ERINN OXFORD

It’s a beautiful sunny day, I’m standing in an aisle of Canadian Tire and WHAM, it hits me: my Dad is really gone and has been for 5 years. I guess it’s the weird rubbery smell that reminds me of my Dad- my Dad who kept things meticulously and found much of what he needed to accomplish this at Canadian Tire. It could be that I am reminiscing about how he kept up his car and the Armor All is staring me in the face. I’m not really sure, except that what I call the “wave of grief” is threatening to turn me into a weepy mess right beside the nice 18 year-old in a work uniform who thinks I just want to wash my car.

I excuse myself and head for the door. Then it’s like the domino effect: I think of others who are gone too, of broken relationships, of friends who are here, but struggling to survive. I consider the many injustices of this world. I reflect on all that is broken in my own life and I just want to fix it. I become desperate for relief from the grief, but know that the only way through is to ride the wave. I have to weep. I have to pray. I have to be alone.

In the quiet I can hear a dear PNC friend asking me this: “I’ve squandered most of my life away. I’ve hurt people. I’ve hurt myself. What can I possibly do now to not squander the remainder of my life?” This question rises up out of the raw grief that she feels almost every moment of every day. I didn’t know how to respond at first. My feeble response was this: I think that trying to love well is the only thing any of us can do.

I can’t fix any of this. I can’t bring back my Dad. I can’t get all my friends off the streets. Nor can I ignore that justice is lacking in this world and do nothing. Jesus said the two greatest commandments are to love God and love your neighbour. Easy? No. Is it the only thing that will make a lasting impact? Yes.

I will never get over my “griefs”. How can I get over the people I have lost? In a funny way the incident at Canadian Tire is actually a gift: it helped release a whole load of pent-up emotion, brought back memories I don’t want to forget and made me long for death to be put to death. Grief is something I can hold tenderly and face when it draws so very close. Grief reminds me that what abides is faith, hope and love.

But the greatest of these is love.

The other day I was told by a woman that I make a good “mom”. This women, many years my senior and who no longer has any family of her own; this woman, whose capacity is so real and yet hidden under years of neglect, abuse and mental health issues; this woman who sometimes can’t keep my name straight (occasionally I am called Annabelle); it was this woman who was telling me that I now function as a kind of mother to her.

It nearly reduced me to a puddle of tears on the floor. Some of the tears were born out of a real sense of gratitude: I felt humbled and moved. I will confess that some were the result of fear. How can I be a mother to her? What if I fail terribly and let her down the way she has been let down countless times before? I’m too young! I’m too inexperienced! I’m too much of a mess myself!

Throughout Scripture God is described as a “Father of the fatherless and protector of widows” (Psalm 68:5). God sees “the trouble of the afflicted; considers their grief and takes it in hand. The victims commit themselves to God; God is the helper of the fatherless”. (Psalm 10:14). As image bearers of God, we are invited to be a people who do justice, love kindness and walk humbly. Our utmost calling is to love God and love our neighbour, including the motherless and fatherless. I know, whether I feel up to it or not, this call is extended to me. It is extended to us.

One of the biggest challenges is to not just take care of those who look and act just like us (though those who are like us shouldn’t be left out either). My friend has been rejected by most for being “other than”. I have watched people move away from her on a relatively empty streetcar and wince at how accustomed she is to such a response. I need to consider the grief in her life, take it tenderly in my hand and get off the streetcar with her. The other challenge is to allow ourselves to be willing recipients of love: love is for all of us to give AND receive. This friend is not just asking me to do things for her; she is asking for the opportunity to do things for me. I can’t be a mother without her being a daughter.

So, I’m planning on picking myself off the floor and trying to be a mother to the motherless. I know I will sometimes fail. I’ll just try again. Kind of like how my friend repeatedly calls me the wrong name. I’ll correct her, we’ll give each other a hug and then carry on.

Yesterday my family and I found ourselves in a wooded area outside of Springdale, Newfoundland. We stopped to throw rocks into some inland freshwater ponds, trying our best to skip smooth stones across the surface of the water. We hiked to “Glassy Beach”, the best spot to collect treasure, especially smooth beach glass. We enjoyed the sunshine. Maybe the best part was discovering patches of wild blueberries. My 3-year-old nephew, Cate and I crouched down and ate handfuls of the warm berries.

I was immediately transported to my childhood. I spent many a summer day in Northern Ontario, either Sudbury- my mother’s hometown, or Killarney- the location of our family camp (we always called it the “camp”, not the “cottage”!), picking blueberries. We would take little buckets to fill, though I’m certain we ate twice as many as we actually took home.

I realize how important these memories are. I sometimes lament how many of my life experiences start to fade with time, though I know all of them have contributed to shaping who I am. Memories get triggered with a smell, or the fleeting sight of someone or something, or overhearing a person recall something I don’t, or in this case, the eruption of a sun-warmed blueberry in my mouth.

I long for Cate to one day remember what yesterday felt like. I keep imagining her as a mother, telling her child about how she practiced skipping stones; how the treasure found on a beach is priceless; how the best tasting berries are the ones you find growing quietly near the rocks.

As a child I was told the same things, and that is something I will never forget.

I got inspired to respond to an article in Toronto Life. I’ve never done this before. Here goes…

Re: Sarah Fulford’s Editor’s Letter in the August 2013 issue of Toronto Life, “The Party Pooping Parkdale Moratorium”. (Click here to read: Toronto Life Editorial)

I am the Director of Parkdale Neighbourhood Church (PNC), a place committed to being a welcoming space for all people, while particularly valuing those who are marginalized, in the neighbourhood for which it’s named. In your editorial you state that the City’s report “comes down hard on the side of safe-guarding the status quo, even though its authors can’t identify what’s worth preserving”. You go on to say that cities are never “static”, site Yorkville as a success story and close with the thought that “Parkdale is following in the footsteps of many beloved neighbourhoods”.

Here’s the thing: Parkdale is already beloved. I can list many reasons why it is worth preserving, not least of which is its village quality, one where people of varying social status co-exist.

Those dingier storefronts you mention are where many of my friends can afford to buy what they need. I agree that nothing is static: I am not opposed to some changes in Parkdale if what it actually amounts to is a sharing of space. The problem is that all too often it means another Yorkville- a neighbourhood where services and restaurants are out of reach for the average person. Those “last-resort jewellers (‘we buy gold’) and payday loan outlets” do often prey on the people who are most vulnerable. It will not serve them well though to simply have those places replaced with high-end restaurants where they cannot afford to eat. Economic growth is not the only sign of a healthy city. It would be good to explore alternative economies, ones where people share their belongings, wealth and abilities. At PNC we are attempting to figure out what it means to invite people into full participation of a community; we believe that everyone has something to give.

I think that Councillor Perks is trying to stand up for those who quite often don’t have much of a voice. I need to do the same. As you admit, this isn’t merely a fight about noise, it goes much deeper than that. I think it necessary to come up with a plan that ensures Parkdale can retain its diversity. Diversity is worth preserving. Let’s not party poop on that.

There were so many words to say yesterday, but I decided to opt for silence. Now I don’t know where to start.

Just over a week ago a baby came into the world. Until today I haven’t publicly acknowledged the gender or name, but having been given permission to, the baby is a beautiful girl named Katie.

Yesterday Katie went to a foster home.

Yesterday, everything changed for a child, a mom, a dad and a whole community of people trying to gather around.

Yesterday and today, I weep.

I weep because parenting is already so very challenging without the additional layers of challenge these parents face. I weep because this felt like an opportunity to be “church” the way church is meant to be. I weep because I wonder if it was harder to have hope for a week than no time at all. I weep because I already miss Katie.

The tears help to soften my fear and dismay. We were church this week and need to continue being just that. I believe this caused us to consider that it really does take a whole village to raise a child. Too few of us have experienced the village actually showing up.

I am making plans with the Children’s Aid Society to get all of the things we gathered up to Katie and her foster family. Thank you to all who were able to help. Our support doesn’t end now for anybody in this situation. Neither does our hope for Katie’s future.

Our village needs to remain intact.

On Tuesday morning Joanna Moon and I met the newest member of our community: an 8 pound, 11 ounce beautiful baby girl. She has five fingers on each hand, five toes on each foot, a head full of dark hair and a sweet little mouth.

The challenge is this: the mother needs to convince many people that she is capable of taking care of her daughter.

I of course need to be careful about what I write. What I can share is that PNC is fully committed to developing a circle of support around our beloved friend. We want everyone to be safe. We want, if it is truly at all possible, for this family to remain a unit.

The reality is that resources are few.

This is where you might come in.

After our Cate was born people showered us with meals. I think we should do the same in this situation. Having a fridge and freezer stocked with meals from others will be a new experience for my friend. For those who have ever experienced being exhausted because of a situation (new parenthood or grief or…), this kind of thing can be incredibly practical and precious. Maybe this could be what you offer: a single meal.

Other things are needed too: diapers, Similac Formula (in this case, formula will be used as a supplement to breast feeding. Similac is what has been already introduced to baby’s diet), clothing, etc. A priority is a stroller. They have a crib. Maybe you have something that you have been meaning to donate to a Thrift Store; or you feel compelled to buy some diapers; or you can do neither, but are willing to pray and/or send good thoughts.

New motherhood is hard. New motherhood like this takes “hard” to a whole new level. Let’s spread some love.

My concept of “success” is constantly being challenged. A story I frequently tell, quite often as a reminder to myself of what success is and is not, goes like this:

“Barbara” is a woman who functions with various disabilities, both mental and physical. She is small in stature and big in personality. I got to know Barbara especially well while I was working at Sanctuary. We would take half an hour each Wednesday drop-in to sit at the piano where I would teach her how to hold her hands and what notes were created by which keys.

Fast forward a few years. Now working at PNC, I was excited to see Barbara walk through the doors one night for an Open Stage. Barbara decided to add her name to the list of people who wanted to perform. Our MC for the event introduced Barbara and invited her to the keyboard. Barbara took center-stage where she stood for an uncomfortable amount of time staring at a piece of sheet music. She would alternate holding it millimeters from her eyes to a few feet in front of her. I held my breath. Finally she sat down and put the music on the stand. Relaxed, she raised her right hand and proceeded to play ONE NOTE. Barbara stood triumphantly and said into the microphone, “I’d like to thank my piano teacher Erinn”.

As a piano teacher I am most often preparing students for exams at the Royal Conservatory of Music. I would be remiss to consider doing an exam the only form of success. It comes in learning to enjoy an instrument, in trying your best even when it is hard, in making your very own music. Barbara is a sweet example of this.

That night we applauded Barbara’s courage to get up and share. I’ve never seen a single key played with such great flair. What a note.