Post #200

200 posts. Yikes. I wonder how many hours I've spent typing into this platform, trying to find the words to express... aaaaalll that!

I say 200, but if you had nothing better to do than actually count, you wouldn't see that exact number. There have been a few that I've written and not published because of confidentiality or because I was so angry at the time that I didn't think what I had written was particularly... constructive. Some of those have been shared with particular individuals. Some still lurk in the shadows as 'drafts.' But this public space has been, for me, a place of processing, sharing, and thinking out loud about a most-amazing journey that is still on the road.

The blog, in case you've ever wondered about the URL 'sgworship,' began as a place to publish the stories and teachings I was creating for something else altogether. That content has since been moved elsewhere. 

In the early 2000s I assembled a team of church musicians and singers from 6 or 7 different Evangelical churches in our town and the town next door. 

In the beginning...

Together, over the next few years, we planned and presented a series of evening worship events. For me it was, as much as anything, an excuse to preach and teach—something I'd been wanting to do for a long time but hadn't been offered the opportunity. So I made my own 😏

We had a good time together, enjoying the music and the planning. Doing special events for different times of the year and, moving our events from one church building to another for a while.

But that was a lot of extra work: phone calls, emails, who has the key, what are the rules in this sanctuary or that one, who knows the password for the sound booth computer. We decided that it would be better to find a 'home.' At first that home was in an EMCC church whose Pastor had been particularly supportive. Then he suggested something...

What if we held our events in a place that wasn't a church? What if we stepped out into the community? And if we were interested, he knew a place that might be just the thing.

That's how we connected with the Motel.

Context: This was 20 years ago. Back when our small town was still happily holding on to the idea that homelessness was a big-city thing, and “we don't have that problem.” Most people in town had no idea that a few people lived in tents on the beach, that a larger number were couch surfing (we thought then that couch surfing was like playing “the floor is lava”). We did know about the Motel, but we tried not to look too closely when we drove by.

It was run-down, badly neglected. Home to 50 or 60 people who literally had nowhere else to go. Absentee owners had hired a local person to manage it. Slowly over the years, the stainless steel fixtures and equipment from the old restaurant kitchen mysteriously disappeared. The roof over the motel rooms leaked. One time the manager had it patched with the mud flap from a transport truck, and driveway sealing tar. 

In case you're wondering, it didn't work. 

He liked to take some of the residents to church on Sunday in exchange for cigarettes, arrive a few minutes late and march with them down to the front pew so everybody would see what an upstanding citizen he was. He would also, we were told, occasionally (when a woman couldn't pay the rent) take it 'in kind.' 

Not sure why he allowed us to start using the old dining room. I think he ended up regretting it. I hope we gave him reason to do just that.

Setting up on the dance floor.

There was a dance floor, a stage of sorts and, for some reason, a projection screen. The electrics were unpredictable and a bit scary. The washrooms were out of order (hence our band motto: Pee before you come). But there was something about the place that captured our hearts.

At first, we were quite nervous about going onto the property. It had a reputation for being home to “crackheads and paedos.” It truly did get more visits from the local cops than most neighbourhoods. Some service providers wouldn't go further in than the front parking lot. I don't blame them.

And then there was us.

We started out parking in the front and carrying our equipment along the sidewalk to the “Club” doors. We started peeking around the corner to look further into the compound. We started getting residents coming to our 'sgworship' evenings to enjoy the snacks, spend time at the colouring table, listen to the music and the story.

The colouring table.

For some of us, it turned out, this was not a place we were comfortable going. For others, it was a window opening on a whole new horizon.

Then, one day, we heard that one of the residents who had been at the colouring table the week before had died. Her death was drug-related, and devastating for people who cared about her. And for me. I hadn't even known her name. I just knew she'd been lovely and laughing and choosing crayons and now she was gone. I couldn't shake her.

My focus changed. My heart shifted. My mind opened and my spirit lifted.

So I started conversations with people at church and the Pastor put me in touch with a young woman who lived and worked nearby at an exclusive Secondary School. She had, a few times, walked past the Motel, and chosen to actually look. And wondered what she could do.

That was the beginning. She, the Pastor, another woman and I started getting together regularly to pray and talk about what we might be able to offer. Then we three women would drive down to the Motel and go for what we called “walkabouts.” We started meeting people, getting to know them by name. Asking questions. What did the residents need? What did they not need?

Some residents did their own maintenance.

We started making friends. And learning, and learning, and learning.

That fall we started our weekly dinners in that same disused dining room. With no running water, and the dodgy electrics. A refrigerator that, frankly, scared us just a little. But at least the raccoons were friendly.

They particularly enjoyed the strawberry social.

It was a lot of work. The EMCC church continued to support us by providing space to store our styrofoam bowls and plates, water coolers and whatnot.

For the first while, folks from the Motel would come in the dining room, literally fill their pockets with food, and leave. As word got out that we were not affiliated with the manager, people started sticking around more. It gained a reputation as a safe space, and we as safe people.

Over the first year we three were joined by a few other like-hearted folks. We worked out of what is sometimes called a “chaordic” model. A portmanteau of chaos and order. A key value for us as a team was to never push someone into doing something, or taking on a role, that they were not comfortable with. We were a diverse mix of histories, ages, and abilities. Nobody was the boss, and everything always got done. My primary role was jokingly described as “figurehead.” I listened, pastored, encouraged, guided, and often went first. I supported and equipped people for the work they needed to do.

One of my favourite folks was the Amazing J. She took on the role of “organizer.” She had a notebook and a pen and a passion for putting pieces together. Through her efforts, we made contact with a couple of churches in town who put together teams of people to contribute meals either monthly or bi-monthly or whatever they could manage. That made life more manageable for the core team of “hobbits” and allowed us to take weeks off from time to time. Such a gift. It made it possible for us to expand into having a monthly breakfast in addition to the weekly dinners and Sunday morning church services.

Our core team grew to include people from the community and people from the Motel. We talked about 'those of us who live here and those of us who don't.' Because we were all 'us.'

The story of all we did and learned is told in the earlier portion of this blog: the ways in which we worked to live our faith with boots-on-the-ground. Stories you just can't make up.

One of my favourite pictures.   

As our work grew and became known in the community, we started having conversations about making it official—becoming a registered Not-For-Profit, and then perhaps a Charity. We didn't rush it, and kept those discussions happening for over a year before deciding to pull the trigger.

We needed more expertise than our core team had, so we started connecting with people in the community who could serve on our inaugural Board of Directors. We couldn't have accomplished what we did without them. They understood the systems, the laws, the government side of things. They had experience with other Boards and other NFPs that was indispensible.

I was on that first Board. I joined when asked. I was, by then, the only one who'd been there for the whole journey and had a unique perspective. But Boards are really not my thing. I was looking forward to the day when I could quit and get back to just being part of my community at the Motel. There were two other “hobbits” in the room at those first meetings, people who had joined us at some point in that first year. One of them was named Board Chair. Totally fine with me. I was there to work myself out of a job.

As we worked on the process of becoming an NFP, one of the community Board members brought us an opportunity to apply for a government grant. We'd neither had nor needed any money before, but we figured we might want to hire someone to oversee some of the NFP details and to do some promotion and networking.

Then things got complicated. Our approval for NFP status came through. So did the grant. But...

We couldn't claim the funds until we had a bank account. We couldn't create a bank account until we had proof of insurance. We couldn't pay for the insurance until the funds came through.

One of the Board members who understood these waters suggested that we ask the United Way to bail us out, just to get started. Just enough money to get the insurance. So he and I were delegated to have that meeting and make that ask (Look at me! Learning jargon!). The meeting went well, the United Way came to the rescue, and away we went.

Suddenly we had money. We started to discuss the hiring process.

The “hobbit” who had been Chairing the Board decided to apply for the job, but first had to step down as Chair. They asked me privately if I would be willing to take their place. I said no.

As I mentioned, I'd been just waiting for the time when I could leave the Board and get back to being me. The stress of ticking boxes and bureaucracy was getting to me and I was finding it more and more difficult to enjoy the weekly dinners with friends at the Motel.

So I said no. “No,” I said.

At the next meeting, the Chair submitted their resignation and nominated me to take their place. I was completely blindsided. If I were then the woman I am now, I would have said, "We discussed this, and my answer is still no." But it was a deer-in-the-headlights moment. Everybody voted in favour, then smiled at me like I should be happy.

I was not happy.

My former friend may not have meant it this way, but I can think of no other word for that moment than 'betrayal.' Not only of me, but of our core values as a team over the previous years.

I felt trapped and carried on as best I could, putting a time limit on my term in office. End of the year. No longer.

I was, as Chair, part of the committee that interviewed candidates for the job. I was, as Chair, tasked with calling our first choice hire, who decided to turn down the job. I was then, as Chair, tasked with calling our second choice hire (guess who) who accepted the job.

This photo is from a local news story written about the sale of the property to new owners. When the reporter showed up, I got a call from a resident to come talk. In the story, they called me a 'lobbyist.' I'm really really not a lobbyist.

For the next couple of months, I went to the meetings, did the job I was there to do, and then went home and--literally--to bed for a couple of hours. Being dropped into that position, but feeling an obligation to support this thing that I had started, was breaking me, and had poisoned the well. My family, who had been nothing but supportive for years, started telling me, “You. Need. To. Quit.”

So I did. The organization was up and running. The first wave of work was done. The big pieces in place. It wasn't the end of the year yet, but I stepped down. Because I had to.

That was the end of my involvement with that organization. It was the end of my days at the Motel. I needed time to heal.

But my heart for people on the fringes has never faded, and I soon found new avenues to connect with the people who hold so much of my heart. The churches with which I've been involved since then have supported me and challenged me. They've provided space, funding, hugs, and correction.

And here I am after nearly 20 years. Still writing a blog. Still making friends, and trying to be one. Still hoping to be a good Pastor to people who need one. Still loving Jesus.

I occasionally run into the person who betrayed me. I've had time and help in forgiving. Today, I just don't choose to invest in that relationship. It was shattered then and that's not exactly ok, but it is what it is.

The organization continues to do good work educating, serving, being a light in the community. I wish them well.

I love where I am now. I'm proud of who I am now. I'm thankful for the schooling I've received from the joys and hurts, in parking lots, motel rooms, tents and coffee shops. Even in the betrayal. God is in the business of redemption: not of ignoring the bad, but of using it to make something good. Of using our hurts and our scars to create something beautiful.

It's been worth it. Bring on the next 200.