In a previous post I described how I intend to ‘listen’ more to God over the period of Lent. Well, I’m trying. I’m not sure what I’m hearing, but in the quiet I am usually struck by an overarching theme in my life: the call to vulnerability. Brene Brown describes vulnerability as a combination of uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure. That resonates with me.

I could describe countless vulnerable situations, for instance: assuming my current role at The Dale, being a fundraiser, trying to be a caregiver for a variety of people, being a mom to a teenager, even endeavouring to care for friendships. When I consider this list, none of the items are things I would give up so as to feel less vulnerable. I would also argue that they aren’t a measure of weakness (though I might feel weak in them), but rather opportunities to imagine what’s possible, rely on others, and find bits of courage to keep going.

One day at a drop-in I was feeling overwhelmed with life stuff. A dear Dale friend walked up to me asking for things I didn’t have to give and I fell apart. She grabbed me by the arm, took me into the storage room, hugged me and repeatedly said, “let it out, put it all on me, I can handle it, put it all on me”. Two things were going through my mind simultaneously: my friend, you are being Jesus to me right now AND I don’t want to put this on you because you have more than you can handle already. I felt exposed, exhausted and entirely vulnerable. I was reminded though that to this person my tears were a gift. I always say that I want The Dale to be a place where we can all give and receive and this was an opportunity for that.

Vulnerability can be scary. I think what would terrify me more though is to not risk and wonder what could have been. Maybe this Lent I am being invited to listen and hear what the next leg of the journey might look like, however uncertain it may be. I’ve had a Sara Groves song rolling through my head during times of prayer. I think it encapsulates my ongoing conversation with God, one that will continue even past Easter.

For those of you who have kept up with my journey at The Dale, this story has in some ways been told before. I beg your ear yet again because I firmly believe that telling stories is important. It is often in the re-telling of things that something fresh becomes apparent for me, which is partially why you’re stuck with me as a blogger. I process through writing.

Five years ago this month I found myself the only staff of what was then Parkdale Neighbourhood Church. I was terrified, though filled with the kind of peace which passes all understanding that I was where I should be. Then I did what I swore my whole career I never would: I ran a drop-in without other staff. Now, in many ways I was far from alone: Souad Sharabani steadfastly remained the Volunteer Kitchen Coordinator, while our core community rose to the occasion and helped in countless ways. The challenge was that I carried a unique responsibility for things, including conflict resolution. It’s okay if you’re thinking, “that’s crazy”, because in fact, it was.

One day I got a message from a woman I had never met but knew of, named Joanna Moon. She ended up coming to meet me in the space where we used to be housed before becoming a church without walls. In retrospect I understand that Joanna had no idea of the existing crisis. She simply knew of me and PNC and wanted to consider coming to work. When I explained that the only way we could hire someone was to have the person willingly fundraise the money for a salary, she didn’t run. We agreed to connect again.

Joanna was suddenly willing to help me with all kinds of things, she helped purge our belongings and pack what we decided to keep; cleaned; attended our last Open Stage at 201 Cowan Avenue; listened to and hugged me. I am amazed that I didn’t scare her off. The crisis that she had been unaware of was now entirely obvious. Somewhere along the way she decided that joining the staff was right and, as she always still describes it, would be my official “buddy”.

To say that I am grateful for Joanna is an understatement. And it’s not just because of all that she does (though that list is long), it’s because of who she is. Joanna is extremely compassionate. She pays attention to people and their needs. Her intuition is so high that she sometimes finds herself weeping for a person who she only later learns was having a bad day. Joanna takes things very seriously and is a hard, hard worker. She loves to help. Joanna is of high character.

When I unceremoniously almost broke my ankle on the way to be with my mother who was in the ICU, Joanna made it possible for me to get back and forth to the hospital. She would pick me up in a car, drop me at the entrance of the hospital and into a wheelchair, park, come and push me to the ICU, buy me coffee, and then take me home, only to do it all again the next day. She holds pieces at The Dale together when I need to be away. When I am falling apart, she routinely writes me a beautiful card and feeds me chocolate. Joanna is, in so many different ways, very present to me.

I trust that God was involved in having me and Joanna meet. I stand amazed that it was only four and a half years ago because it actually feels like I’ve known her forever. It is a privilege to watch Joanna grow and mature even more into the role that she holds at The Dale. I believe in her call to this work and though I say that privately, I am here to say it publicly.

I love you Joey. You really are my buddy and I want you to know that I am yours.

Joanna and I were roaming around a Costco today in an effort to get all the necessary ingredients for our February Feast on Saturday. We had worked out a list at our staff meeting on Tuesday that I wrote in a little grey book that I carry pretty much everywhere. In the middle of an aisle it struck me: if I lose this book and somebody reads it, they will likely be perplexed about who I am and what I do.

I have scrawled countless to-do lists that include everything from “accompany friend to court”, “play Christmas carols at the West Detention Centre”, “push for a lease agreement  that costs $1/year”, “help community member deal with bedbugs”, “contact lawyer about incorporation”, “purchase 150 pieces of chicken”, “write a report for the Board”, “paint”, “pick up Skittles for friend in hospital (it’s all she feels like eating)”, “submit street outreach receipts”, and “speak at The Spoke Club”.

I have Ontario Disability Worker numbers, funeral plans for too many friends, workshop notes, budgets, lists of what to pack for a vacation, and scribbled ideas about what is next for The Dale. Sometimes I let Cate draw in the book if she’s bored in whatever line we’re waiting in. Occasionally I rip out pages so I can give somebody my contact info or write down the directions they’ve asked for. It truly is a glimpse into my life.

When I got home today I read through some of the earlier entries in this book. One page stood out. On that day I had been listening to Sister Sue Mosteller at a conference and was jotting down words that stood out to me: “encounter”, “abide”, “beloved”. Then she said, “stir up the courage to care and the will to take action so lives can be changed, including yours”. I remember being moved by her words, so much that I needed to write them down.

While my book might be confusing to a person who doesn’t know me, it helps bring some order to my life. When I am feeling overwhelmed by the amount of things I have to do, writing a list always makes me feel better. When I have what is likely a harebrained idea, I can map it out and see if it might actually take root (or not). I can look back and see what has changed or grown. And I can be reminded of the wise words of people who inspire me. I’m glad I didn’t lose it at Costco.

Sidebar: While I didn’t lose my grey book, I did manage to lose my Costco card somewhere in the store. I’ll have to make a note to get a new one.

I was encouraged to see people sharing about their own mental health challenges yesterday. It took vulnerability. The conversation, I believe, is good. And one that I hope continues.

Which is why I want to talk about the mental health issues that are difficult to hide- the ones that impact many of our community members at The Dale. The reality is that some diagnoses diminish ones capacity to keep it hidden and struggle in silence. If you talk to people who no one else can see or believe that everyone is out to get you AND spend close to all of your time outside because that’s where you live, it becomes difficult to keep your challenges a secret. And that is just one example of what I mean.

I have a friend who has schizophrenia. He is acutely self-aware and not scared to talk about it. He travels all over the city and is easily spotted shovelling out gutters (he likes to help) and handing out slips of paper that describe his issues. I am often astounded by his generosity and ability to pray. I watch people retract from him, who cross the street to avoid making eye contact. I understand the impulse to react this way. It also pains me. I am witness to the ways in which his health improves the more he interacts with people who listen to and love him, no matter what.

My hope and prayer is that as society becomes more accepting of the reality of mental health issues, it will also enfold those who have been pushed to the margins. We all have a story. We share a common humanity. Let’s keep the conversation going.

It was my mother Elaine’s birthday on Sunday. I find myself reflecting on the impact she has on me and let’s say it is not small. She is one of the most gracious women I know AND I get to call her mom. This gift is not lost on me.

My mom describes the way she came to God as a movement toward light. I was pretty little (around five years old) when it began. I still remember her taking me to church for the first time and how I somehow felt like it was to be a second home. All these years later I can say that feeling proved accurate. In nurturing her own faith, my mom nurtured mine.

Growing up, our home was always warm and inviting. I think people felt like they could put their feet up and get comfortable. My mom had this way of combining antique finds, homemade things and sentimental pieces. I recognize that I try to do the same. It was in this kind of setting that my friends would find the courage to talk about hard life stuff with my mom. She has always been a good listener.

Creativity was encouraged by my mom. We had access to a trunk overflowing with art supplies. In an effort to let me “have my own voice”, I was allowed to choose my outfits from a very young age (I picked some doozies). Though I’m certain this wasn’t easy, as a single parent she managed to purchase an upright piano and pay for lessons so that I could learn to play. She showed up to all of the school concerts and plays I was in all while supporting my brother in his areas of interest too.

Over the years my mom has endured significant loss: she lost both of her parents and her marriage in a short period of time. In 2002 she had brain surgery that stole her ability to live independently, walk, stand, and eat food through her mouth. A fine artist, the surgery took away the use of her hands, though she has “one good finger” (as she describes it) with which she can use an iPad. Just weeks after being finally moved to a hospital close to my brother and our families, mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and had a mastectomy. Somehow through all of this her response to the suffering has been patient endurance. I know she has allowed herself to weep. I also know she intentionally chooses joy.

My mom, among many other things, has helped me learn how to linger over a meal, enjoy conversation, make popcorn on the stove, value tithing, drive a standard car, really appreciate colour, listen to the CBC, sort out my brain by writing a list, persevere even when things are hard, and lean on God.

In an article that Tim Challies wrote about my mom, he said: “A short time ago my mother visited Elaine and asked how she deals with all that she has suffered. Elaine looked at her quizzically and said, ‘But I don’t feel like I have suffered.’ She acknowledges that she has endured great challenges and great physical pain, but she cannot and will not see herself as essentially a sufferer.” Now if that isn’t inspiring, I don’t know what is.

I love you mom. Happy birthday.