much has changed since then, and it has been less than a year.

I always felt honoured to be an advocate for my mom. I loved her. This love made me fiercely protective, eager to leap into action should she need help. I was routinely struck by how important it was for my mom to have people willing to speak on her behalf, and how easy it would be for her needs to fall through the cracks should we not. My mom was good at articulating her concerns, so I would first listen to her list and then excuse myself to share it with whoever was the most appropriate person.

My mom had a remarkable way of being gentle, yet firm and very careful with her words. This, along with the way she lived her life everyday, gave her clout. I know this because it was the first thing people would say when I would enter a meeting on her behalf. She taught me a lot about speaking truth to power. There is a huge hole left in my life that is shaped like my mom. Her absence is obvious, though I am fuelled by her memory to continue working against oppression and injustice.

Advocacy is difficult work. It involves having hard conversations, oftentimes over and over again. There are rarely easy answers. With my mom’s circumstances it sometimes felt like there might be no way through, but giving up was not an option. I feel the same about many of the things Dale community members go through on a daily basis. While challenging, advocacy is so deeply good. I still believe that truth can impact injustice, however messy it might be. My mom reminds me of this.

“But let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream”. Amos 5:24

 

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The Challenge of Exercising Gratitude

I think about gratitude a lot. I recently read an article that highlighted the importance of distinguishing it from the act of appreciation. Intrigued, I did a little research and came to better understand that appreciation is what you feel for the good in people or things, whereas gratitude is experienced when you realize good is experienced beyond the obvious. I was delighted to discover that the latin root of gratitude is sometimes translated “grace”. If there is an ‘awe’ to grace, then it would follow that the same would accompany gratitude.

I don’t recall feeling very appreciative when The Dale became homeless. I did however feel a deep gratitude for so many things about it: the community that was willing to teach me about transience; the hospitality we experienced from others; the freedom from belongings; the discovery that we were a living, breathing “church” without four walls. During those early days I regularly found myself in awe and wonder that I was witness to a phoenix rising from the ashes.

These truths are knocking around my heart as I think about The Dale today. We’ve been looking for a new location to house our Wednesday morning breakfast and art-making Drop-In. It isn’t easy to re-locate and we’ve been feeling admittedly anxious about it. The good news is that Parkdale Community Health Centre has opened its doors to us, eager to deepen the partnership we’ve been developing for years. I got this news the same day First Baptist Church agreed to let us use their building for administrative work and meetings. I am appreciative AND grateful.

As is so often the case, good is accompanied by difficult. During the same phone call with the Health Centre about space, we needed to discuss the death of another community member, Andrew Kri. As hard as his death is, I love that we knew Andrew and can now remember his life in all of its complexity. At the same time I am aware that as our losses accumulate it is difficult to process them, especially when there is so little space between each. As I was recently discussing with a friend, it does seem that we can only truly grieve when we have also delighted in life. Gratitude is somehow suspended in the tension of joy and sorrow.

I suspect that as we learn to appreciate the many pleasing things around us, a sense of gratitude will be cultivated, one that says, in all things, I will give thanks. Looking past the obvious, sifting through our pain and acknowledging that life remains a gift is not easy. Gratitude, as Martin Luther argued, is a “disposition of the soul”, a virtue that can be exercised and strengthened. Gratitude reminds us that grace is real and invites us to stand in awe.

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