ERINN OXFORD

I’m always struck by how many people at The Dale can read me like a book. There are days when I am internally churning and think I’m hiding it well. Then I am greeted by concerned looks, words of encouragement and strong hugs from longtime friends and even people I know more peripherally. It is not rare for relative strangers to  approach me and proceed to speak the exact words I need to hear. It’s pretty amazing.

One of the things that I am repeatedly taught at The Dale is how to strip myself of masks, especially on those days when I’m trying to look okay while being anything but. I don’t think it’s that people expect me to lay bare everything going on in my heart. It’s more an invitation to be open about the fact that my struggles are real.

I have the opportunity to be very close to the pain of a lot of people. Yesterday I sat with a friend whose wounds are so bare they almost took my breath away. I realize that in this context I sometimes try to dismiss the weight of my own challenges: what are my struggles in comparison? But then my friend shifts the conversation to me and asks with sincerity about how I’m managing because “Erinn, you have a lot going on”, and I’m reminded: sharing our stuff matters. We both left feeling less alone.

Daring to remove our masks can be a daunting task. What will someone think if I admit x,y, and z? I suppose I wonder if people will love me if I reveal how messed up I am. I can attest to the freedom experienced when I confess my hurts and failures. Space is created for healing and a deep hope. I am grateful to be surrounded by people who routinely call me back when I am trying to hide. While it isn’t comfortable to be read like a book, it turns out it is good.

“He came looking for me just to see how I was. He didn’t even want anything from me. He just wanted to care about me. It was like a little miracle.”

These words out of my dear friend’s mouth reminded me of the importance of being present. Her little miracle was that someone simply wanted to check on her, no strings attached. As she went on to describe this interaction, I was struck by how moved she was by it. At one point she threw her teared stained head back and said, “it felt SO good”.

I imagine we can all relate. I know how important it is to have a friend reach out to ask how I am, and how lonely it can be if no one does. We have an innate need to connect as creatures built for community. I think about relational poverty a lot, and am more convinced than ever that material poverty will never be eradicated unless we look at the holistic needs of people.

Years ago a relative newcomer to The Dale angrily disappeared for a number of weeks. We were worried about him and so three of us went to his place, knocked on the door repeatedly, and finally resorted to throwing rocks at his third floor window. We didn’t find him that day, but he caught wind of our effort and to this day talks about it. I’m certain it was the turning point in our relationship. He began to trust he was valued and has since grown in so many different ways as a result.

Being present is not always easy. I often fail at it. And sometimes because of my own insecurities I retreat, making being present even more difficult. But I’m aware that the moments of deepest connection come when I take a risk and ask someone how they really are, and conversely when someone asks me how I really am and I dare to tell them. Like my two friends I’ve described here, it’s enough to make me feel valued and as though I can grow and change. It feels “so good”.

Some days are harder than others.

I won’t go into detail, except to say I was recently witness to a relational meltdown. It was loud, ridden with expletives, and incredibly sad. At times I stood between my two friends. Near the end we found ourselves seated, one crying, another staring into space and me, quietly and painfully aware of having no idea what to do or say.

I wanted to help. I hoped to calm the tension. I desired to speak the kind of words that might shift the conversation into being constructive versus destructive. I opened my mouth a few times, but not much came out. Instead I ended up listening. I heard things that made my heart hurt, and they weren’t even directed at me. I started to silently and repeatedly pray four words: “wisdom, safety, healing, peace…God give us wisdom, safety, healing, peace”.

Some days all I can do is lament.

On Sunday we sang a song that includes the lyric, “how long before the weeping turns to songs of joy?” That’s what I want to know. That’s what I’ve been asking since my friends and I parted ways, each in a different direction. That’s what I pray for in my own life when things are just heavy and hurtful and hard. I suspect that many of you can relate.

I sometimes fear lament. I wonder if I’m a failure at gratitude if I lean toward despair. But somehow I think the two go hand in hand. And on a day like the one I’ve described here, lament seemed the only thing I could do. Having been tongue-tied through most of the situation, I was able to weep and whisper to each of them about how sorry I was for their pain. Nothing was fixed. My four word prayer hung heavily in the air.

Like I said, some days are harder than others. Some days call for lament. And some day, I hope the weeping really will turn to joy.

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.