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Learning Each Other’s Names

I am glad so many people have learned that the young boy who drowned trying to escape Syria was named Aylan Kurdi. Names are important.

I think about the value of being known by name nearly every day. It matters to me when someone remembers my name and even more when they learn how to spell it. Erinn with two n’s is rare. When someone comes to The Dale the first thing we try to do is learn their name. One of my friends Michael talks about how he knew The Dale was a safe space away from the street when we took him by surprise and called him by name.

We all have an innate need to be known. Being known goes deeper than simply remembering one’s name though. We might be able to identify a celebrity by name, but know nothing about them as a person. This is where it gets messy. Authentic relationships are built when we are willing to reveal ourselves. Underneath our exteriors (whatever that exterior might look like) are complex emotions, failures and longings that we fear will be too much for anyone else to handle. That which we want most can also be the most terrifying.

This fear can flow into the way we take care of one another. Though we were designed to live in community we often don’t. Or we do, just in homogenous groups that we design to feel comfortable and very safe. We are called though to feed those who are hungry, clothe those who are naked, visit those who are sick and imprisoned and show hospitality to those in need. Remember too that each of us will take turns being the one who requires help.

I am convinced that if people consistently opened their doors to people like Aylan or my friend Michael, our world would look very different. A radical shift in our culture is necessary for this to happen. Maybe the start is learning one another’s names.

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Photos for and Inspired by My Mom

On Monday I went to visit my Mom who lives in the complex continuing care unit of a hospital around the corner from us. We had been away at camp the previous week, home for just enough time to do laundry before heading to Newfoundland. We had a couple of hours to catch up before I went home to finish packing.

I was folding clothes when the phone rang. With a steady voice, one of my Mom’s nurses explained that they had been unable to wake her up, assured me she was breathing and strongly suggested that we come. I immediately called my brother and together we joined our Mom at her bedside.

It was a scary night. At times we were very uncertain about what the outcome was going to be. I felt sure that I wouldn’t be getting on a plane. However, as we have experienced a number of times before, my Mom rallied. In the wee hours of the morning she opened her eyes, smiled and obviously recognized us and the others who had gathered. I felt jittery with relief.

I confess that I was entirely conflicted about embarking on our trip. With the encouragement of others, including my Mom I found courage to go. I promised her that I would heed her advice and take a lot of pictures. My Mom is an artist and I find myself trying to capture the things she would like to see, smell and touch. I am filled with memories of summers in Northern Ontario where the terrain is not dissimilar to Newfoundland. I know she would love it here.

Mom, I aspire to be as strong and gentle as you. I love you. These photos are for you (there are hundreds more for when we’re back together).

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Cowboy

I knew Robert Wilson as Cowboy. I met Cowboy outside of the library at the corner of Queen Street West and Cowan Avenue, where he was hanging out with a crew of people I knew from The Dale drop-in. He finished that first conversation with a certain hand gesture: one where he would wiggle his fingers and bring his arm back to signify that things were “groovy”. From that time on we used it to greet one another hello, though our goodbye would inevitably include a hug.

I learned quickly that Cowboy lived life hard. He was an admitted alcoholic who I got used to seeing inebriated. Drunk or sober, Cowboy could articulate that he was numbing difficult things and wanted to be able to stop. It was not uncommon for him to attend our little Sunday afternoon church service where he would pray aloud for healing. In some of his worst moments he would sit atop the small flight of stairs into the space away from the service, close enough to be safe, far enough to be entrenched in his own thoughts.

Cowboy became a good friend. He would always say, “girl, how ARE you today?” I knew he really wanted to know and would call me out if I didn’t give an honest answer. When I needed to share hard things he would look at me with compassion, nod his head and say, “in the end, in the end, in the end…things will be okay”. Coming from Cowboy, this sentiment was the opposite of trite. I knew that he understood the challenge of life and was pointing to our future hope.

The last time I had a conversation with Cowboy was near the beginning of June after a little memorial service we did for a community member’s father, a man none of us had met. It was a beautiful time, full of love and support for the bereaved. I sang ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ at the request of Cowboy. Afterwards he sang a couple of lines to me, unashamed of the tears that accompanied them. He spoke of how much he loved his friends and family, gave me a hug and left.

That night (I will spare the details of how) Cowboy ended up in hospital, unconscious and on full life support. Upon hearing the news the following day, I went to the hospital and met the family that surrounded him. Over the course of the next month and a half Cowboy was well cared for until his body couldn’t do it anymore. It is hard to believe he is gone.

I think about Cowboy a lot. I miss him. The Dale misses him, as do so many people in Parkdale. My prayer is that in the end, in the end, things have been made right for him. I live in hope that our goodbye is actually a groovy ‘see you later’, finger wiggling and all.

Toronto Star notice: Robert “Cowboy” Wilson Obituary

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Diving In

Over the last number of weeks I have been travelling to and from the various camps that my daughter Cate is attending. Before one of the treks I grabbed a handful of CDs that I hadn’t listened to in years, hoping to be inspired by music I once knew. In the late 90’s, just before I started work at Sanctuary (a place that has inspired the work of The Dale in countless ways and precious to my heart) I listened incessantly to a song about “diving in”. This was the first song that played as I turned on the car.

I’m diving in, I’m going deep, in over my head I want to be
Caught in the rush, tossed in the flow, in over my head I want to go
The river’s deep, the river’s wide, the river’s water is alive
So sink or swim, I’m diving in. Here I go.

Making the decision to join the Sanctuary staff was entirely appealing and terrifying at the same time. In addition to being scared of having to fundraise the money for my own salary, I struggled with self-doubt: was I really the right person to join such a unique community? As memories of that time flooded back, I began to realize how similar I felt right before starting my current role at The Dale. In fact, how I sometimes still feel the anxiety of jumping in the proverbial “river” that is my work.

The Dale is at an interesting time in its life. In many ways we have come through crisis and are enjoying some relative stability. Our relationships with one another, our partners and the neighbourhood are expanding. More people know our story. All of these good things bring more responsibility and increased need. As relationships deepen, so does our capacity to truly feel one another’s pain. We need to be honest about the good news of our story and the fact that we continuously live rather close to the edge. It’s a complicated, sometimes scary space to be.

I found myself weeping as I sang along to this song I hadn’t heard in such a long time. It touched a part of me that I was maybe only quietly aware of, the part that right now needs to say again and again “I’m diving in”. I want to keep swimming and trust that I can be in over my head because the water is truly that alive. Here I go.

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An Unexpected Reminder: The Faith of a Stranger

Someone came into our Thrift Store Drop-In today and asked to speak to me about “religious stuff”. I had no idea what to expect or what turns such a conversation might take. Looking into folded hands he said, “do you remember when Jesus told the man to pick up his mat and walk?”

Yes, I surely do. In it, Jesus heals the man who has been a paralytic. It is a story that I think of often: when I visit my mom who has lived in hospital for more than a decade, when I hold the hands of friends at The Dale who are struggling, when I consider the toll Multiple Sclerosis is taking on my husband.

He continued, “I want even a portion of that for my friend who can hardly walk and is too skinny and has no money.”

I could feel a lump rise up in my throat as he emphatically talked about the desire for healing. Over the last number of weeks I have thought of little else. The deepest part of me has been consumed with wondering why healing seems so far away. Honestly, it might even be the reason why I’ve been so quiet here.

Our talk was relatively short and finished with, “will you pray for him? We have to keep believing” before he excused himself to go and buy some food for the ailing friend. I was struck and encouraged by his faith. This stranger, probably unwittingly, reminded me that where there is faith, there is hope.

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Being Present: An Exercise for Today

Today I rose early to walk with a friend. The air felt good as the sun started to rise.

When I got home I sat on our porch swing, one of the few things I always knew I wanted when I imagined one day maybe having a house. For some reason a free newspaper landed on our stoop and so I looked at it. I remembered to cut the two peony blossoms from our garden so that we can enjoy them for a little longer as they perfume the living room.

Now I’m drinking coffee and eating peanut butter on toast, both things I could easily have for breakfast every day. The birds are singing. The sun is now high enough to splash on my face.

Every once in a while i catch myself sighing. The burden of the last while has been heavy and I’m attuned to the fact that I’m weary. When I get to this kind of place I try to remember that being present to the moment is helpful and good. This morning is about that. Hopefully the rest of the day will be too.

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The Mash-Up of Life

For a whole host of reasons these last few weeks have been challenging. We are experiencing what I can only describe as a wave of illness and death in our community. People are worried, mad and sad. Some, in an effort to numb the pain, are being self-destructive. It is difficult.

After a particularly troubling pastoral visit to the hospital, I found myself at a loss for what to say, do or even think. The awareness that there was nothing I could do to fix anything was palpable. Just that morning I had been in a church surrounded by people singing about God’s grace being enough. I confess that it was hard for me to sing the happy tune. My longing for grace was real, but welling up from a deep, deep place, one marked with despair. I desperately wanted God to show up.

Since then I have been aware that God is indeed showing up. For months we have been praying that one person’s estranged family would take time to visit. They finally did. A friend who has long desired to contribute financially to The Dale (though they already give in many other ways) proudly handed me three dollars in change, everything that was in their pocket. On a Wednesday when I had to be at the hospital leaving Joanna at the drop-in, a community member showed up with breakfast food they had already prepared for everyone. The nurses and doctors caring for our loved ones are kind and compassionate.

I am coming to understand that hard times always intermingle with good times. Our lives are a mash-up of good and bad, challenging and easy, grief and celebration, sorrow and joy. The most brutal things can also expose the most beauty. I still don’t understand the last few weeks. I do see though that grace is weaving its way through it.

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Though I Walk Through the Valley

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

These were the words spoken by a beloved Parkdale friend as we sat side-by-side on his hospital bed this week, both of our eyes dripping with tears.

These were the words I thought on my way to a funeral of another friend.

These were the words I recited again as I was told about and went to visit yet another Parkdale friend who is in critical condition.

I will never get used to the feeling of death drawing near or of its actual arrival. Though it sometimes takes time to sink in, the eventual reality of it is stark and FULL. What I long for is death to be put to death.

Granted, living in this broken world leaves some people eager for the relief that death will provide. Too many people seem to have the odds stacked against them from the very beginning. On Sunday our service was tangibly marked with the lament of people’s pain. A regular cry was, “Hell is here. I’m living it. Where is hope?” To say my heart was heavy is a blatant understatement.

Dwelling in the valley with my friends deepens my longing for the resurrection of life. I desperately want people who know primarily darkness at the hands of others and/or their own, to see life marked with light. I want the same for me, for all of us.

Through a veil of tears I finish the 23rd Psalm: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; My cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

Goodness and mercy, please come.

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Impact: Warner Brothers & The Dale

Occasionally I get into what I often describe as a “fundraising funk”. The Dale is a lean organization that is entirely dependent on the financial support of others to do what we do. During my so-called funks I begin to wonder where the next little bit might come from, sure that I am at the end of ideas. Fortunately these times are often short-lived. Not one has ended quite as surprisingly as my last one though, screeching to a halt when I received an e-mail titled: “The Dale Fundraiser at 5000 Yonge Street on May 20th, 2015”.

The body of the e-mail went on to explain that the Warner Brothers Donations Committee had decided to support The Dale by holding a raffle, the grand prize being a private screening of a theatrical release for you and up to forty people. I was invited to be present on the 20th in order to share the story of The Dale.

Apart from being a wonderful shock, I knew this was an amazing opportunity. My husband and I went to the movies just before the fundraiser and when the WB logo filled the screen I elbowed him, feeling a swell of gratitude that such a company would take notice of The Dale. I want to publicly say thank you to Warner Brothers for believing in our cause and making an impact. It means a lot that you would come alongside The Dale as we work to build community that is safe and respectful for all people, particularly those who are touched by poverty.

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Mothering

I was sitting in the Coffee Corner at the Thrift Store during our Tuesday Drop-In. A quiet woman from the community who I’ve been slowly getting to know over the last few years asked me, “what did you do to prepare for mothering?” A good question and one that I realize I’m not often asked. I paused, thought and replied, “I was privileged to have a wonderful example in my own mother”.

I come from a long line of women who were able to have children and be exceptional mothers. I always wanted to be a mother myself because of them, often imagining that I would have a few children. I slowly had to come to terms with the reality that I was to have one child (our beloved Cate), learning along the way to appreciate the struggle one feels when fertility is an issue. I also discovered that my maternal instincts existed in relationships beyond the one I have with my biological daughter. Sometimes I talk about how this “probably” had something to do with my choice of vocation. Of course, if I am honest I should replace the word “probably” with “certainly”. I always wanted to find work that reflected my passion.

With all of this in mind, I paused on Mother’s Day to consider: the gift that my mother is to me; the challenge it was to have Cate, her beautiful arrival and how hard it is to remember life without her; the number of women who have spiritually and emotionally mentored me; the fact that I have a step-mother and mother-in-law who love and support me; the children I have the pleasure of watching grow; the Dale community and my “motherly” role in it.

I also invited The Dale to acknowledge Mother’s Day in all of its complexity. For many people in our community mothers are gone because of either estrangement, abandonment or death. Some people grieve the inability to have children of their own while others remember the children they gave up. What binds all of these layers together though is a deep desire to be loved and to show love, a truth that my friend at the Thrift Store shared as a part of our conversation that day: “I won’t ever be a mother in the traditional sense, but I would still like to learn how to love like one”. Should we all.