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Hot Toddies and Good Reminders

The day after Boxing Day I got sick. It kind of crept up and then hit me like a ton of bricks. I became lethargic and congested, with a nasty cough to boot. Good times.

In truth though, it was actually kind of good. I was forced to do very little. I napped. I drank a lot of tea. I discovered that hot toddies might be my favourite medication. I worked on a puzzle, strummed on a ukelele and ate leftovers. Not that I would ever wish my child to be sick, but she got it too which meant she was content to be cozy.

Then all of a sudden it was January and time to get back to work. I’m usually ready to return to routine, this time not so much. I found myself getting anxious about everything I have to do and wishing that I could just stay curled up under a blanket. I felt unnerved.

So today as I made my way to the drop-in I kept thinking, how am I going to do this? How am I going to keep up with the pace? When are people going to realize I have no idea what I’m doing? Ouch.

When I arrived I was greeted by two friends from the street who helped me unload the car. I was handed a belated Christmas gift from a woman struggling with much: she crafted me a bird out of clay. So beautiful. Person after person talked about how much they missed PNC when we closed for the holidays. A new person to the community helped with dishes (that got done in record time) and then poured out his heart to me. As I looked at this big guy drying his tear-filled eyes, listening to how he wants to “get his life sorted out. There’s no such thing as a completely fresh start, but I want something like it”, I thought: I’m glad I didn’t stay under the blanket.

I needed to be reminded of the gift my work is to me. In the process I was told I mattered to it. It is a safe place to come no matter how I’m feeling.

I am so thankful and also kind of beat. Hot toddies here I come.

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Saturated

I have much to reflect on as I think about 2012. So many things have happened. This blog adventure of mine is proving to be a helpful journal for me: similar in many ways to the hand written journals I used to keep. I can look through the archives and be reminded of what I was thinking about, or experiencing, or grieving, or longing for, or celebrating. Except now I’m making the entries public. My heart beats a little faster every single time I hit “Publish”- I never know how what I write will be received and recognize that it is kind of out of my hands once it hits the internet. Quite a lesson in relinquishing control. I’m learning a lot about that these days.

One of my first blogs begins with this: “I have a confession: I’m seeing a therapist.” To this day, Therapy is one of the most read pieces. I felt vulnerable writing it. I read everything out loud to myself before I put it up and in this case, I wept. Therapy has been hard, at times uncomfortable, full of emotion and incredibly freeing. I continue to learn a lot about myself.

In A New Adventure I wrote: “…I have agreed to lead PNC into a new phase in its life and mine. We are about to undergo a “reboot”. This means that we are taking some time to revision, rebuild and re-launch. In the meantime we will stay close to our people by continuing our drop-in and doing significant outreach on the street.” 9 months later PNC is still standing. I admit that while I have always been fiercely determined to see it continue, in my darker moments I haven’t always known if it would. We have truly spilled out into the neighbourhood. In fact, when I got asked a little while ago “so where exactly do you find PNC?”, a community member responded before I could: “you find it by being outside in the hood, natch”. Yes.

I smile when I read Pink Walls, laugh out loud at Choir Carpool and maybe wince just a little in Wonder Woman, Not. I appreciate being able to reminisce about being with my family at camp in the summer, the early days of becoming connected to the streets and more recently, even the trudge that was packing up PNC’s home. I am grateful too for a space in which to work out some of my own thinking on things like Christianity, consumerism and charity.

I find writing very therapeutic and am aware that I am processing much of my grief through it. When my Mom found herself in the ICU yet again, I had to write My Mom. I eagerly shared it, wanting to tell everyone what a woman Elaine Grant is. The most precious moment came when I was able to read it aloud to my mom. What a gift.

I re-live moments too:

The challenge of delivering a Eulogy for my Dad in In Honour of My Dad.

The bittersweet experience of saying goodbye to my Auntie Laurie in Our Town.

Saying a horrible farewell to my friend, Kimberly Rivera in War Resister.

Learning that God yet again provided PNC’s daily bread in Enough.

Hearing Stevie shout out my name in Little Stevie.

I am struck by the common thread of grace in all my stories. Grace permeates everything: the darkness and the light. The story of PNC overflows in it. Grace has arrived in unexpected and surprising ways. It has come quietly. And in some areas, I’m still waiting for it. I’m certain that if we all looked back on the tales of our lives, we would discover the same.

Here’s to 2013. May it be a year saturated with redemptive grace. For all of us.

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Hark! I Hear Singing!

PNC went caroling last night. During the lead up to the event, we had mixed response from some of our community: many loved the IDEA of caroling, but when asked if they would be there, balked. A few gleefully explained that they had another commitment and couldn’t attend. I gently teased those people, imploring them to at least give it a try.

The night began at The St. Clare Centre, the same room where we meet on Sundays. A group of us baked last week, so that there would be an assortment of goodies to enjoy. We also shared apple cider and pop, popcorn and chips. I had no idea what to expect in terms of numbers. And then guess what happened? The room packed out and we had a wonderful assortment of more than thirty people! A longtime PNC’er remarked, “how are we going to do this with so many people?” What a great problem to have.

We gathered around the open doors of storefronts, sang around the Christmas tree in the Public Library, marched into the Dollarama, took a request in the Coffee Time, performed for the security cameras in the lobby of a Toronto Public Housing building and on and on. Ernesto, a community member, accompanied us on the harmonica (or mouth organ as he kept correcting me). Everyone warmly welcomed us, sometimes obviously perplexed at why we would be offering to sing a carol. Some people pulled out their phones to video us, others clapped, all seemed pleased. The very old tradition of caroling still means something, especially during a season that has become stressful and even sad for so many people. A song is a simple gift.

I found myself thinking about the gifts that the magi brought Jesus so long ago as I witnessed the gift-giving of two of my friends last night. One cuts paper, both as a creative outlet and a serious coping mechanism. I have never seen him without bags of scavenged paper and his scissors. He presented a paper cut-out…snowflakes, trees, angels…to as many people as he could, including every store owner we greeted. One is a Native man of small stature, street-involved and struggling with alcoholism. He delivered our caroling group a box filled with hot chocolates and “pops for the kids”. Yes, I wept.

Caroling has been a tradition at PNC for many years. I can assure you, next year we will be out again. Until then, imagine us singing, “We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!”

 

I turned on the computer and was met with the horrible news: 26 people killed; 20 of them children. I think I croaked out, “oh God, no” and began to weep. I felt sick.

I immediately thought of my Cate. She goes to a school quite similar to the one in Connecticut, except that it goes to grade five instead of grade four. I stand in the schoolyard five days a week, kissing Cate goodbye in the morning and hello in the afternoon. I remember as though it were yesterday her first day of Junior Kindergarten. She seemed so small and everything else so big.

And now so many parents, just like me, are simply saying goodbye to their beautiful small ones. Nothing about this is right.

I have no idea what was going on inside of the mind of Adam Lanza. I am completely dismayed that he was somehow able to have a firearm in his possession. I mourn the systems that are so broken to begin with and just don’t protect people the way they seemingly intend to. I can’t comprehend how the families and friends left behind will move through Christmas. I wonder where God is in all of this.

I have so many questions and no answers. I hang on (sometimes by a thread) to the faith and hope that lingers in my heart. I believe that there will come a day when mental illness, anger, weapons, fear, misguided pride, injustice and murder will all be eradicated. Until then you and I get to be a part of ushering in the kind of kingdom that will one day reign, one where we recognize we belong to one another. Cate doesn’t just belong to me and Dion- she belongs to a much larger family. As Mother Teresa once said, “”If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten [this]”.

Today I want to remember.

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Remembering, Undisguised

Death has been touching the PNC community this latter part of the year. It has also been touching other communities we are close to. During this time I have been finding it very helpful to tell stories of the ones we have lost. There is something healing about remembering. And remembering need not be about sanitizing the past; it’s not about only remembering the good. In fact, I would argue that the important thing is to remember the entire person, faults and all. “John” (not his real name, in this case out of respect for his family) was a gregarious guy. He had a big personality and a great laugh. John also lived life pretty hard. He was broken. The truth is, I am broken too.  So are you. We are ALL broken. That is our shared humanity. It is when we acknowledge this that we learn we are not alone.

Once we discover we are not alone, we can go about the business of creating community. It is in the context of community that we can learn we are loved, we are valued, and we are accepted no matter what happened to us in our childhoods or our marriages or on the streets. We are accepted whether we consume alcohol, drugs or too much food. If we begin to get this, then it becomes easier to lean on one another, enabling us to begin taking even the baby-est of steps toward healing and wholeness.

The good news is that we are invited to come as we are. God invites us to show up in all our brokenness and receive His full grace and mercy. We are not required to have it all together, in fact it is precisely when we realize we do not have it all together that we can fully experience the presence of God in our lives. In my own darkest moments I have met God. I don’t know why He seemingly didn’t show up until I was at the end of myself.  Or maybe, it wasn’t that He didn’t show up, it’s that I was getting in the way. All of my own junk was blocking the doorway. I’m not writing this claiming to have all the answers; I am here to attest to the power of love and forgiveness in my own life.

God has spoken His love to me through my community in Parkdale. I see God in the faces of the people. I saw God in John. When PNC had to leave our building at the beginning of the summer it was the people who made me believe we could keep going without it. On the day we had to be out of the basement I still had no way to move our industrial fridge and freezer (some of the only things we still count as belongings). A mover wanted over $600 to move them one block to the building we are in right now. I was stressed. Then along came four guys who lifted those suckers up a flight of stairs, stuck them on dollies and wheeled them to the new space. One of them was John. John helped without a second thought.

Now John is gone. I know for me John’s death has stirred up the grief associated with people we have already said goodbye to. Death does that. It also reminds us of our own mortality. Let us think too of the ultimate hope that we have. Our hope is that God met John somewhere along the way and is loving him into a life free of pain and guilt and loneliness.  Our hope is that He is doing that with every single one of us.

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Dignity of Presence

I’m trying to warm up after a 5:15 morning walk with a dear friend. I’ve been checking e-mails and just received the good news about a grant proposal being accepted for PNC. Yes! And just last night a group of new friends announced they had taken up an offering for us- an offering that reflects loving generosity. Yes, again! As I sit by the fire in my living room I am struck by the gratitude I feel that, at the end of a crazy year, PNC is still here. We have weathered many storms and are not looking just tattered and torn, but hope-full. On more than a few occasions I have said (and will continue to say), “there is beauty arising from the ashes”.

At this time last year another dear friend shared an Advent reading that has proven to be a constant source of great encouragement. One part says this:

Think of the seed. We commit it to the darkness. And a new plant emerges thanks to what O’Donohue calls ‘the ancient symmetry of growth: root further into darkness and rise towards the sun.’

This is so powerfully embodied in the great poise of the trees. ‘A life that wishes to honour its own possibility has to learn too how to integrate the suffering of dark and bleak times into a dignity of presence. Letting go of old forms of life, a tree practices hospitality towards new forms. It balances perennial energies of winter and spring within its own living bark.

A dignity of presence. I love that. I love that PNC has been able to urge our roots deeper, spill into the streets, learn to rely on God for our daily bread and find a new way. I am learning SO much about trusting God in each moment. Without fail, when the bank account has dipped to a bad place, there is either just enough money in my pocket or someone else says, “I will take care of it”; when there is little food in the pantry we get a donation; when we need a space to run a program another organization says “here, use this space”. I have desired to be open and attuned to the possibility that God might say it is time to close the doors. All these happenings though say the exact opposite: stay open, I am with all of you.

The PNC community is rising up. With humble gratitude I say, thanks.

To all who mourn he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair…they will be like great oaks that the Lord has planted for his own glory (Isaiah)



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The Water Guy

Advent is upon us. Advent, for those unfamiliar with the term means “coming” and is used to describe the time between now and Christmas. It is the time in which we wait and prepare to remember the coming of Christ that happened so long ago and longingly anticipate His return. I began to really pay attention to Advent a number of years ago now and admit that with each passing year this season has become more and more challenging for me. Though deeply rooted in me is a desire to give gifts, I struggle with the consumerism of the season. I hate how busy the month of December becomes. Most of all though, a very large spotlight appears over the darkness of both my own heart and the state of the world. It feels as though I cannot wait for things to be made right.

I’m having to learn the art of waiting. Not the fidgety, exasperated kind of waiting, but the kind that is patient and still. I’m having to choose to buy less, slow down the pace and allow myself to be changed. Very slowly, the layers of guilt, shame, loneliness and ill-desire are being stripped away from my heart. My eyes become even more alerted to the terrible pain and suffering of this world: of men and women and children caught in the sex trade and of those who control them; of bombs being detonated over cities, villages and towns; of polluted water that cannot quench the thirst of those around it, of the awful disparity between those who are rich and those who are poor. As my eyes open, so does the desire to do what I can: pray, love well, build community, look for glimpses of hope, weep with those who are weeping and receive the care and love of others toward me.

Years ago I found myself completely overwhelmed the week before Christmas. My husband was having a terrible Multiple Sclerosis attack, my mother was trying to recover from brain surgery in hospital, my daughter was small and needing me and all of a sudden we HAD NO WATER. I turned on the tap one morning and nothing came out. Nothing came out for over a week. The worst part really was that nobody seemed to be able to help- the City of Toronto told us to call a plumber while the plumber told us to call the City. Finally somebody from the City told me candidly that we needed to have a pipe replaced from the sidewalk to the house, an issue requiring getting on a waiting list (a list we’d actually been on for years) and that until our name came up we were out of luck. I got off the phone, locked myself in the bathroom and lost it.

It wasn’t pretty. Through the flood of tears I finally said, “God, there is absolutely nothing I can do. You HAVE to do something”. I was wailing so hard that I almost missed the ring of the doorbell. Standing outside my door was a lanky worker from the city. He said, “I found your problem. Stuck my shovel in the snowbank by the sidewalk and water flooded out. I’ve got a crew on the way”. Friends, I felt like I met Jesus in the form of a water guy.

This Advent I am waiting for the water guy to show up. I want to cut through the various obligations of Christmas and be reminded that I need to remember He is, in fact, coming.

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Loonie

I’ve acknowledged before that I can be a real klutz. Over the last couple of weeks this has been glaringly obvious: I have bruises on my knees to prove it.

One night I had Cate and Grace (one of Cate’s best friends) in tow. While exiting a grocery store we were greeted by a man asking for money. We chatted a bit and then I gave him a dollar. I actually don’t often give out money, but for some reason this time I did. As we walked away I tripped on…something…and I quite spectacularly fell, nearly on my face. The plastic bag of food I was carrying tore open and spilled everywhere. Cate and Grace ran to help, quickly followed by my new friend- the man outside the store. This man helped me up, ran inside to get me a reusable bag to replace the plastic one now in shreds, gathered the scattered food and made sure I was okay.

In the flurry of activity the loonie that I had just placed in this man’s hat went flying. Once things settled the four of us got to the work of finding it. What a scene. The two girls were on their hands and knees, I was looking under the Christmas greenery leaned against the building, he was combing the sidewalk. We never found it. And I didn’t have another one in my pocket.

I felt terrible. He however did not. He said, “that’s okay. Somebody who needs it even more will find it. I’m sorry you hurt yourself. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to help. God bless”. Then he walked me to my car.

This incident, along with the giant bruise on my left knee, keeps reminding me that it is better to give than receive. All too often so many of my friends who experience the exclusion that comes from living in poverty are denied the gift of giving. This story is not about me giving somebody some money. No, it is about somebody helping me.

 

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Loose the Chains

It didn’t take me too long to find the chains that You just freed me from. 

This line from a song I love plays on repeat in my head every time I see my friend Sally. Sally has been an alcoholic for a very, very long time. The alcohol serves to numb the pain of knowing her former husband molested their children. Sally wants to discover a different way. Most days the way she knows comes easiest. And I get it. It breaks my heart and I long for her to find freedom from it, but I get it.

I get it because I too find my own chains over and over again.

So what should Sally do? What should I do?

I believe we need to acknowledge how heavy the burden is, fall on our knees and ask the One who created us to do a new work in our hearts. I think we need to find a community where we can come as we are; where we can acknowledge the things that we do wrong; where we can be challenged and held accountable for our actions; where we can be gently held when we mess up AGAIN. Because we all will.

I have held Sally’s hair back as she vomited on the floor. I have noticed the empty bottles of rubbing alcohol stashed in her bag and sometimes confiscated the full ones. I have helped guide her staggering body to the waiting ambulance because maybe this time the help will be accepted.

Sally has sat with me, holding my hand as I wept, overwhelmed and exhausted. She has cautioned me to not “work so hard”. When I am feeling particularly unloveable, Sally always seems to be the one who shows up to tell me I am loved.

One day Sally arrived at PNC, wasted and wired, saying she had been prepared all day to take her own life. I sat in stunned silence as she handed me the pile of pills she had stored up, saying, “I’ve decided this isn’t the answer. I’m giving you my pills. I know I am loved”.

It is in those moments that the chains are loosened. I have kept the pills as a reminder.

I got so used to having them on I didn’t know how to live in freedom.  This can’t be, no it can’t be what You intended for me. Glory come down. 

Indeed.

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Wonder Woman, Not.

Leadership is a funny thing. As someone who has been invited to lead, I am encountering the many challenges it presents. The challenge at the top of my list is people thinking that because of my role I am somehow Wonder Woman.

Wonder Woman I am not (though I wouldn’t mind having an invisible plane to travel around in).

I am here to attest to the fact that I am completely, utterly human. I make mistakes. I have inward struggles that only a handful of people know about. I sometimes procrastinate. I forget things. I have double or even triple booked. I am enough of a klutz that friends wonder when I will break my next bone. I worry. I imagine that I will fall flat on my face in the journey that is PNC.

I do not deserve to be put on any pedestal. And the truth is, I really don’t want to be on one.

My hope and prayer is that I will play a role in helping others to discover how integral THEY are in Parkdale. Some of my favourite times are when I’m standing in the corner of the drop-in, watching things unfold in the kitchen, listening to various conversations, and seeing people bustle around getting the room set-up. I smile to myself and think, “what an amazing team”.

Yes, there are tasks that are for me to do. And yes, there is responsibility on my shoulders. I will endeavour to do what is required of me, using strength that is not my own but of God. A whole host of people constantly remind me that even if I could be Wonder Woman, I don’t need to be. Instead, I am accepted as I am. What a relief.

I’ll be a servant leader instead, albeit a clumsy one.