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Dignity of Presence

I’m trying to warm up after a 5:15 morning walk with a dear friend. I’ve been checking e-mails and just received the good news about a grant proposal being accepted for PNC. Yes! And just last night a group of new friends announced they had taken up an offering for us- an offering that reflects loving generosity. Yes, again! As I sit by the fire in my living room I am struck by the gratitude I feel that, at the end of a crazy year, PNC is still here. We have weathered many storms and are not looking just tattered and torn, but hope-full. On more than a few occasions I have said (and will continue to say), “there is beauty arising from the ashes”.

At this time last year another dear friend shared an Advent reading that has proven to be a constant source of great encouragement. One part says this:

Think of the seed. We commit it to the darkness. And a new plant emerges thanks to what O’Donohue calls ‘the ancient symmetry of growth: root further into darkness and rise towards the sun.’

This is so powerfully embodied in the great poise of the trees. ‘A life that wishes to honour its own possibility has to learn too how to integrate the suffering of dark and bleak times into a dignity of presence. Letting go of old forms of life, a tree practices hospitality towards new forms. It balances perennial energies of winter and spring within its own living bark.

A dignity of presence. I love that. I love that PNC has been able to urge our roots deeper, spill into the streets, learn to rely on God for our daily bread and find a new way. I am learning SO much about trusting God in each moment. Without fail, when the bank account has dipped to a bad place, there is either just enough money in my pocket or someone else says, “I will take care of it”; when there is little food in the pantry we get a donation; when we need a space to run a program another organization says “here, use this space”. I have desired to be open and attuned to the possibility that God might say it is time to close the doors. All these happenings though say the exact opposite: stay open, I am with all of you.

The PNC community is rising up. With humble gratitude I say, thanks.

To all who mourn he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair…they will be like great oaks that the Lord has planted for his own glory (Isaiah)



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The Water Guy

Advent is upon us. Advent, for those unfamiliar with the term means “coming” and is used to describe the time between now and Christmas. It is the time in which we wait and prepare to remember the coming of Christ that happened so long ago and longingly anticipate His return. I began to really pay attention to Advent a number of years ago now and admit that with each passing year this season has become more and more challenging for me. Though deeply rooted in me is a desire to give gifts, I struggle with the consumerism of the season. I hate how busy the month of December becomes. Most of all though, a very large spotlight appears over the darkness of both my own heart and the state of the world. It feels as though I cannot wait for things to be made right.

I’m having to learn the art of waiting. Not the fidgety, exasperated kind of waiting, but the kind that is patient and still. I’m having to choose to buy less, slow down the pace and allow myself to be changed. Very slowly, the layers of guilt, shame, loneliness and ill-desire are being stripped away from my heart. My eyes become even more alerted to the terrible pain and suffering of this world: of men and women and children caught in the sex trade and of those who control them; of bombs being detonated over cities, villages and towns; of polluted water that cannot quench the thirst of those around it, of the awful disparity between those who are rich and those who are poor. As my eyes open, so does the desire to do what I can: pray, love well, build community, look for glimpses of hope, weep with those who are weeping and receive the care and love of others toward me.

Years ago I found myself completely overwhelmed the week before Christmas. My husband was having a terrible Multiple Sclerosis attack, my mother was trying to recover from brain surgery in hospital, my daughter was small and needing me and all of a sudden we HAD NO WATER. I turned on the tap one morning and nothing came out. Nothing came out for over a week. The worst part really was that nobody seemed to be able to help- the City of Toronto told us to call a plumber while the plumber told us to call the City. Finally somebody from the City told me candidly that we needed to have a pipe replaced from the sidewalk to the house, an issue requiring getting on a waiting list (a list we’d actually been on for years) and that until our name came up we were out of luck. I got off the phone, locked myself in the bathroom and lost it.

It wasn’t pretty. Through the flood of tears I finally said, “God, there is absolutely nothing I can do. You HAVE to do something”. I was wailing so hard that I almost missed the ring of the doorbell. Standing outside my door was a lanky worker from the city. He said, “I found your problem. Stuck my shovel in the snowbank by the sidewalk and water flooded out. I’ve got a crew on the way”. Friends, I felt like I met Jesus in the form of a water guy.

This Advent I am waiting for the water guy to show up. I want to cut through the various obligations of Christmas and be reminded that I need to remember He is, in fact, coming.

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Loonie

I’ve acknowledged before that I can be a real klutz. Over the last couple of weeks this has been glaringly obvious: I have bruises on my knees to prove it.

One night I had Cate and Grace (one of Cate’s best friends) in tow. While exiting a grocery store we were greeted by a man asking for money. We chatted a bit and then I gave him a dollar. I actually don’t often give out money, but for some reason this time I did. As we walked away I tripped on…something…and I quite spectacularly fell, nearly on my face. The plastic bag of food I was carrying tore open and spilled everywhere. Cate and Grace ran to help, quickly followed by my new friend- the man outside the store. This man helped me up, ran inside to get me a reusable bag to replace the plastic one now in shreds, gathered the scattered food and made sure I was okay.

In the flurry of activity the loonie that I had just placed in this man’s hat went flying. Once things settled the four of us got to the work of finding it. What a scene. The two girls were on their hands and knees, I was looking under the Christmas greenery leaned against the building, he was combing the sidewalk. We never found it. And I didn’t have another one in my pocket.

I felt terrible. He however did not. He said, “that’s okay. Somebody who needs it even more will find it. I’m sorry you hurt yourself. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to help. God bless”. Then he walked me to my car.

This incident, along with the giant bruise on my left knee, keeps reminding me that it is better to give than receive. All too often so many of my friends who experience the exclusion that comes from living in poverty are denied the gift of giving. This story is not about me giving somebody some money. No, it is about somebody helping me.

 

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Loose the Chains

It didn’t take me too long to find the chains that You just freed me from. 

This line from a song I love plays on repeat in my head every time I see my friend Sally. Sally has been an alcoholic for a very, very long time. The alcohol serves to numb the pain of knowing her former husband molested their children. Sally wants to discover a different way. Most days the way she knows comes easiest. And I get it. It breaks my heart and I long for her to find freedom from it, but I get it.

I get it because I too find my own chains over and over again.

So what should Sally do? What should I do?

I believe we need to acknowledge how heavy the burden is, fall on our knees and ask the One who created us to do a new work in our hearts. I think we need to find a community where we can come as we are; where we can acknowledge the things that we do wrong; where we can be challenged and held accountable for our actions; where we can be gently held when we mess up AGAIN. Because we all will.

I have held Sally’s hair back as she vomited on the floor. I have noticed the empty bottles of rubbing alcohol stashed in her bag and sometimes confiscated the full ones. I have helped guide her staggering body to the waiting ambulance because maybe this time the help will be accepted.

Sally has sat with me, holding my hand as I wept, overwhelmed and exhausted. She has cautioned me to not “work so hard”. When I am feeling particularly unloveable, Sally always seems to be the one who shows up to tell me I am loved.

One day Sally arrived at PNC, wasted and wired, saying she had been prepared all day to take her own life. I sat in stunned silence as she handed me the pile of pills she had stored up, saying, “I’ve decided this isn’t the answer. I’m giving you my pills. I know I am loved”.

It is in those moments that the chains are loosened. I have kept the pills as a reminder.

I got so used to having them on I didn’t know how to live in freedom.  This can’t be, no it can’t be what You intended for me. Glory come down. 

Indeed.

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Wonder Woman, Not.

Leadership is a funny thing. As someone who has been invited to lead, I am encountering the many challenges it presents. The challenge at the top of my list is people thinking that because of my role I am somehow Wonder Woman.

Wonder Woman I am not (though I wouldn’t mind having an invisible plane to travel around in).

I am here to attest to the fact that I am completely, utterly human. I make mistakes. I have inward struggles that only a handful of people know about. I sometimes procrastinate. I forget things. I have double or even triple booked. I am enough of a klutz that friends wonder when I will break my next bone. I worry. I imagine that I will fall flat on my face in the journey that is PNC.

I do not deserve to be put on any pedestal. And the truth is, I really don’t want to be on one.

My hope and prayer is that I will play a role in helping others to discover how integral THEY are in Parkdale. Some of my favourite times are when I’m standing in the corner of the drop-in, watching things unfold in the kitchen, listening to various conversations, and seeing people bustle around getting the room set-up. I smile to myself and think, “what an amazing team”.

Yes, there are tasks that are for me to do. And yes, there is responsibility on my shoulders. I will endeavour to do what is required of me, using strength that is not my own but of God. A whole host of people constantly remind me that even if I could be Wonder Woman, I don’t need to be. Instead, I am accepted as I am. What a relief.

I’ll be a servant leader instead, albeit a clumsy one.

 

 

 

 

 

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ish

My daughter was once given a lovely little picture book called “Ish”, by Peter H. Reynolds. It is the story of Ramon, a young boy who likes to draw, “Anytime. Anything. Anywhere”. One day though Ramon’s older brother Leon snickers at one of his works of art, saying it doesn’t look like anything. This is so hurtful, that Ramon discards his work and decides to never draw again. He can’t make anything look “right”. That is, until he discovers his little sister Marisol has created a gallery of his crumpled up art on the walls of her room. Tenderly she declares which one is her favourite. “That was supposed to be a vase of flowers,’ Ramon said, ‘but it doesn’t look like one.”

“Well, it looks vase-ISH!’ she exclaimed”.

Marisol’s simple statement changes Ramon: “[he] felt light and energized. Thinking ish-ly allowed his ideas to flow freely. He began to draw what he felt- loose lines. Quickly springing out . Without worry.”

Since re-reading this book the other night, I haven’t been able to stop considering how important thinking “ish-ly” has become in my life. Many have heard me lament that I don’t ever know how to succinctly answer the question, “how are you?”. The temptation so often is to say “okay”. However “okay” doesn’t really cut it. Okay presumes too much. The truth is, I’m okay-ish. I’m basking in the wonderment that PNC is not just surviving, but growing; I’m grieving death; I’m enjoying my family; I’m mostly trusting that there will be enough money to pay the bills- sometimes not so much; I’m tired AND I’m invigorated. I am no one thing.

I am also learning to embrace doing things ish-ly at PNC. We are no longer housed in a piece of the neighbourhood, we are more fully inhabiting it. The challenges of this (and there are many) do not outweigh the benefits. Our community is expanding as we keep thinking outside of the box.

At the end of the book, Ramon is sprawled out on a rock, his feet dipped in a lake, the sun shining on his face. “One spring morning, Ramon had a wonderful feeling. It was a feeling that even ish words and ish drawings could not capture. He decided NOT to capture it. Instead, he simply savoured it…”

May I learn to do that too.

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In Honour of My Dad

It is almost October 12th. The 12th is important to me because it was the day my dad was born. We don’t get to celebrate in the same kind of way anymore because my dad died suddenly and unexpectedly on March 3rd, 2008. The grief has changed since that time, though it admittedly never goes away. A wise counsellor once said to me, “you don’t get over it, you make your way through it”. The truth of that rings in my ears every time I am hit by a wave of grief, often when I least expect it. Sometimes it is a smell or a look that seems familiar in my Cate’s face or seeing the kind of car he drove go by. I can’t even watch golf on TV without thinking of him.

I’ve mentioned my Dad in my writing here. I often wonder what he would have thought of this venture of mine. I suspect he would have quietly read everything, maybe only occasionally alluding to the fact that he had. I imagine that I would somehow, deep inside, know he was proud of me. Or that’s my hope.

In honour of him, here is the eulogy I spoke the first week he was gone.

To me and Logan, Barry was simply Dad. I want to honour him today by remembering the way our lives were entwined with his. Without him we would not be here today. I have so many memories, and am aware that this is a feeble attempt to capture but a few.

Dad was a man with many sides. He carried himself with confidence and yet could be very shy. He loved fine food and was an absolute gourmet, but at the same time could crave grilled cheese (made with white bread and cheese slices), a tall glass of chocolate milk and red jello. He was as happy wandering the streets of Italy as he was sitting on a rustic dock in Northern Ontario. Dad in many ways was a dichotomy.

Dad loved to read. He got through about eight books in less than a week at a cottage we vacationed at as a family a few summers ago. He looked happy as he went from hammock to lawn chair to dock, always with a book in his hand. I think it also made him happy that we were all buzzing around him as he did this. He liked being with his family.

When Dad inherited his childhood home on Parker Avenue, he decided to transform it into the house he had always wanted. He, along with Susan, made what I like to call, a “party house”. The house is made for entertaining, something Dad loved to do. He was always in his element when cooking in the beautiful kitchen. He could position himself right in the centre of all the action, while preparing interesting, delicious food. I think he took a great deal of pride in his self-taught culinary prowess.

Christmas Eve was always the piece de resistance for Dad. He took great pains to plan the perfect menu (always printed just so and posted on the wall) and find the perfect gift for everyone in attendance (even if he didn’t know them well). He wrapped everything meticulously. He used a ruler.

It is this attention to detail that made Dad the kind of person who was always sure to take a bottle of wine to both his butcher and his mechanic (among others) every Christmas. Dad’s wife Susan has mentioned this frequently over the last few days, that he was the only person she knew who did this. He noticed people, was respectful of their work, and truly cared about getting to know them. Dad had a very generous spirit.

Dad also loved his new children by marriage: my husband Dion and Logan’s wife Amanda. I will always remember how he enfolded them more and more, year by year. When my daughter Cate was born, Dad became “GB” (short for Grandpa Barry). He loved being GB- more than I ever thought possible. He even began signing GB on birthday cards to me…a mistake he never noticed until I pointed it out. It was like he had a whole new role in life. I will cherish the memories of him playing with Cate on his lap, making her “special food” (the hamburgers and French fries and bacon and French toast that he knew she desired), rubbing her back when she was sad and even playing the occasional game of Buckaroo. I am truly sorry that Dad will never get to meet the child that Logan and Amanda are about to have.

Dad had a great laugh. If he found something funny, his laugh would be contagious. And he could be funny too. He could tell a mean joke when he wanted to. We have laughed this week about how he referred to his hair as “executive blonde”. Only Dad would get away with saying “I’m not going gray, I’m going blonde”.

Dad, thank you for remaining faithful to us even though we didn’t get to grow up in the same house, for supporting Mom (Elaine) the best way you knew how, for listening to me whenever I got my heart broken, for allowing Logan to work for you and learn the business, for growing to respect the work that Dion and I do close to the streets, for always teasing Amanda, for being at all of Cate’s birthday parties, and for loving Susan.

I am so glad that Cate had a last sleepover with both her GB and GG just two Saturdays ago, and that we had our monthly family night- a fun time watching the Oscar’s. I think it is fitting that Dad won the Oscar pool and gained bragging rights. He would never have let us forget that, and now fittingly, we truly never will.

You were loved Dad.

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Chapter Next

Years ago I had a serious run-in with a woman at PNC. The incident left a lasting mark. In bold is what I wrote the night of the incident.

Tonight I am tired. Maybe a more accurate description is this: I am feeling emotionally spent.

It’s true, I really was. I felt raw and wrung out; anxious and self-conscious.

After leading a service at PNC, I was verbally attacked by a community member. Something I did or said (although I do not know what) triggered outrage in her.

This person deals with significant mental illness. Knowing this, I still felt unprepared for what came out of her mouth.

I remained calm throughout our encounter, was mostly convinced that she had me confused with someone else and eventually left because it truly was the best thing for me to do. I got in to the car and took a deep breath while relishing in the quiet. Then I began to weep.

I wept for many reasons. While I believed she must have thought I was someone else, I was wrong. And this hurt. After sifting through the obscenities that she threw at me, I was left with some comments that questioned my character and motivation for doing music at a little inner-city church. I think it is highly unlikely that this person will even remember this incident, but I am left with an imprint of it on my heart. Mostly because it revealed to me, yet again, how broken we are as people.

I didn’t see this person for over a year after that night. The first time she walked through PNC’s doors I felt my stomach flip in anticipation of what the impending encounter might involve. Throughout the year I often comforted myself with the thought she would likely not remember the incident. I was wrong. She remembered. I know so because while we as a group were sharing peace with one another (through a handshake or a hug) she whispered, “I’m sorry”.

Tonight caused me to pause and think about the ugly parts of me that I keep deeply hidden- the parts that for the moment seemed revealed by a person I hardly know. While I don’t believe much of what she said, I do know that she is right: I AM a broken, sinful person.

I am still broken. I do things wrong. My friend is broken too. Her life has been hard in a different way than mine. Much of what she uttered to me that night were words all too often spoken to her: “You can’t be loved. You are unloveable. No one loves you”. Through our shared experience we are coming to terms with these untruths. No one is worthless. We are a people covered by grace.

Today I got a call from this woman. She heard about my new role at PNC and wanted to encourage me. How far we’ve come! She spoke beautifully, quietly and intently. I sat in humble awe.

I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude. The journey this woman and I have been on has truly ebbed and flowed. I could have easily believed our story was coming to a crashing halt that summer night long ago. The storm it created internally AND externally was intense. And for whatever reason God did not calm it. What I recognize now though is that God carefully guarded me (and her), providing respite from the storm while deliberately doing a new work in our hearts.

The story is still not over. Of this I am sure- there will be more chapters. I look forward to what might come next.

 

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Retreat Time

I have written here about the camp my family and I spend a lot of time at in the summers. I have long dreamed of taking a group from PNC to Camp Koinonia and this past weekend it happened!

For many, the opportunity to leave the city doesn’t come by often. For one of my friends this was the FIRST time he had experienced the woods of Northern Ontario. Though he has been through much, including jail, he became childlike as we drove in the dark toward the camp. He kept asking if I really knew where we were going. What about animals? It’s too dark! Are we safe? Is this where they write ghost stories?

By the time we left at the end of the weekend this same man was telling me, in his broken English, that he felt “happy in his head”. He, once he got used to the dark, slept deeply. He kayaked. He ate well. He hung out with children, including my daughter. He played dominoes and sang camp songs and received communion. He even wrote this on the time line that we each added significant events to: “Erinn apcepted me work 2011 at PNC. That my 2nd home”.

This makes me weep.

Thank you to the many people who made this retreat possible. Thank you to Camp Koinonia for welcoming PNC. And thank you to the PNC community for gathering, eating, singing, hiking, fishing, playing, resting, remembering and celebrating together. I mean it when I say I am honoured and humbled to have received the call to lead PNC through serving you. To say I’m grateful is truly an understatement.

Let’s start planning the next retreat.