ERINN OXFORD

Joanna and I were roaming around a Costco today in an effort to get all the necessary ingredients for our February Feast on Saturday. We had worked out a list at our staff meeting on Tuesday that I wrote in a little grey book that I carry pretty much everywhere. In the middle of an aisle it struck me: if I lose this book and somebody reads it, they will likely be perplexed about who I am and what I do.

I have scrawled countless to-do lists that include everything from “accompany friend to court”, “play Christmas carols at the West Detention Centre”, “push for a lease agreement  that costs $1/year”, “help community member deal with bedbugs”, “contact lawyer about incorporation”, “purchase 150 pieces of chicken”, “write a report for the Board”, “paint”, “pick up Skittles for friend in hospital (it’s all she feels like eating)”, “submit street outreach receipts”, and “speak at The Spoke Club”.

I have Ontario Disability Worker numbers, funeral plans for too many friends, workshop notes, budgets, lists of what to pack for a vacation, and scribbled ideas about what is next for The Dale. Sometimes I let Cate draw in the book if she’s bored in whatever line we’re waiting in. Occasionally I rip out pages so I can give somebody my contact info or write down the directions they’ve asked for. It truly is a glimpse into my life.

When I got home today I read through some of the earlier entries in this book. One page stood out. On that day I had been listening to Sister Sue Mosteller at a conference and was jotting down words that stood out to me: “encounter”, “abide”, “beloved”. Then she said, “stir up the courage to care and the will to take action so lives can be changed, including yours”. I remember being moved by her words, so much that I needed to write them down.

While my book might be confusing to a person who doesn’t know me, it helps bring some order to my life. When I am feeling overwhelmed by the amount of things I have to do, writing a list always makes me feel better. When I have what is likely a harebrained idea, I can map it out and see if it might actually take root (or not). I can look back and see what has changed or grown. And I can be reminded of the wise words of people who inspire me. I’m glad I didn’t lose it at Costco.

Sidebar: While I didn’t lose my grey book, I did manage to lose my Costco card somewhere in the store. I’ll have to make a note to get a new one.

I was encouraged to see people sharing about their own mental health challenges yesterday. It took vulnerability. The conversation, I believe, is good. And one that I hope continues.

Which is why I want to talk about the mental health issues that are difficult to hide- the ones that impact many of our community members at The Dale. The reality is that some diagnoses diminish ones capacity to keep it hidden and struggle in silence. If you talk to people who no one else can see or believe that everyone is out to get you AND spend close to all of your time outside because that’s where you live, it becomes difficult to keep your challenges a secret. And that is just one example of what I mean.

I have a friend who has schizophrenia. He is acutely self-aware and not scared to talk about it. He travels all over the city and is easily spotted shovelling out gutters (he likes to help) and handing out slips of paper that describe his issues. I am often astounded by his generosity and ability to pray. I watch people retract from him, who cross the street to avoid making eye contact. I understand the impulse to react this way. It also pains me. I am witness to the ways in which his health improves the more he interacts with people who listen to and love him, no matter what.

My hope and prayer is that as society becomes more accepting of the reality of mental health issues, it will also enfold those who have been pushed to the margins. We all have a story. We share a common humanity. Let’s keep the conversation going.

It was my mother Elaine’s birthday on Sunday. I find myself reflecting on the impact she has on me and let’s say it is not small. She is one of the most gracious women I know AND I get to call her mom. This gift is not lost on me.

My mom describes the way she came to God as a movement toward light. I was pretty little (around five years old) when it began. I still remember her taking me to church for the first time and how I somehow felt like it was to be a second home. All these years later I can say that feeling proved accurate. In nurturing her own faith, my mom nurtured mine.

Growing up, our home was always warm and inviting. I think people felt like they could put their feet up and get comfortable. My mom had this way of combining antique finds, homemade things and sentimental pieces. I recognize that I try to do the same. It was in this kind of setting that my friends would find the courage to talk about hard life stuff with my mom. She has always been a good listener.

Creativity was encouraged by my mom. We had access to a trunk overflowing with art supplies. In an effort to let me “have my own voice”, I was allowed to choose my outfits from a very young age (I picked some doozies). Though I’m certain this wasn’t easy, as a single parent she managed to purchase an upright piano and pay for lessons so that I could learn to play. She showed up to all of the school concerts and plays I was in all while supporting my brother in his areas of interest too.

Over the years my mom has endured significant loss: she lost both of her parents and her marriage in a short period of time. In 2002 she had brain surgery that stole her ability to live independently, walk, stand, and eat food through her mouth. A fine artist, the surgery took away the use of her hands, though she has “one good finger” (as she describes it) with which she can use an iPad. Just weeks after being finally moved to a hospital close to my brother and our families, mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and had a mastectomy. Somehow through all of this her response to the suffering has been patient endurance. I know she has allowed herself to weep. I also know she intentionally chooses joy.

My mom, among many other things, has helped me learn how to linger over a meal, enjoy conversation, make popcorn on the stove, value tithing, drive a standard car, really appreciate colour, listen to the CBC, sort out my brain by writing a list, persevere even when things are hard, and lean on God.

In an article that Tim Challies wrote about my mom, he said: “A short time ago my mother visited Elaine and asked how she deals with all that she has suffered. Elaine looked at her quizzically and said, ‘But I don’t feel like I have suffered.’ She acknowledges that she has endured great challenges and great physical pain, but she cannot and will not see herself as essentially a sufferer.” Now if that isn’t inspiring, I don’t know what is.

I love you mom. Happy birthday.

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.