It feels like spring is finally springing. I walked around today without a coat, knelt by some crocuses and took a deep breath. It occurred to me as I sat in the dirt that this spring I am feeling rather reflective.

Much of this is rooted in that I’m watching my little girl grow up so quickly. In some ways it seems like yesterday that I first held wee Cate or watched her crawl or walked her to Junior Kindergarten. Now she is in grade 5 and about to graduate to middle school (she even had a grad photo taken. Ha!). Though she is rapidly changing, she is still so much a little girl. She doesn’t seem eager to be more than ten years old. I love this.

At the same time I am keenly aware that she has already experienced much in her youth: a Dad with MS, a Grandpa who died too soon and a Gran who has to live in hospital. Through the work of her parents she routinely sees street life, mental health challenges, substance addiction and even more tragic death. Lately she is learning some tough life lessons at school. Not easy stuff.

I’m thinking though that there really is something to being able to experience true joy because you also know what it is to grieve. In a sense you cannot have one without the other. And Cate definitely has the ability to be joyful.

Our afternoon went something like this: Cate ran out of school, laughing and skipping, surrounded by some of her best friends. They all ran to our home, gobbled up a snack and proceeded to jump on our neighbour’s trampoline for more than an hour. They made up silly jokes and later even convinced me that I had to jump too (quite a sight I tell you). This evening we’ve been sitting together with music on, occasionally dancing, only breaking to eat cookies and drink tea. Now she’s back outside and singing, though not before savouring pretty much every bite of that chocolate chip cookie.

My prayer for Cate (and I’ve told her so) is that she would retain the ability to hold grief and joy in balance: that she wouldn’t be fearful of experiencing either one. I hope she will always dance without inhibition, savour cookies, cry when she needs to and find the spring in any season.

 

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Name Change

A year ago we decided that it might be time to change Parkdale Neighbourhood Church’s name. This wasn’t a new idea, it just finally felt right. While we are very truly “church” for people, we don’t function as a church organization, meaning we are not supported by our members. This has been a huge stumbling block for us. We’ve long thought that maybe a name change would help people understand the scope of our work.

I’ve discovered that choosing a new name is HARD. How do you capture the essence of PNC in a word or two? How do you suggest that we are very rooted in the neighbourhood?

A lot of time has been spent asking the people of PNC what this place means to them. This has very much factored into the process. Just yesterday at the drop-in I was asking people to write down some of their thoughts about PNC. Here’s what one friend wrote: “Without the PNC many community members would go hungry and/or cold!…Many of us would be lost without the PNC”. How beautiful. People consistently use the word “safe” to describe how they feel in this community. I know that I use that word too.

While it isn’t yet time to announce the fruit of our labour, I thought it appropriate to warn that this change is coming. So, don’t be surprised when we finally unveil it.

What a journey this is.

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Shift the Power

Here’s what I’ve been thinking a lot about lately: power.

At PNC we are constantly considering what it means to place people who usually aren’t, at the centre. Some of us are street involved, some are living on Ontario Works or Disability, some are refugees, some are dealing with a substance addiction, some have a mental health challenge that could range from depression to schizophrenia, some are under housed. The truth is people who struggle with these particular things are often pushed to the margins.

So what does it mean that these friends are the core? It means that we are shifting the power. Rather than it be about what I (in all my relative capacity) have for YOU, it is about what we have for each other. It is hopefully about inviting people into full participation of the community, in so much as they are able.

A piece of stone fruit has a centre, or core and is surrounded by flesh. Those two things together make a peach a peach. PNC is a place for all people, regardless of circumstance. We’re not suggesting that someone who has financial means, a house and an addiction to coffee *ahem* instead of crack has no role here. We’re just trying to turn the power structures that we are all so used to, upside-down.

In a sense we are creating space: space for us to realize that when you strip away the trappings of this world, we are all the same. And while we are fundamentally the same, we have been created with our own personalities and gifts. One could argue that I have power at PNC, and in some ways that is correct, except that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that while I have a unique role to play, PNC is not about me. I also know that I am encouraged to bring what I have to offer by everyone there.

Power can be about the possession of control over others. It is all too often misused. Power can also be defined as the “capability of doing or accomplishing something”. That is what we long for at PNC: to have everyone contributing what they can, and in so doing, creating a very deep sense of community.

Fight Shift the power.

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Movie Time

I was at a conference this past weekend. A spoken word artist got up and summarized the thoughts we had been batting around all morning as a group. One phrase I’ve been rolling around my tongue ever since: I am made whole though I have holes. We are whole even with our holes.

I have many holes. While I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve, the truth is some of those holes are hidden deep, deep down. I’ve come to realize that the more I share my own brokenness, the more people are willing to share their own with me. The stuff we share is painful and sad and sometimes just downright hard. Sound depressing? Maybe, BUT…

By making our holes the starting point, something beautiful happens: we are freed to discover the grace and mercy that can fill our lives. We can celebrate! We are no longer so concerned about hiding the flaws because we realize we are not alone. Being exposed has given me the courage to journey toward deeper wholeness. I’m like a broken jar of clay, except there’s light peeking out.

Today a dear friend and community member came to PNC a complete wreck. She was shaking and seeing things and seriously fearful. She laid all of it out for us to see. I ended up accompanying her to Old City Hall where she had failed to show up as an accused just days before. She was convinced that she would be placed behind bars, but knew she needed to account for her errors. On the car ride over she talked about being alone, misunderstood and living without purpose. She agreed that we should pray together once we parked. After a tearful few minutes we made our way to the office of the Crown.

Once there we made the amazing discovery that they understood her failure to appear and have given her another chance. What sweet, sweet grace. She wept again, though this time with different tears.

On our way home, my friend said, “Huh, I guess I’m not as alone or as dejected as I thought. You know what I want to do? I want to go to a movie, eat popcorn and get a huge pop, I haven’t done that for 20 years. Will you come with me? I want to get better. I want to celebrate”. She knows not everything is fixed, not all of the demons are gone. In that moment though there was a new light pouring out of her.

Yes my friend, let’s go to the movies.

 

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Marky’s Language

I had the honour of attending a funeral for a young man named Mark Andrew Rumsby on Easter Monday. Marky lived his life with an unidentified genetic disorder. As his dad said, “he had no words, but developed a way of looking at people that transcended speech”. Marky had an incredible capacity to make people feel.

I walked away from the church tearfully longing to learn Marky’s way of communicating. Ironic I suppose that I am busy writing down these thoughts. I am so full of words. Sometimes they are helpful, sometimes they are not. Oftentimes they don’t have the effect I so desire. On Easter Sunday it got pointed out that Mary Magdalene, when greeted by Jesus himself, was so wrapped up in wanting to find the body and FIX it, that she wasn’t even aware of who she was looking at. “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.” I will get him. I will fix this. All too often I am Mary.

I want to learn how to listen. I don’t mean simply to sit and listen to someone else’s words (though I want to do that well too), I mean to learn how to hear those things unspoken: unspoken pain, unspoken loneliness, unspoken regret and apology, unspoken hopes, unspoken joys. By waiting for the words I could be missing what is already being said. I need to quiet myself and attune my heart.

Maybe in the process I will become a little more like Marky.

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A New Mattress for Mom

Almost 9 years ago my mom had brain surgery on a benign tumour that was in a very bad place. Things have not been the same since.

The removal of the tumour caused exactly what the tumour, if left alone, had threatened to do: it took away my Mom’s ability to move freely and to swallow. My Mom struggles with neurological pain, infection and all that goes along with having very complex physical needs. She has a tracheostomy and is tube-fed. She lives in a hospital. She also has a pretty cool wheelchair.

What the surgery did not change is my Mom’s remarkable ability to be patient and full of the knowledge of grace in her life. For those of you who know her, it will come as no surprise to hear me describe Elaine Grant as one incredible woman. For those of you who don’t, I invite you to discover that for yourselves. My Mom is a woman of deep faith, a great listener, an amazing artist and an even better friend.

There are challenges that come with living in a hospital setting. The latest one for my Mom is that she needs a new mattress for her bed and the cost is not covered. Because she spends most of her day in bed, this is not just any mattress. It is a therapeutic air mattress with a pump in it that will help ensure my mom is as comfortable as possible. This mattress will cost $5,500.

That’s a lot of money. My Mom is on a fixed income, the majority of which goes to the hospital already.

This is where we all come in. Years ago we had a fundraiser to buy my Mom her wheelchair (it did cost more than many cars do!) and were amazed at the outpouring of support. It’s time to have another fundraiser because while $5,500 is a lot of money, it doesn’t have to be when shared around. That’s one of the beautiful things about community.

This will be a free-will offering. We can’t offer you a tax receipt. If you are able to help, we invite you to participate by sending a contribution to Elaine Grant, c/o Erinn Oxford 107 Queensdale Avenue, Toronto ON, M4J 1Y2.

With deep thanks from my Mom and our whole family.

 

Years ago a friend of mine, torn and tattered, stood in the middle of a church service at Sanctuary (the place I worked at pre-Cate and still in many ways consider a home), threw back his head and cried out to God,

“Oh, F$%@”.

It was one of the most profound moments of prayer I have ever been a part of.

Now I know, some of you will be thinking or even saying out loud, “did Erinn just call that ugly four letter word a prayer?” Yes, I did, because when that little word is not over-used, and depending on the context, it actually carries significant weight. In this situation it was the only word that my friend could think of that summed up the overwhelming agony of a life marked with abuse at the hands of others and his own. It was a guttural cry for help and completely heart wrenching to hear.

There were a lot of people at that service, including those who might consider themselves fairly conservative in their approach to living and use of language. What I recall though is that no one batted an eye. People’s heads were bowed and bodies swayed in recognition as the prayer was uttered. It made sense. When most words would have failed in that moment, this one didn’t.

As we approach Easter, we first must experience the darkness of what the Christian world calls “Holy Week”. On Maundy Thursday people will gather to remember the last Passover feast that Jesus shared with his friends before Good Friday, the day he was killed. Then there is the quiet, solemn lull of the weekend when Jesus lay in the tomb, very much dead. I can imagine that it would have been a time, especially not knowing the rest of the story, that people may have been at a loss for words. They had to wait.

Our waiting is different from those who lived that first week. We are anticipating Easter, except we still live in a world that isn’t as it should be.

I, like my friend, want to cry out.

 

On March 20th, 2012 I started this blog. That was one year ago today. I can’t believe it.

At this time last year I had just made the decision to assume a new role at PNC. I was feeling hopeful, determined, inadequate and downright terrified. I knew I needed to create a means to connect well with people who were eager to support the work. I admit I liked the idea of putting my stuff out there in such a way that people could choose to read or not. I thought it possible some people would drop by; I never imagined that it would take on the life that it has. This blog has enabled me to interact with people from all over the world. I have made new friends and reconnected with old ones. The wild world of social media has often helped me to feel less alone during the downright challenging times. I am humbled and grateful.

So here I am on March 20th, 2013. My friends, you have been through much with me. Thank you for reading. Thank you for encouraging, celebrating, challenging and weeping with me. Thank you for graciously receiving my confessions and rants. Thank you for choosing to support PNC either from a distance or up-close.

As I sit and write I have been listening to a song called “Beautiful Things”. I’ll close with the lyrics. Sometimes the words of another better describe this journey I’m on. As much as I like words, sometimes they fail me.

All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all
All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

All around
Hope is springing up from this old ground
Out of chaos life is being found in You

You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new

 

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Get Your Calm On

Thank you to everyone who gave me a reassuring hug after that last post. I got through the week and was reminded on more than a few occasions that living in the moment is truly helpful. I could have easily spiralled into imagining the worst about the future, because believe me, I’m a whiz at that. Instead I firmly planted myself in the present: I walked the streets, worked a bit from home, went to a few meetings, hosted multiple sleepovers for 10-year-old and under girls (it was March Break after all) and drank a fair amount of coffee.

Now I’m into a new week.

Today was PNC Drop-In day. For the last several weeks our Monday drop-in has been particularly calm, dare I say, peaceful- this, despite our growing numbers. I often wonder if everyone else in the room is feeling the same thing I am. Today I heard from more than a handful of people that they can  sense the calm too.

One man sat with me and began to weep as he talked about the community, until he noticed his boys coming in and told me “I don’t want them to see me cry right now”.

Another said, “everyone talks about this place- they all say they come here to get their calm on”.

Grumpy, as he’s known on the street, sat down and announced that “everyone here has gifts to give. Some of them just don’t know it. The peace of the Lord is in this place”. Grumpy gave me permission to say this. He also wants you to all know that he lives up to his name.

Yet another said, “I always leave here feeling better than when I arrived”.

So interesting that in a place where no one can help but wear their brokenness close to the surface what emerges is a deep sense of belonging. Culturally we want to fit it because of our strengths, not our weaknesses; we often hide behind masks. PNC extends an invitation to come as you are, to expose all those things that you struggle with and to discover that you are accepted precisely because you ARE human, a human in desperate need of love and grace.

I am that kind of human. I struggle with so many things including, as I confessed above, a strong inclination to worry. I need the PNC community just as much as the next person. I need the kind of peace that Grumpy was talking about: the peace of the Lord.

I have no idea what the future holds. I do know that right now, in this moment today, I am given what I need by God to be calm. And much of that comes via what my co-worker aptly described as our “amazing family here”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I have been reading a book about writing by Ann Lamott where she encourages authentically writing about your experience, whatever it may be. I don’t know if she would consider it wise to write (for the public) when one is feeling low. I should ask her. Or maybe I should really go hide in a corner. Instead, here I am.

Someone told me this week they wonder if I should consider “throwing in the towel” at PNC. They didn’t mean I should step aside for someone else to do the job. They meant close the doors. If it is possible for tears to well up in your stomach, then that is what happened to me. They started to slosh around, rise up and finally escape out my eyes. There were few words at first.

Then the words started to pour out of me, so fast they overtook the tears. I talked about how unique it is to have a community whose core is made up of people who are not traditional leaders. I talked about being a church without our own walls and how we do so much with the little that we have. We don’t spend money that isn’t there. We rely on partners, and they in turn on us. We love being together. I wanted to scream, “listen to our story!”.

PNC is a motley crew of people: we have different skin colours, cultural backgrounds and life experiences. We are a beautiful tapestry, woven together not by our differences, but the ways we are alike- our common humanity. I cannot imagine disbanding our group. Not for a single moment.

I can understand, on some level, why someone would suggest that stopping might make sense. We don’t have a building; our funding isn’t secure; my “office” is the street. Those, and I truly mean this, are just the surface things. Would it be nice to have those things? Absolutely. Can we rely on them? Absolutely not.

And so I am feeling weary and raw and quite defensive of my community. A community that doesn’t have a “church”, we are just trying to be one. I am not going to throw in the towel.