He’s usually loud, oftentimes shouting expletive heavy disjointed thoughts. It’s common for people to recoil, maybe out of equal parts fear and annoyance. We sometimes need to draw significant boundaries for him at The Dale (to varying degrees of success). All of this is why seeing him clear-headed and wanting to be helpful at a drop-in this week was so encouraging.

My heart is big for this person. I actually feel very parental towards him, and I don’t think I’m imagining that he’s content to feel like my kid. Sometimes our conversations are silly- he does make me laugh. Other times we talk about the significant pain he carries around: of being abandoned, abused and alone. The most difficult times are when he’s practically spinning like a top, telling stories that don’t make sense, but are spotted with the very real pain I just described.

Yesterday he set up the tables and chairs for our Wednesday Drop-In. He brought out mugs and made sure there was ketchup and syrup to accompany scrambled eggs and pancakes. He created individual servings of sliced oranges in little plastic bowls. He asked everyone in the room if he could get them a coffee, even someone who most days considers this person an enemy. The two of them ended up having a smoke break together.

Later in the day I was needing to describe our work to a person at the Charities Directorate in Ottawa. He wanted me to clarify how we define being a community. I kept thinking about the morning: how my friend wears his brokenness so close to the surface that he can’t hide it, that he keeps trying to work out the pain with people who won’t shun him, that on good days he knows he is safe to fully participate, and that he wants to take care of us just as we take care of him.

This friend left before the drop-in was done. Before exiting he said, “Cate needs to come so we can draw pictures together again. You know, I want good things for her. For you too. Tell her I helped today”. Well, I told her. And now I’m telling all of you, because this is the kind of moment that The Dale is all about.

In early 2012 I was asked to re-imagine how, what was then known as Parkdale Neighbourhood Church, might function. In a proposal to the board I wrote, “PNC is a special, vibrant community that deserves the chance to further develop and grow. Given the current financial circumstances we need to make some hard decisions. I believe there are two options: 1) Close and 2) Undergo a “reboot”. The first option is self-explanatory. The second I will give some shape to in this document”.

I went on to suggest that we “seek out a location that will allow us to use space for free, one day a week. The Drop-In can be primarily run by our current volunteer team along with Souad Sharabani in the kitchen. In addition to this, we can develop teams of people to be present on the street at least one evening a week, more if we have the capability. Further, I suggested that we “pare down our expenses to food for Mondays, a negotiated salary for myself (that I would fundraise for) and a fund to allow me to take potential supporters and community members out for coffee, etc. While an office in the neighbourhood would be helpful, I can envision working on my laptop in the Parkdale library and from home. I will commit to remaining very visible in the neighbourhood.”

I proposed that together we would “revision and strategize for the future, including a possible name change and re-branding (i.e. logo, website, etc.); to get ourselves organized administratively, including incorporation and re-building of a Board; to meet with potential funders; to research possible partnerships with other organizations and finally to encourage our current partners to stay the course with us”. The plan was for this process to take up to a year, but that if we didn’t meet established “markers” at certain intervals we would re-evaluate and begin the process of closing down.

I remember believing this was an opportunity to build upon the exciting work that had long existed at PNC. We had deep roots. We had a beautiful, resilient community. We had endured much. We could rise up.

Fast forward to 2016. Though I had to write that proposal in the first person, the reboot has been an entirely collective process. Over the last four, almost five years, we have become a nomadic people with a weekly routine. We move from 250 Dunn, to the Salvation Army Thrift Store, to the St. Clare Centre, to 201 Cowan Avenue, to coffee shops, to parks, to countless stops along Queen St West between Dufferin and Roncesvalles. I continue to carry my ‘office’ in a bag. We are now a staff of two, thanks to Joanna Moon. Souad has a solid team in the kitchen that cooks healthy, flavourful meals with food from our friends at Second Harvest. We have a Board of Directors six people strong. Marion Cameron is our stellar bookkeeper. Together we have become The Dale Ministries.

As we approach the end of another year, I find myself full of gratitude for the metamorphosis The Dale has gone and continues to go through. We are regular witnesses to God’s provision, oftentimes through people such as yourselves, who have chosen to support this work. One of our core community members regularly prays the following, “Thank you God for this fellowship of people. We have lasted so long. We are not made of bricks and mortar, but of people”.

And to that I say, “Amen”.

This December has felt dark in a variety of ways, and I’m not just talking about the lack of daylight during our short winter days. There are multiple Dale community members who have been hospitalized. We still don’t know for sure if the friend I recently wrote about is dead or alive. My Mom and Dion both got the virus that has been floating around on top of their regular health challenges. You get the idea. Covering all of this is Advent- the period of actively waiting for Christmas. I keep trying to remember that the light of Christmas is on its way.

Being in a context like The Dale is a beautiful reminder that Christmas will come with or without packages and bows. In the dim light of this month, there have been moments of surrender, joy, love, peace and yes, hope in our little community. We have carolled and feasted. One person, though he has only sixty dollars left after he pays his rent, brought cheese and crackers to share at TWO of our Sunday services. As we handed out gifts on the street today, one man (who was panhandling) gave up his present to a friend who “needed it more”. A friend who was expected to not leave ICU is back in a regular hospital room.

We had a Christmas Eve service today. At the end, just before passing each other the peace, we spoke of the kind of situation Jesus was born into: birthed in a stable in an occupied country, soon to become a refugee. He was a gift then and is a gift now. And that, regardless of our circumstances, is something to celebrate. 

Merry Christmas. 


 

The word on the street in Parkdale is that one of our long-time friends and community members has died. We haven’t been able to confirm whether this is fact or fiction, even with calls to the local hospital, police and coroner. And so we wait, not knowing whether to grieve or hope that we’ll see this person magically walk into drop-in tomorrow. It’s a strange set of emotions to navigate at any time of year, but somehow this happening during Advent (the period of waiting before Christmas) makes it even more…poignant.

It was last Monday that people shared the news of this death with me and Joanna. We sat in stunned silence for a moment and then began to ask questions and make phone calls. The two of us then hid away in a small storage room to pray. With a garbage chute on one side and a freezer on another, we looked at each other and then to God. We prayed for our friend and that we would uncover the truth, for a heavy sense of peace in the drop-in, for enough people to do dishes and for strength to get through the day.

By the end of the day we were keenly aware of how there had not been a single need to manage or de-escalate tension. The dishes got done in record time. We had made it through the day. And we still had no idea about our friend. I have been wondering aloud ever since, “Why? Why were some of our prayers so immediately answered? And some seemingly not at all?” It’s not that I would trade the calm that we were gifted- I’m so grateful. It’s that I don’t get why we have to wait [not so patiently] for other answers.

For the last number of years I have completed my Christmas shopping in the fall. I started doing this because I know how busy the season is and wanted to enjoy it without the added stress. In retrospect I realize that this has stripped away any distraction I have from Advent. I am much more aware of the darkness that precedes the coming of the light of Christmas. I honestly don’t find it a comfortable place to linger, and yet I’m asked to both remember and anticipate with patience and hope.

And so I wait. And so we wait. For news of our friend, for prayers to be answered and for our desperately broken world to be fixed.

“Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young people stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles, they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.” (Isaiah 40:28-31)

A close friend of mine recently sent me an article about coping with the grief associated with having a loved one who is sick. In just one page the author said things that summed up what I feel, notably: “Illness and disability is a family affair. The accident or diagnosis that made our family member need care, happened to us as well. It is our accident and our diagnosis just as much as it is theirs. I have a psychosocial form of MS, just as my husband has a clinical one.” (Suzanne Mintz)

It can be hard to say this out loud when I’m not the one who struggles to walk. Dion and my Mom’s physical limitations are obvious in a way that my emotional struggle is not, though our grief over things lost is similar. In some ways Dion and I are both accustomed to the diagnosis of MS that happened in 1997, a disease that has impacted our life together ever since. In other ways we are on a constant grieving journey, one that doesn’t follow the generally accepted stages of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

As a person of faith, people often ask me if I believe that Dion and my Mom can be healed. The truth is, I do. This is something I have to hold lightly, because as much as I believe it to be possible, it has yet to happen. And I have to believe that though physical healing has not occurred, it is happening in other ways. This doesn’t keep me though from desperately wanting a miracle.

“Denying your grief denies your humanity” says Mintz. I acknowledge that my family’s life is different from what we once imagined it would be. The pain and sorrow associated with illness is tangible, though at the same time it has allowed us an experience of life that is deep, rich and beautiful. There is much that is not easy and quite honestly we’d like a break from the difficult stuff. I am admittedly sad.

I am learning that to cope I need to regularly acknowledge the sadness. As I deal with the waves of grief, I am more able to take a deep breath and carry on. It might seem counter-intuitive, but by dwelling here I am freed to more fully experience all that is good. And there is much good, including a huge community of people who want to make this an even bigger family affair.

I have recently enjoyed a number of opportunities to share the story of The Dale at events around the city. Every single time I have found myself in conversation with people about what it means that I am both giver and receiver in my community. The belief that we all, regardless of our circumstances, have something to offer is foundational to everything we do at The Dale. Today was no exception.

I sat across from someone in deep distress who took a moment to look right at me and acknowledge that he sees my own pain too. It has been in our mutual sharing that we have earned one another’s trust. While our burdens are very different, we recognize that the heaviness of the load is similar. I believe this makes both of us feel less alone.

Feeling slightly defeated by an exchange with someone who was very angry, I turned to re-enter the drop-in. An older man who I hardly know walked right up to me and proceeded to offer what I can only describe as a blessing. He gave thanks for the lunch, encouraged me to know that Mondays matter, described the good things he sees in me and prayed that I might know deep happiness. To those of you who know me, it will come as no surprise that I welled up with tears and choked out a thank you.

I received a poem from someone and a piece of chocolate from another. Though I had no expectation of being repaid, I got handed a crumpled $5 bill. I was firmly hugged by two women whose mantra to me was, “Shalom. We desire peace for you”. Busily connecting with people in the drop-in, I stopped to take in the sheer number of volunteers making everything in the kitchen happen and felt overwhelmed with gratitude.

Mohammed, a recent addition to the community, showed up to help before we were even open: a full hour early. Every time he finished a task, he asked for another. He has a great laugh and often remarks that Joanna and I are “funny” (I’m not certain if this is because he likes our jokes or thinks we’re weird. Either way, he makes us smile). Ready to go home, Mohammed shook my hand and assured me he’d show up to tomorrow’s drop-in early too. “I help you and you help me. That’s how we do this”.

Exactly.

I haven’t known what to write about lately. It is unusual for me to get writer’s block, so I began to assume that maybe it was an okay time for a break. Life has been very ‘full’: some things very good, others downright hard. I have been quietly processing all of it, particularly what is going on with my Mom, Dion’s health and the lives of many people at The Dale. I know there is a weariness evident in my eyes.

I recently walked into the Monday Drop-In late, having gone to a doctor’s appointment with Dion first thing that morning. We often find appointments with the MS specialist hard because of the bombardment of well-intentioned information, very little of which is related to the possibility of life without the disease. When I walked through the door at The Dale I was feeling raw. One of our community members was feeling off too. While it was just the two of us in the foyer, he launched into a bit of a tirade about everything wrong with Parkdale. Knowing I had little capacity to manage it, I said, “friend, I’ve had a really hard morning. I don’t know what to say”. He suddenly stopped, said, “ya, I heard. I get that” and proceeded to sit with me in silence.

It can be a difficult discipline to simply be with the one who is in pain. When people are struggling it is easy to fill up the air with platitudes. There are of course times when people want and ask for advice, or need to process out loud. I desire those things. What I’m learning is that I also need to be still, often with people who know and love me. In the stillness I am reminded that my circumstances do not outweigh my inherent worth in God. This truth usually enables me to take a deep breath and carry on.

On Monday I was surrounded by people who tenderly cared for me. The typical flurry of activity continued all day, but somehow the community created a pocket of space for me to be in. Most people didn’t say much at all, as though they knew it was enough to touch my shoulder and nod, or give me a hug. When I wanted to talk there were people to listen. I want to liken my experience to being moved to the eye of the storm, that calm region at the center of a storm or hurricane. The storm didn’t stop, but in the midst of it I was able to be still.