ERINN OXFORD

I got the news shortly after getting home from a brief retreat with Joanna and Meagan. I audibly gasped. My long-time friend Keith Pittman had succumbed to injuries sustained from a bike accident. I immediately thought about our most recent interaction, just weeks ago. He looked good. Happier than I’d seen him in a while. Hopeful.

I met Keith in my earliest Parkdale days. He was wearing a ball cap and sitting on some steps, surrounded by what we called the crew- many people we have already said farewell to. I quickly detected his Newfoundland accent and told him of my honorary Newfoundlander status (even though I’m a Mainlander from Toronto). We immediately connected about things like Jigg’s Dinner, bottles of moose meat, and the smell of salt-water air.

Once a track-and-field guy, Keith spoke often of his running days that came to a halt due to an injury. He even set what I believe were provincial records- ones that he was proud to show me on-line. Sharing about those days seemed to make him grin and wince at the same time.

Keith was very open about what he called his “demons”. We had long talks about them, and his regrets. Our time often ended with his prayers. If his children stumble upon this one day: I want you to know that he tearfully spoke of you frequently over many years. I’m so sorry that the journey was such a difficult one for him, and for you.

I will miss Keith: his striking eyes, the way he would inquire about my life (“how ARE you my’love?”), seeing him bike around the neighbourhood. I have already caught myself thinking I see his familiar gait in the distance. I’m sad, just as many people are about Keith’s death. I extend my condolences to his family.

I’m not sure that Keith realized his impact. I hope he did. I also hope he’s now running like the wind, finally out of pain.

I am passionate about the work that we do at The Dale. Did you know that in order to make it all happen, we have to fundraise? The Dale is sustained by the contributions of many individuals, churches, businesses, and grants. We have no government funding.

Today we are launching an On-Line Auction. We held our first auction last year and had so much fun, that we decided to do one again! Please enjoy checking out all the wonderful items, each one donated to benefit The Dale. Do you keep getting out-bid? There is also a way to make a direct donation.

Thank you to everyone who believes in and supports The Dale in such a variety of ways. Our community members are at the core of it all, bringing their own unique gifts to keep this place going. We are grateful.

http://www.givergy.ca/thedale

I miss my Mom. I still catch myself wanting to tell her something and for a split second, forgetting that she’s gone. Some days this doesn’t happen and if I’m being honest, it scares me more than the disbelief at her absence. I’m adjusting to her death. And that, though probably healthy, is a hard reality.

I remember so much: the way she greeted me when I walked in a room, her laugh, the smell of her hair, the way she could listen. I can still picture her peeling too many potatoes for our family gatherings because she always worried there wouldn’t be enough (there were leftovers every time). Whenever stacks of mail or artwork or important papers accumulate, I call it a “meaningful pile” in my Mom’s honour.

Sometimes what I most miss are the seemingly mundane moments that were actually very intimate: cutting her bangs, folding her laundry, re-arranging the treasures on her windowsill. I recently stumbled upon an email she sent reminding me to check the red file she kept at her bedside. I could immediately picture it and found myself longing to check it one more time.

My Mom’s grandchildren are growing up. I hate that she isn’t here to be a part of it all. After her death, I went through Mom’s photo stream on her I-Pad. The majority of it was Cate, Oliver, Harrison and Teagan. She loved being Gran to them.

I have faith that my Mom is not really gone and now whole in a way I can’t even comprehend. She worked to live her life well, and near the end, was justifiably weary. I even got to join with our family in journeying alongside her right to the end. All of that matters, and…death sucks. I would like to get up right now, walk down the street, around the corner and into my Mom’s room to be greeted with, “hi sweetie, it’s so good to see you”.

May brings with it my birthday, Mother’s Day, and the anniversary of my Mom’s death. It’s a complicated time. I am thrilled that spring has arrived, I feel fortunate to have lived another year, I love that I get to mother Cate, I celebrate having a step-mother in Susan and a mother-in-law in Beatrice, and I relish in the gift of my mother, Elaine. I also grieve passionately.

My Mom used to acknowledge that while she had experienced much suffering, her identity wasn’t “sufferer”. I found her ability to persevere astonishing. She found so much joy in her faith, friendships, and family. I would like to talk with her more about all of that: how did she do it? She would probably say, “oh Erinn, I don’t know how except for grace”. This Mother’s Day, no every day, I choose to remember that.

Grace upon grace upon grace.

Here is a reminder of my Mom’s gratitude, in her own words.

A few weeks ago, I was encouraged by a member of The Dale to share what happened at our Palm Sunday service. Palm Sunday is the day in the Christian church calendar when we take our place in the triumphal entry, sing our hosannas, and carry our palms. It marks the beginning of Holy Week.

On this particular Sunday we read Luke’s account of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem. It turns out that Luke doesn’t mention how the people following Jesus carry or throw down palms along the way. They do spread their cloaks on the road, but there is no mention of palms. He also doesn’t use the term “hosanna”, instead describing the people praising God with a loud voice. One more unique thing about Luke’s account of this day is found in verse 41: “As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it”.

I invited us to consider the tearful aspects of Jesus’ entry; how Jesus wept not just for a city, but a condition: ignorance of things that make for peace, prejudice we hold against one another, and the destructiveness of fear. We also talked about how Peter “went out and wept bitterly” (Luke 22:62) after denying Jesus three times. How are his tears familiar to us? What does it feel like to confess that our life is not what we want it to be?

A tearful entry into Holy Week means we must acknowledge the state of the world, and our own lives. Not all of us cry in the same way: some (like me) well up easily, others can’t muster a tear but are internally filled with sorrow. Wet or dry, they are both real. Either way, it is difficult work. Jesus’ heart was pierced when he saw the city, as was Peter’s when the cock crowed. When we recognize the reality of our own situation, our hearts are pierced as well.

I don’t know how to describe what happened next. It began as a wail. A person, one who knows the street intimately, whose mind is rarely at rest and had come in looking for help, cried without reserve. The space we use on Sundays is beautiful and large and has very good acoustics. And so, as I cautiously continued, the sound of weeping reverberated off the walls.

Sometimes our heart knows grief and death; guilt or disappointment. Other times it is burdened by the pain of the world and the suffering of another human being; dreams that didn’t come true or broken promises. Life can be hard. It can be marked with poverty, or illness, or loneliness. In whatever way your heart has been broken: you are not alone.

The wailing continued.

We all have stories of sadness. To deny our tears is to deny a part of ourselves the power of Holy Week and the joy of Easter life: life that is marked by forgiveness, healing, and rebirth into new life. On this Palm Sunday our friend who knows what it is to be misunderstood, shunned and poor, led the tearful entry. It was powerful, painful to listen to, and…sacred.

“As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it.”

Sometimes writing an update is hard. I know that many people have been wondering about what has happened since Dion’s hospital admission. In truth, I just haven’t had the oomph to try and figure out what to say. To hear Dion’s perspective, I encourage you to read a post he recently wrote here: https://www.dionoxford.com/finally-home-again-ms-homecoming-spring-feeling-old-lent-and-swearing-part-3-of-3/

For me, Dion’s nine days at St. Michael’s Hospital included many emotions, the hard work of advocacy, trips to the Eaton Centre food court for non-hospital food and working on getting the last bits of hardware for the renovation. It was tiring.

Dion was diagnosed with a Urinary Tract Infection (my mom’s nemesis) and Pneumonia (what led to her death). Needless to say, I felt triggered. At one point I was in the hall trying to find a quiet spot to make some phone calls, and all I could think was, “how am I here doing this again?” I was scared and weepy. I also felt mad.

I have been angry about Multiple Sclerosis and what it has taken from Dion, and by extension, me and Cate. I have been angry at the system that sent Dion back into a house still under renovation and without a fully formed care plan. I have been angry at the silencing of my concerns. I have been angry at God.

Lent is the period of forty days before Easter, a time of reflection and preparation before the celebration. It struck me the other day that every Lenten season for the last number of years has been particularly challenging. This year has been no exception. Some moments have been profoundly dark, not because I doubted God’s presence, but because it felt very far away.

Somehow every year, no matter how difficult Lent and life are, Easter comes. I have caught glimpses of it already: when I began to stomp my feet and raise my voice at the hospital, I felt heard; a more robust care plan is now in place; broad spectrum antibiotics helped quash Dion’s infections; and the bathroom in the basement is complete (the shower was used for the first time this morning). I also realize that wrestling with God would be impossible if the distance between us was too great. I am confident that God can handle hearing my questions and works to soften my anger.

This journey is not an easy one. I am aware that there are many safe and soft places for us as a family to land. Thank you to the wonderful community that surrounds us: to those who came to the hospital, let me show up on their doorstep, made or bought us food, left kind messages and texts (I’m still catching up), and offered prayer and/or good thoughts. To everyone at The Dale: thank you for consistently teaching me about perseverance and how to keep it real. You all remind me that Easter is coming.

For close to a year we have been planning renovations at our house. Not the kind meant to just change or beautify a space, but to make it accessible. We asked my brother Logan to be our contractor, as he had recently made a career change and started his own firm, Logan Grant Design.

Logan, Amanda and their children Oliver, Harrison and Teagan live on the same street as us, just one block down. This has long been a gift that I don’t take for granted and have certainly been keenly aware of through this crazy time. Logan has been readily available for so many things: coming quickly when a delivery arrives unannounced, being present for the variety of tradespeople, and doing beautiful work himself. He also chats with and listens to me.

This has not been an easy project. The scope of this renovation is large and is taking time to complete. Logan has been managing a variety of expectations, all in the relative public eye that is following our story. I will be honest and say that at times I have felt fiercely protective of him. He took a risk in saying yes to us. Few people would be willing to work for family, but Logan agreed to, seemingly without a second thought.

It has been a pleasure to watch my brother flourish in his new work. I regularly hear our plumbers, electricians, drywallers, window-makers, etc. comment on what a good guy Logan is. He has been quickly enfolded into the tight world that is construction. I think that says a lot about his work-ethic and communication skills.

The renovation is close to being done. Dion came to try out the basement this weekend, sleeping in the house for the first time in over a year. There are kinks to be worked out and we still don’t know what kind of care will be made available to us (a crucial piece of this puzzle). There is a lot of nervous energy floating around. And, it is to be celebrated that we have come this far. As Logan’s son Harrison wisely told me a few months back: “Auntie Erinn, one day this is all going to be figured out and it will be good”.

I always thought our Dad, an interior designer, would be around to help with modifying this house. Since his death I have often lamented not being able to talk all of this through with him. I grieve that our Mom is not here. She would love getting updates and be thrilled to test-drive the lift in the living room. Watching Logan, seeing his eye for design, getting to talk with him nearly every day…it all reminds me of our parents. I am comforted by Logan’s presence.

Logan, thank you for everything. Your work, your friendship, and your management of a very complicated situation has not gone unnoticed. I am proud to be your sister. Thank you to Amanda and the kids too. I love you all very much.

He fell flat onto the very cold pavement. From the car we were sitting in, Meagan saw him land. I immediately jumped out to run over and see if he was okay. Blood was streaming out of his face, but he was lucid and trying to get up. Meagan joined me and we got him seated on the curb. She stayed closed to him, while I called 9-1-1.

I realized I knew him. “Tom!”

“How do you know MY name?”

“Tom, it’s Erinn. Remember me? From The Dale. I was at your sibling’s funeral. You and I, we’ve had a lot of conversations over the years.”

A look of recognition swept over Tom’s face. While we began to chat, a person walking by took notice of the small set of bills falling out of Tom’s hand and jacket. He knelt down and offered to put the money safely in Tom’s pocket, zipping it closed, “you don’t want to lose that! Let me help”. Tom looked incredulously at all of us gathered at his side and said, “what’s going on? I should fall more often!”

The paramedics arrived quickly. They kindly got Tom on a stretcher and explained he would be getting checked out at the local hospital. As they prepared to move him into the ambulance, Tom reached out to try and give me a hug. We had to dissuade him because of the blood, but not before I told him I’d happily receive it the next time I see him.

As Meagan and I crossed the street to get to our drop-in, I was struck by how different it was for Tom to feel cared for. I lamented that he was so shocked by our attention, making that “I should fall more often” comment more than once. Tom has lived life hard. He often has a hood pulled over his face as he walks Queen Street, as though trying to hide. But I know him to be someone with gentle eyes and a broken heart.

I hope beyond hope that the next time we see Tom he might not be injured, that he might notice we notice him whatever his circumstances, and that I’ll be able to receive the hug. Kindness is something we all need. Tom included.