ERINN OXFORD

I’ve been on a bit of a self-imposed break from writing. I realized near the beginning of August that I was in need of some rest from regular life. I decided to turn off the computer and phone, hide out a bit, enjoy summery drinks, swim, read, knit and fortunately for me, hold a few of my friends babies for extended periods of time. Holding a brand new person is a good way to remind oneself of the preciousness of life.

I have missed this though. I tend to process via talking and since talking isn’t always an option, writing has become my next best option. Sitting here now I don’t even know where to start with all that has happened over the course of the summer. The time has simultaneously sped by and crept along. Strange how it does that.

I am very aware of time as I look at my daughter Cate. I’m laying beside her as I type. She is no longer a baby- of this I’m reminded, especially when I look at the newborns in my life. Cate is about to enter grade seven, a grade I vividly remember being in. I wonder aloud how I can be the mother of an almost twelve year old. In parenting the years go quickly while the moments seem long, similar to how I feel about these few months of summertime. Sometimes I fear that this kind of passage of time will not allow me to remember all that I want to about Cate’s growing-up years, except for maybe the many mistakes I have made along the way. I’ve been considering how backwards it is that I might recall the worst instead of the best. What I really want to do is remember the entirety of the experience.

I guess if there is one thing from my hiatus I would like to share, it is this: I have been reminded of the pleasure of living in the moment. I have stared at the stars, slowly sipped coffee and sung while strumming my ukelele. I have laughed with friends, sat quietly in the corner of each of our drop-ins at The Dale and relished in the sounds of our wonderfully diverse community, been on dates with Dion and played with Cate. Rather idyllic? Well, yes and no. I have also wept, attempted to manage crisis, double-booked myself, been to funerals and struggled with fatigue. Living in the moment doesn’t promise everything will be easy. It does however, help me to appreciate it all in a different way.

Kind of like what happens when I stare into the face of a baby.

A few months ago I walked into my Mom’s room to be greeted not only by her, but also a group of family members: two aunts, one of their cousins and his wife. It was a nice surprise.

As I sat listening to the conversation that included reminiscing, I was struck by how comfortable I felt. I love hearing stories about my extended family that I had either forgotten or never heard. I found myself keenly aware that these people have seen me grow from a baby into an adult. They remember when I was known as the three-year old “wild child” and can tell some of my most embarrassing moments. They have seen me struggle.

On a couple of recent occasions I have met people who know one of my first cousins. Without any of us knowing the connection, they told me that I reminded them of somebody. I was amazed to discover that they actually meant somebody I grew up alongside. As Cate matures, I am often struck by the bits of her that remind me of her dad’s side side, but also my mom, dad, brother and yes, cousins. She has what many people refer to as the “Muirhead glow” (my mother’s family name). Though that glow is uniquely hers, I also believe it is an inheritance.

Too many people in my life do not have happy memories of their childhood. Many are currently estranged from family. I grieve this with them. My prayer is that while we cannot ever replace their families, we can create something new together. Every once in a while in the process of doing this we get to witness people reconciling with relatives. None of this is easy:  it is usually ever so slow and often complicated.

I am grateful that the strength of my family has given me a strong foundation, one that inspires me to be even a small part of creating new spaces of home. Thank you.

My friend Diana Fong died yesterday. It is a strange feeling when death comes: for me it is equal parts familiar and foreign, because though I have lost people before, each person leaves a unique hole.

I got to know Diana first as “Princess”- her name at Koinonia, the camp she worked for and also, in many ways, called home. Through friends we were introduced to the camp built on a hill beside a pretty lake called Haines. For years we’ve spent a week as a family there. Camp Koinonia was host to The Dale at the beginning of July and where Cate and two of her friends went yesterday to stay for a week. I imagine that it is somehow fitting that Diana died on the first day of Kids Camp, the place bustling with people. I think I will always look for her sitting in her spot in the lodge, overseeing the comings and goings of campers. She loved that place.

In 2012 The Dale (at that time PNC) needed help. We were rapidly running out of financial resources and needed to re-jig much of what we were doing as an organization. I put out an impassioned plea for bookkeeping assistance. Diana responded immediately. Until she fell ill just a short time ago Diana remained The Dale’s volunteer bookkeeper. It is not an overstatement to say I’m not sure what I would have done without her.

Diana and I did not always see eye-to-eye on things. We quite often had debates about the direction something like The Dale’s fundraising efforts should take. One of the things I will always appreciate about our friendship was the way we knew when the disagreement had gone too far. Diana and I learned how to talk things through and apologize to one another. There was something deeply real and good about our relationship.

Diana will be missed by many people. It was not unusual for Diana to respond as quickly as she did when I needed help at The Dale. Diana loved to help and was generous with her time. There was an abundance to Diana exhibited in her desire to support others, including the many children who she became a surrogate-like parent to. My condolences extend to her family, her friends and the many communities that she touched.

You will be missed Princess.

What difference does it make?

I hear this asked a lot. It’s a good question. What difference does The Dale make?

Most times this question is followed by: Are people getting off the street? Are people finding sobriety? Are people moving from substandard housing into something better? Are people no longer “poor”?

The answer is yes, no and sometimes. Nothing like a straight-forward answer!

The reality is that the people of The Dale are all on a journey, me included. Some of the changes that we experience in one another can be almost imperceptible: one less drink in a day, choosing to remain calm when slighted by another, paying a person back the money that was borrowed instead of running. Some of the changes are more obvious: coming to church regularly, finding the resources to make a crappy apartment feel more like a home, going to detox, mending an estranged relationship.

I know people who have gotten off the street, who are now sober, who have decent housing and who are leaving poverty behind. I celebrate them and the healing they have received. I also celebrate the things described above: the arguably less dramatic changes, though no less real. Notice too that all of the changes listed are ones that are not simply for those who fall under the poverty line. We all need to manage addictions, pay back debt, create home and mend broken relationships.

The Dale is a little, wandering space where people can discover what it means to co-journey toward a deeper wholeness in Christ. Jesus does not promise an easy road, nor one that ends with middle/upper class life. The journey is not a straight-line: it is marked with fumbles and missteps and requires patience and grace. Sometimes we need to call each other on bad choices while offering accountability and creating healthy boundaries.

Some of my friends have acknowledged that prior to being a part of The Dale they had NO one to talk to, that prayer was not an option and that life felt incredibly dark.

To me, this sounds like a difference is being made.

I had all four of my wisdom teeth out recently. As well as it went, it was still no fun. I had avoided getting the teeth extracted for a long time, in part because they weren’t giving me any trouble, but also because I couldn’t imagine carving out the time in my schedule for the required recovery. I finally couldn’t ignore the dentist any longer, having discovered how it felt to get a bad infection. So, a few Tuesdays ago I headed to a clinic where I was put under for the operation. I have no recollection of the procedure, only that a mere hour later I was wisdom teeth-free.

I’m on the go a lot. I spend the early part of most mornings making Cate a lunch and seeing her off to school. Work is varied: I go to drop-ins, attend meetings, do administration, write, prepare for Sundays, fundraise, participate in street outreach and offer pastoral care. I’m home for Cate after school. I teach a few young people how to play the piano. I take care of our home. I cook. I have lovely visits with my Mom. The list goes on. You know what happened after I got home from that Tuesday appointment? I crashed on the couch where I proceeded to do NOTHING except allow Dion to take care of me. That first day I could barely keep my eyes open.

On the Wednesday I mistakenly thought, “Great! I’m sore, but this wasn’t so bad!” Those are always famous last words. Sore turned into pain: nothing out of the ordinary, though no less real. My left side decided to swell, while my right did not, making me look like a lopsided chipmunk. I was sure I’d be back to work by Sunday, only to be proven wrong. I went to a portion of the Monday Drop-In and learned quickly from the good-natured snickers of my friends that I looked rather out-of-it and wasn’t quite myself. I was told to go home.

I find that when I am forced to slow down I am reminded that my value cannot reside in my doing. I am loved by God simply because I am His child. I am loved in my home not because I do the laundry or make lunches (though those things are appreciated). I am loved at The Dale not because I have a schedule full of admin and meetings (though those things are necessary). I felt anxious about not making it to work, only to discover that the community wanted only for me to take the time to get better.

I love being busy and generally enjoy the challenge of keeping things in balance. I am grateful for the work that is mine to do. I am also grateful that something as strange as having my wisdom teeth out could serve to make me slow down and help me to just be. How amazing that we are each valuable, regardless of our To-Do lists. My mouth is much better now and so I am back at it. Even more reason to rest in this truth.