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M&M’s In the Pancakes

I showed up to our Wednesday Drop-In without the M&M’s that I’d promised a community member. The day before he had ridden up behind me and Joanna on Queen Street and excitedly told us that he would like candy in his pancakes the next day. Not only that, but he’d like to make them for everyone. We heard a bit about his night outside, the impending day and then, as he whisked off, a very loud, “ERINN, REMEMBER THE BOWL SIZE PACKAGE OF M&M’s”.

I remembered, but was unsuccessful at locating them in the store I stopped at. When I arrived at the drop-in he was waiting outside and excitedly grabbed the bag of groceries out of my hand only to discover there were no M&M’s. His face dropped. I felt bad. We decided together to do a quick run to a convenience store around the corner, during which we met multiple Dale folks. They all got an earful about how awesome the pancakes were going to be that day. Most smirked and good-naturedly wondered if breakfast would be successful.

The store we ended up at didn’t have M&M’s either (there must be a shortage or something), so my friend picked out two Snickers bars and a Coffee Crisp. I declined a plastic bag, but he insisted on one so that “we wouldn’t drop them and disappoint everyone wanting chocolate in their pancakes”. On the walk back I heard all about the two things he liked to cook, one being toast. I gently asked if he was truly up for overseeing the food, which I was assured he was.

Joanna wisely suggested that we take a poll of who would like plain vs. fancy pancakes. It turned out about half the room was excited about the extra shot of sugar. Less than an hour later our friend had chopped up the chocolate bars, produced a heap of pancakes and helped serve. People loved them and he looked thrilled.

There are few places where this person would be allowed to participate in this way. He tells me this all the time. Some might wonder if we should allow it, to which I wonder, how could we not? The Dale is meant to be a place where people are invited to both give and receive. This friend identified what he wanted to give, asked for help in doing it, received supervision and left the building standing taller than when he arrived. I love these moments. Makes me want to track down a bowl sized bag of M&M’s for next time.

 

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Mark Roberts

Yesterday, approximately a week after he entered hospital due to a stroke, our friend Mark Roberts died. This came as a big surprise, for while we expected he had a long road of recovery ahead, we believed he was stable.

Mark was a tall, broad shouldered man which earned him the moniker “Big Mark”. He loved to talk (and talk and talk). We often teased him about how few dishes he actually got done at our Monday Drop-In because he was too busy chatting, pausing only briefly to say, “okay, anyway…” before launching in again. One key topic of conversation for Mark was music. He would often quiz me about the music of the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s, while commenting on current artists being played on the radio. He played the guitar and sang with gusto.

Mark had a spirit of generosity. Though he had very little, Mark was quick to share. He would regularly come to our Thrift Store Drop-In to distribute granola bars and pudding cups and whatever else he had gathered. He once proudly gave me a box of powdered lemon filling to make a lemon meringue pie, requiring only that I tell him about the result and how much Cate enjoyed it- he was a big fan of my daughter.

I’m sad that Mark will not be joining us at The Dale’s annual fall retreat up north. He intended to come last year, but couldn’t bear to leave his beloved cats behind. After hearing about all the fun we had, Mark promised that this time he would find somebody to care for his feline friends. He couldn’t wait to play his guitar around the campfire. I know that to honour him we’ll sing some of his favourites this September.

When Mark arrived at the hospital this past week he didn’t have any ID and couldn’t communicate. Joanna and I were able to see him a couple of times and were working with the hospital to locate family. Just yesterday I followed what felt like a flimsy lead, only to discover how to connect with Mark’s mother. I was overwhelmed with gratitude that I’d found her and so relieved that she could speak with Mark’s medical team. It was with shock and dismay that I got a message from her that afternoon: Mark was gone. My heartfelt sympathies go out to her and the rest of Mark’s family. She asked me to share this news.

Mark was very much a part of The Dale community. I can’t imagine not having him in the kitchen on a Monday, or hearing him strum a guitar, or seeing him stroll down Queen Street. I know many, many people will miss him. And I am one of them.

Rest well friend.

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Welcoming a Third Staff Member

Last November we made it public that The Dale Ministries was ready to grow our staff team. We are now thrilled to announce that we have found our new Community Worker in Meagan Gillard. Meagan comes with an education in social work and experience in a setting similar to The Dale, plus she calls Parkdale home. I loved listening to Meagan describe to our Board of Directors her heart and passion for this kind of work and life. I trust that The Dale is going to be a good home for her, and that she will bring so much to us.

This is also a leap of faith for Meagan. She has agreed to fundraise the money for her salary, a task that can certainly be daunting. As someone who does the same, I understand the anxiety of not being sure where the funds might come from. I also know the beauty of having an incredible network of people invested in this work. My hope and prayer is that Meagan will be encouraged by those who come forward to support her.

It is exciting to have The Dale expand in this way. I believe the time is right. Meagan starts on April 18th, the day after Easter Monday- fitting given that Easter is a time of new beginnings and this is definitely one for everyone involved. Please join me, Joanna, the Board, and the whole Dale community in welcoming Meagan. We’re so glad you said yes!

 

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In for the Long Haul

I’ve had the opportunity to tell the story of The Dale to a variety of new people in recent weeks. I try to pause often so that people can comment or ask questions. It isn’t uncommon for a least one person to ask, “how do you keep doing this?” Inevitably I find myself fighting back tears (or not) as I describe the deep sense of call I have, the variety of ways this community fills me up and how much more I receive than I even give.

One Sunday I arrived at the space where we hold our church service, feeling about as ill-prepared as one can. It wasn’t that I forgot an overall plan for our time together: I had printed off the necessary readings, bought bread for communion, and studied for the time of teaching. Lacking was my sense of worth. “When are people going to realize that I have no idea what I’m doing?” I felt rather empty.

I was reminded that day of how less of me means more room for the Spirit to move. Multiple people, without knowing what was going on in me, prayed that I be assured of my place in the community. One person asked that I be anointed in my leadership. My family was prayed for: not once, not twice, but at least five times. A dear woman and friend, one who knows poverty all too well, cupped my face during the sharing of the peace and said, “oh, little lamb. I worry about all that you carry. You are not alone”.

With my head bowed, I continued to listen to the prayers of the people. So much was acknowledged in a raw way: the pain of estranged relationships, the feeling of defeat in addiction, the brutal nature of physical disease, and the discomfort of dashed dreams. Tempering all of this was the ability to share gratitude for the simplest of things. It all felt real and somehow infused with hope.

Though my work is admittedly hard, it is so good. This community pushes me to experience life below the surface, in those deep places where one is enabled to both weep and laugh, mourn and dance, feast and fast. In almost inexplicable ways, God is present. So while I fumble around, sometimes second guessing my abilities and role, I am reminded that there is a place for me here. The truth is, I’m in this for the long haul.

 

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Disruptors of Injustice

Last week I had the opportunity to listen to an interview with an American lawyer on CBC Radio. He was introduced as a “disruptor of injustice”. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that title since first hearing it.

I am in relationship with so many people who face oppression and injustice on a regular basis. Admittedly, I cannot claim to know oppression in the same way: I am a Caucasian Canadian (a country that was colonized by people in my ancestry) who has a paid job and lives in a house. However, when I see people being treated unfairly I can feel it in my bones. I’m told that my generally calm disposition takes on a different quality: I become fiercely determined.

I also become weary. Which is why hearing the story of the lawyer was a timely encouragement. To date he has helped exonerate 156 people who stood on death row. That means he proved they were actually innocent of the crimes they stood to die for. He also spoke of the people he couldn’t manage to save in time. His job is not an easy one. Martin Luther King Jr said that, “Every step toward the goal of justice requires sacrifice, suffering, and struggle; the tireless exertions and passionate concern of dedicated individuals”.

Every time I have shared about situations that need addressing at The Dale or in my own life, I am struck by the overwhelming response of people who want to help. The question is never how am “I” going to speak out, but how can “we”? The prophet Isaiah said, “Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed.Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow”. We need to do this together. I think that the goal of justice is most often met when a committed group of people, whatever size it might be, show their collective passion for it. 

We each bear witness to a variety of injustices every day. None of us can fight every battle. I will likely never be involved in seeing people released from prisons in Alabama. I am however going to be involved in standing up for my friends who are marginalized due to poverty in Toronto. And you? It could be something entirely different. Together let’s be disruptors of injustice.

PS Your eager desire to help my Mom has not gone unnoticed. She has asked me to communicate that she is feeling much better, largely in part because the hospital is not going to force her to accept a facility just because it has a short waiting list. Stay tuned for more information as we become free to share it. 

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It Takes a Village

Last summer one of my Dale friends looked at me quizzically and asked, “what happens to us if Dion’s health worsens and you need to take care of him?” I thought about it for a moment, not wanting to skirt the question, deny my role or belittle the obvious concern felt, finally responding with “we’ll deal with that if and when the time ever comes. The Dale is so much more than me and I’m confident we’ll get through things together”.

As I sat in the hospital with Dion this week, I thought of that conversation. I also remembered how a visitor to the Drop-In recently asked me what being the Director of The Dale has taught me about trust. The truth is that the last four years have felt like one big trust exercise. I have needed to trust that our vision was right, that giving up our “walls” would prove to be wise and not foolish, that we would have enough resources, that delegating responsibilities to a variety of community volunteers would work.

You know that trust building game where you have to fall back into the arms of your team? Well, the arms of The Dale team are strong. The kitchen is run by an amazing group of volunteers, coordinated by Souad. Souad has stuck with me/us through a lot. She calls me in to help sanitize a sink or taste the food, but rarely am I a cook. It isn’t uncommon for community members to show up before Joanna or me to get things started at the Thrift Store Drop-In. The breakfast on Wednesdays is entirely prepared by two very faithful core volunteers. I could go on.

In the autumn of 2012, Joanna Moon took a giant leap of faith to join me on staff. Since then I have gained a sister-like friend and work partner, one who showed up at the hospital, bought me chocolate, delivered cards filled with the well wishes, prayers and love from our beloved community, prayed with me AND staffed everything this week at The Dale. She did it without question and for that I am so, so grateful. I also don’t take for granted that it was hard work.

Not only did the regular crew carry on as usual, friends also sprang into action to offer additional support. Sanctuary sent some of their staff to help. I’d like to send a big shout-out to Kim, Sam, Beth, Simon and Greg for being present. And thank you to those who wanted to be around even if you couldn’t.

With Dion in the hospital and now at home slowly recovering, I’ve been witness to what I always knew would be the case: The Dale has carried on without me, while simultaneously being with me. I was back at the drop-in today, keenly aware of the truth that it really does take a village.

p.s. The number of family and friends who were also our village this week is large. I’ve focused here on The Dale, though I could write pages about the depth of support we have felt in all spheres of life.  My gratitude runs deep.

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When Stress Gives Way to Thanks

I started last Saturday with getting a massage. Doing this always feels like some amazing luxury that I don’t really deserve, except I know that it helps keep me healthy. Apart from my heart, I tend to carry my stress in my shoulders and neck. 2016 has been pretty heavy thus far and on this particular day we were about to have our annual February Feast, an event that is bigger and sometimes more challenging than anything else we do. Seeing a massage therapist felt in order.

Before heading to Parkdale I stopped at The Gateway to pick up the turkey Second Harvest provided for our feast. We simply don’t have the kitchen capacity to cook as much turkey as we need (150+ people), so my caterer friend Sammy has his crew do it in the kitchen of this Salvation Army shelter. This relieves much of the “feast stress”, so I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me as the meat and a bucket of drippings for gravy were loaded into the car.

When I arrived at the drop-in, Joanna acknowledged that she too was feeling some angst about the night ahead. We went to the storage room and took a few moments to pray, for: enough food to go around, volume issues with the Open Stage portion of the night to be well managed and peace to prevail. We both took a deep breath and went back to helping set things up.

What transpired next was a reminder of why I love being at The Dale. We had more hands than we even needed to set up the room and cook the rest of the meal. The room totally filled up in time for our 6 pm start. Everyone got to eat and while some were concerned that their portion would be too meagre, it wasn’t. A few situations threatened to erupt, but were solved without major incident. The Parkdale Villager (our local paper) surprised us by sending a photographer to document the night. There was music and dancing.

One of my favourite moments was when my daughter Cate got up to share a song. As soon as she started to strum her ukulele and open her mouth, a hush descended upon the room. From my vantage point I could see how everyone stopped and really listened, erupting into encouraging applause at the end. The pride that I feel for Cate was reflected back to me in the eyes of the community. It was beautiful.

Joanna and I high-fived at the end of the night in acknowledgement that we’d been witness to God’s presence and our team at work. I realized the stress I was carrying in the morning slowly dissolved as I took notice of so many good things: the provision of Second Harvest, turkeys being cooked for us, a relaxed kitchen crew, a man being able to eat for the first time in days, a sense of celebration and fun. I’m hoping the memory of this Feast will linger for a long time.

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Will the Circle be Unbroken

I don’t know exactly what was going on, but at the drop-in and while on outreach last Wednesday something seemed to be up. We saw friend after friend struggling hard. There was a certain heaviness that lay upon the shoulders of each person. I went home feeling burdened and sad.

As I reflected that evening, it occurred to me that many of my interactions ended with my hand being grabbed and usually held against a forehead. I would just stand there peering at the person on front of me, struck by their tears and clear longing for healing and hope, feeling like all I could do was hold on. One person said, “please just hold my hand and sing ‘Will the Circle Be Unbroken’ before you go”. A few others gathered and agreed. For the next few minutes I sang, struck by the poignant lyrics that seemed to bring to life the inward prayer of many that day.

All I could do last Wednesday was offer my hand and a weepy rendition of a hymn from 1907. The song has been rolling around my head ever since.

I was standing by my window
On one cold and cloudy day
When I saw that hearse come rolling
For to carry my mother away

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by
There’s a better home a-waiting
In the sky, Lord, in the sky

I said to that undertaker
Undertaker please drive slow
For this lady you are carrying
Lord, I hate to see her go

Oh, I followed close behind her
Tried to hold up and be brave
But I could not hide my sorrow
When they laid her in the grave

I went back home, my home was lonesome
Missed my mother, she was gone
All of my brothers, sisters crying
What a home so sad and lone

We sang the songs of childhood
Hymns of faith that made us strong
Ones that mother taught us
Hear the angels sing along

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by
There’s a better home a-waiting
In the sky, Lord, in the sky

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Learning Each Other’s Names

I am glad so many people have learned that the young boy who drowned trying to escape Syria was named Aylan Kurdi. Names are important.

I think about the value of being known by name nearly every day. It matters to me when someone remembers my name and even more when they learn how to spell it. Erinn with two n’s is rare. When someone comes to The Dale the first thing we try to do is learn their name. One of my friends Michael talks about how he knew The Dale was a safe space away from the street when we took him by surprise and called him by name.

We all have an innate need to be known. Being known goes deeper than simply remembering one’s name though. We might be able to identify a celebrity by name, but know nothing about them as a person. This is where it gets messy. Authentic relationships are built when we are willing to reveal ourselves. Underneath our exteriors (whatever that exterior might look like) are complex emotions, failures and longings that we fear will be too much for anyone else to handle. That which we want most can also be the most terrifying.

This fear can flow into the way we take care of one another. Though we were designed to live in community we often don’t. Or we do, just in homogenous groups that we design to feel comfortable and very safe. We are called though to feed those who are hungry, clothe those who are naked, visit those who are sick and imprisoned and show hospitality to those in need. Remember too that each of us will take turns being the one who requires help.

I am convinced that if people consistently opened their doors to people like Aylan or my friend Michael, our world would look very different. A radical shift in our culture is necessary for this to happen. Maybe the start is learning one another’s names.

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Cowboy

I knew Robert Wilson as Cowboy. I met Cowboy outside of the library at the corner of Queen Street West and Cowan Avenue, where he was hanging out with a crew of people I knew from The Dale drop-in. He finished that first conversation with a certain hand gesture: one where he would wiggle his fingers and bring his arm back to signify that things were “groovy”. From that time on we used it to greet one another hello, though our goodbye would inevitably include a hug.

I learned quickly that Cowboy lived life hard. He was an admitted alcoholic who I got used to seeing inebriated. Drunk or sober, Cowboy could articulate that he was numbing difficult things and wanted to be able to stop. It was not uncommon for him to attend our little Sunday afternoon church service where he would pray aloud for healing. In some of his worst moments he would sit atop the small flight of stairs into the space away from the service, close enough to be safe, far enough to be entrenched in his own thoughts.

Cowboy became a good friend. He would always say, “girl, how ARE you today?” I knew he really wanted to know and would call me out if I didn’t give an honest answer. When I needed to share hard things he would look at me with compassion, nod his head and say, “in the end, in the end, in the end…things will be okay”. Coming from Cowboy, this sentiment was the opposite of trite. I knew that he understood the challenge of life and was pointing to our future hope.

The last time I had a conversation with Cowboy was near the beginning of June after a little memorial service we did for a community member’s father, a man none of us had met. It was a beautiful time, full of love and support for the bereaved. I sang ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ at the request of Cowboy. Afterwards he sang a couple of lines to me, unashamed of the tears that accompanied them. He spoke of how much he loved his friends and family, gave me a hug and left.

That night (I will spare the details of how) Cowboy ended up in hospital, unconscious and on full life support. Upon hearing the news the following day, I went to the hospital and met the family that surrounded him. Over the course of the next month and a half Cowboy was well cared for until his body couldn’t do it anymore. It is hard to believe he is gone.

I think about Cowboy a lot. I miss him. The Dale misses him, as do so many people in Parkdale. My prayer is that in the end, in the end, things have been made right for him. I live in hope that our goodbye is actually a groovy ‘see you later’, finger wiggling and all.

Toronto Star notice: Robert “Cowboy” Wilson Obituary

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