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Board to Death

2010-08-05T23:27:00.005-04:00

Last week I went to Dinner for the first time in two months.

They recognized me, which was good.

In the interim, I have:

- sung a couple of my songs at a moderately prestigious Folk Festival songwriting competition,
- started reading a couple of books (Entertainment Theology and Musicophilia) and writing a few things,
- watched Doctor Who and The Second Chance (again),
- played Portal (really good) and Doctor Who - The Adventure Games (meh),
- swum in a rambunctious river at the foot of a water fall,
- traded in some points for a new camera (the only thing better than a new toy is a free new toy) and taken a bunch of pictures,
- had lunch with one friend and coffee with another,
- finished a wood working project,
- started working on a bass uke.

Visited a couple of times at thechurchiusedtogoto. Not sure what to do about that situation. Exile sucks.

As far as the corp goes, we've been adopted by a local service organization who are doing the paperwork and looking after the bills. Which means, effectively, that the project we've got money for is now their project. Whatever. I'm back to being a figurehead, which is just so freaking OK. And that just until December. 5 more meetings and I'm out. Booo-Yaaaah! I can count that on one hand. Or foot. Heck, that's less than the number of ukuleles I own.

In the last two months, some stuff's been done. The carpet's been cleaned, reducing the raccoon smell by several powers of ten. The old stage has been taken down. The office space is being worked on.

The nurse practitioner who's been coming courtesy of the local Community Health Centre has had no lack of customers.

The roof still leaks (I counted 4 buckets catching drips on Wednesday), the juice table's been moved to the other side of the room and the old bar's been removed.

But whatever little things have changed, the people haven't. The stories haven't.

The hearts haven't.

One woman was looking for help to get rid of a couple of squatters in her apartment. She took them in because they had no where else to go, but they're endangering her lease. The team was on that.

SW had decided that it's just too hot for jeans anymore, so he's opted for a shorter hair cut and skirts.

CL was happy because she'd had a visit from her grandkids, but she's not happy at having to move from one unit, near the front in the 'quiet' section, to one near the back where there's more drug use.

CCL will be playing the piano for a church down the highway for the month of August. They have a modern worship band and she enjoys that.

And W was very glad to see me. I think. Either that or she was mad at me for being away for so long. She'd had a rough day. Been bitten by a small dog, and told off for something I didn't quite understand by someone whose name I didn't catch.

After Dinner, I got up to leave and from her seat she grabbed my arm and pulled me down for a hug. A heavy duty hug. The words "vise grip" come to mind. She wrapped her arms around my neck and held tight. I just stood there bent over halfway, my cheek pressed against hers so hard it made my jaw hurt.

She whispered, "I don't want you to go."

In my left hand, I was holding half a cup of cold coffee that I really didn't want to go down her back, so BL, watching, took pity on me and took it from my hand while I stood there for... I don't know how long.

Finally, I said to her, "Know what?"

"What?"

"You're a good woman, and I like you."

"I like you too."

She let go.

I promised I'd see her next week.

And I will.

r

Why I Haven't Written Anything In Over A Month

2010-06-30T09:54:00.003-04:00

There's been a lot happening at the Motel.

Sometimes the happening takes the form of stuff that's going to happen, then isn't happening, then we're wondering why it didn't and either wishing it had or sighing with relief.

Sometimes the happening is stuff we didn't expect, but it happens and we react in the moment and then discuss it at length afterwards.

And occasionally, we plan something and it comes together the way it was supposed to.

There's been stuff happening on a small scale - like new friends and team members - and on a larger scale - like a tax increase that's going to affect the marginalized.

Stuff on the Dinner front, and stuff on the Not For Profit Corporation front.

I haven't written about any of it.

I get ideas for things I want to write about, but after they bounce around in my head for a while, they end up sounding like whining.

Problem is, the corp has been dancing in my scalloped potatoes.

Through a series of unfortunate events, I've been shanghai'd into being chairman of the board. Rather against my will. And, I've made it clear, only until December 17 at the outside. Mark your calendars. I have.

It was kind of funny - absurd - for a while, but not for long. It's a job that I can do, yeah sure, but not a job I would ever choose to do.

It requires a kind of energy and a kind of thinking that I'm capable of marshalling, but that's physically exhausting. Being an introvert, I go home after board meetings, wait until the adrenaline twitch has subsided and lie down for an hour.

And lately, when I go to Dinners, I find my mind orbiting all that Chairman stuff instead of enjoying the meal, and listening and contemplating and relaxing. I've reached the point where I resent it. Which is bad.

A kindred spirit, who joined the Board for a time and recently resigned, put it this way: "My prayer life goes on the fritz when I get frustrated and I see anger in my speech and I do not like it." Bingo.

So I haven't been going to Dinners the last few weeks. My husband talked me into going about a month ago, but we left without eating because I just couldn't stay.

That's why I'm not writing much.

I know the corporation is, fundamentally, a good thing. That the people on the board with me are good people - intelligent, passionate, caring. I know that in time, good will come of it. But it's cost me quite a lot.

Which sounds like whining.

The part of me that grew up in church, always pretending everything was fine, hearing stories of success upon success, thinks that I should just shut up and smile. But what does that accomplish?

I have to believe that honesty is better. That maybe someone can learn from my adventures and misadventures. So I should whine, occasionally. Whining for the greater good. I'm a hero.

I expect that soon, once the Chair is either under control or passed on to someone better suited, I'll be back to enjoying Dinners and my friends there.

I'll let you know.

r

Good News. Bad News. Rumors Are More Fun.

2010-05-27T19:12:00.010-04:00

Good news: We had an announcement this week at Dinner. One of the churches in town is starting up a lunch. Each week on Friday from 11:30 to 1. The point people are a young couple, J and K, who are part of the Dinner team. They started talking to their pastor a while back about the idea and it's going to be up and running this week. Nice.

I got to make the announcement, which is always fun. I stand in the middle of the room and yell, "Heeeeeeeeyyyyyyy" until everybody stops talking and looks at me. I can hold a note for a long time.

I actually wasn't supposed to be there this week. I'd even sent a note to the others on the team to say I wouldn't be, because I was booked into a meeting with the 'hiring committee' of the corporation. We've got a government grant to hire a part time, acronymically problematic Community Outreach Worker to work until the end of the year. Now we've got our act togetherish, we can do the hiring.

So I figured I'd miss Dinner this week, which sucked. I'd much rather go to Dinner than a meeting.

Which is why I wasn't entirely crushed to get a 4:30 phone call from the Amazing J, saying that CL had left a message on her machine that 'the church' was still locked, there was no one on the property who had a key, and she couldn't get in touch with the crew boss.

I wrote an email to the people I was supposed to be meeting with, to let them know I might be late, and drove to the Motel.

Fortunately, the weather was good, hot and sunny, so we started rounding up disused plastic patio tables and wiping off the gunk with the newspapers that have been piling up in their pink plastic bags on the porch of a part of the main house that nobody ever uses. Months' worth. I guess if you're getting paid to deliver them, you deliver them.

A couple of guys went off to collect chairs, J had brought a couple of stacks of styro plates from our stash in her garage and was about to drive to the store down the block to get cups, cutlery and napkins when somebody hollered, "They're here!"

Sure enough, the guys with the keys pulled up in front of the house, pool noodles and boogie boards in tow. 5:20. Sheesh.

They said sorry, they'd been caught in traffic, and unlocked the door.

The patio furniture went back where it belonged and we started setting up.

Half a dozen of us worked at putting out the freshly laundered table cloths, laying out the bins of knives and forks and spoons. CL was teaching P from the health centre how to make the coffee. BC had brought a jar of pickles and scooped some out into bowls. Another guy was playing solitaire on one of the tables.

The Toggery Crew were at work, hanging up this week's clothing donations so people could browse. Since all of the other "donations" had been tossed by the new owner, BG and the Amazing J have been bringing a few bags of things every week, putting them on hangers hooked over the now empty curtain rods. BG is a wonderful woman with a big smile, a full open laugh and a penchant for dirty jokes. My favourite Catholic. She and J unpack the things, put the women's on this side of the room and the men's on the other side. After Dinner, they pack it all away again. Anything that comes back for a third time gets bundled off to a local charity shop. Much more organized than the piles of stuff.

It was all so cool. I knew I couldn't stay long, what with the meeting and all. It was like playing hooky.

Before I left, I saw the crew boss and the other guys standing in line for Dinner. They do that every week.

Which is fine, except there's conflict brewing. Between the old guard and the new crew.

The old guard at the Motel, while freely acknowledging (shaking heads, saying, Ohmygawwwwd) that the previous management was a problem, are not happy with the new one either. I keep hearing that now they've got all the junk hauled away, no more work is being done. The roof that was patched just weeks ago is leaking again and there seems to be no interest in getting it done properly. A ceiling tile fell on a woman's bed and nobody's fixing it. There are problems with the mail because the office is unmanned.

This week was the second time we've been locked out until almost too late to set up for Dinner. The office space we understood was to be ours has been put on hiatus and we don't know what we'll be able to use. And to complete the picture, when P went to make the coffee yesterday, we found out that the water had been turned off again. Fortunately, W and her man had a couple of cases of l'eau in their van (the new (old) one sans ramp) and they donated one to the cause.

But I'll tell you what I did. Or at least, what I'm told I did. Because I wasn't actually there when I did it.

Apparently, once the crew boss was seated at his table eating Dinner with his girlfriend and buddies, I marched right over there. Apparently, I got up in his face and said, "Look here!" I said.

I said, "Look here! Dinner is at 6 o'clock every Wednesday! We need those doors unlocked by early afternoon!" I said. I spoke with a lot of exclamation marks, or so I'm told. I may have even waggled my finger.

It would seem that I then went on to threaten his life and limb if he should ever - and I mean EVER! - fail in this duty ever again and that he'd be banned - BANNED! - from coming to Dinner. And your little dog, too!

CL told me I did this. I don't know who told her. She didn't say when she called to confirm my version of events.

I don't actually remember doing it. But I'm not a reliable witness because, like I said, I wasn't there at the time.

But now he knows I am not to be trifled with.

Apparently.

r

Backs Against the Wall

2010-05-21T13:20:00.007-04:00

Excerpts from "Jesus and the Disinherited", by Howard Thurman

"The significance of the religion of Jesus to people who stand with their backs against the wall has always seemed to me to be crucial. It is one emphasis which has been lacking - except where it has been a part of a very unfortunate corruption of the missionary impulse, which is, in a sense, the very heartbeat of the Christian religion...

This is the question which individuals and groups who live in our land always under the threat of profound social and psychological displacement face: Why is it that Christianity seems impotent to deal radically, and therefore effectively, with the issues of discrimination and injustice...? Is this impotency due to a betrayal of the genius of the religion, or is it due to a basic weakness in the religion itself? The question is searching, for the dramatic demonstration of the impotency of Christianity in dealing with the issue is underscored by its apparent inability to cope with it within its own fellowship.

I do not pretend that I have found an answer [in this book] but I am deeply convinced that in the general area of my inquiry is to be found the answer without which there can be little hope that men may find in Christianity the fulfillment which it claims for its gospel."

"Many and varied are the interpretations dealing with the teachings and the life of Jesus of Nazareth. But few of these interpretations deal with what the teachings and the life of Jesus have to say to those who stand, at a moment in human history, with their backs against the wall.

To those who need profound succor and strength to enable them to live in the present with dignity and creativity, Christianity often has been sterile and of little avail. The conventional Christian word is muffled, confused, and vague. Too often the price exacted by society for security and respectability is that the Christian movement in its formal expression must be on the side of the strong against the weak. This is a matter of tremendous significance, for it reveals to what extent a religion that was born of a people acquainted with persecution and suffering has become the cornerstone of a civilization and of nations whose very position in modern life has too often been secured by a ruthless use of power applied to weak and defenseless peoples.

It is not a singular thing to hear a sermon that defines what should be the attitude of the Christian toward people who are less fortunate than himself. There is a certain grandeur and nobility in administering to another's need out of one's fullness and plenty.

I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that I have heard a sermon on the meaning of religion, of Christianity, to the man who stands with his back against the wall. It is urgent that my meaning be crystal clear. The masses of men live with their backs constantly against the wall. They are the poor, the disinherited, the dispossessed. What does our religion say to them? This issue is not what it counsels them to do for others whose need may be greater, but what religion offers to meet their own needs. The search for an answer to this question is perhaps the most important religious quest of modern life."

Poverty

2010-05-13T12:01:00.000-04:00

Last night's memorial service went rather better than I'd expected.

We've got a new team member these days, a retired United Church minister I'll call FL. When I got there he had things in hand. He'd recruited CCL, the piano teacher, and talked to a few people about what would be good to do. Amazing Grace was requested, and CCL had found Kum By Yah in one of her song books, along with Morning Has Broken.

At around 6:45, a dozen or so of us gathered at the far end of the room, chairs on the dance floor, and FL led the service. A short eulogy, some singing, a poem, some memories shared (the tray!) and a framed picture of our friend smiling down on us from the piano top. Tears and laughter and honour.

We've had memorials of a sort a few times in the past, led mostly by a certain well intentioned person (yes, he was!) either while people were standing in line waiting to eat, or while they were eating and chatting. It wasn't possible for us to intervene on these things, but we found them very... um... very... Suffice it to say that one event featured this guy, apparently because it's what our deceased friend was singing in heaven now.

'Nuff said.

But on this occasion, time and care were taken. Space was set aside. The people gathered who particularly wanted to, nobody was waiting for it to end and it was right. Our friend's relatives might not be having a service, but that's OK. His family did.

My husband wondered on the way home what Robert would have thought if he'd known, sitting in that room last week eating his Dinner with friends, that one week later we'd be sitting a few feet away having his memorial service.

You just never know.

We're feeling more and more how important it is to bear witness to the passing of people. What an obscenity it is to just let them die and bury them in the ground nobody else wanted at the Community Cemetery, unremarked and unremembered.

How important it is to say, "He was here, and he mattered." Even if that's all you can say.

Last week, a bunch of us had a meeting in a church basement, to share a meal, talk about stuff and to hear from a speaker who works for an organization we hope to learn from.

Before he spoke, I said a few words. I didn't prepare well, and it was a bit rambling, but I talked about different kinds of poverty.

I just finished reading "When Helping Hurts", and the author works from the premise that all poverty is the result of bad relationships. And since there are different kinds of relationships, there are different kinds of poverty.

Our relationship with God - When we've lost our childlike understanding that God is there and he's good and he can be heard. When we don't understand who Jesus is and what he's done for us, we can fall into confusion and materialism.

Our relationship with ourselves - When we see ourselves through a fog of what's been said to us and about us, been done to us and 'for our own good' and we forget that we're worth something. We can lose courage and hope and dignity, or fall into the traps of low or inflated self esteem. We start thinking that we've failed, so there's no point in trying.

Our relationship with others - When we've been hurt, disappointed, abused, abandoned. Or we have hurt, disappointed, abused or abandoned people who relied on us. We find community with people who are harmful to us and to themselves. We lose connection with the people who ought to be our family and our neighbours either through their fault or our own.

Our relationship with the rest of creation - When we don't fit in with the world around us, don't belong, can't function healthily in society. When we don't have enough money, can't read, are mentally or physically ill. When we reject it all, or are rejected.

It's easy to see at least two, maybe three of these in our friend's death. I can't speak to his spiritual state.

But his financial condition, his isolation from all but a few, the absence of his family, his relatively young death, all speak to a variety of poverties in his life.

Which can seem really sad. But if you think about it, it's actually very freeing. A variety of opportunities.

Nobody is good at everything, and nobody can respond to all of these poverties at once, but all of us can respond to one of them.

We all have something to give, to receive, to teach, to learn.

We all can help. Somehow.

r

Remembrance

2010-05-12T10:32:00.005-04:00

Tonight at Dinner, we'll remember our friend Robert with a poem and a moment of silence.

Not, how did he die, but how did he live?
Not, what did he gain, but what did he give?
These are the units to measure the worth
Of a man as a man, regardless of birth.
Not what was his church, nor what was his creed?
But had he befriended those really in need?
Was he ever ready, with word of good cheer,
To bring back a smile, to banish a tear?
Not what did the sketch in the newspaper say,
But how many were sorry when he passed away?

Anon

1943 - 2010

"Peace to you my friend. Deep peace."

Change Of Plan

2010-05-10T22:23:00.002-04:00

I was going to write tonight about a meeting we held last week. Maybe later.

CL phoned this evening to say that Tidy G - Robert, to us - sweet Robert - has passed away.

They're not sure when exactly. His windows were closed all day and he didn't come out to get his paper this morning.

CL said the police and ambulance were still there when she called. No details.

They're going to try to track down his sister.

r

What I've Lost

2010-05-07T13:50:00.010-04:00

We visited the churchiusedtogoto last Sunday.

There aren't a lot of options for church on a Sunday morning in a small town. There are high liturgical churches, ultracharismatic churches, super conservative evangelical churches and the churchiusedtogoto. So we'll be back there from time to time. Once a month, every six weeks. Something like that.

The way it's evolved is I take something to read. As soon as the service is over, I make a beeline for the door and read in the car so my extrovert husband can have a chance to drink some tea and chat with friends.

I'm still working through this thing. Being "in but not of" the congregation we've called home for the better part of 20 years. Where our kids were dedicated, where I was baptised.

I recently read ReChurch by Stephen Mansfield. He's written a book to people who've been hurt by churches and it's a good one. Sympathetic and challenging at the same time.

But it's written to people who are bitter. Angry about what's been done to them, and that's not me. I'm just... I don't know. Sad, I guess. Wishing things were different.

I keep coming back to a question that was asked me by one of the people who said no. At that fateful meeting, she asked me "Can you enter into worship?". The question surprised me at the time and I said yes, but I've thought about it a bit since.

"Enter into worship" is churchese for allowing yourself to refocus your heart and mind from the immediate and what's next, to reach a place where you're open to hearing from God and speaking to him. It's an internal thing, which made it a rather personal question, but I respected her for asking it.

Can I, despite feeling alienated, allow myself to join in?

I just can't decide whether it was remarkably insightful, or completely blinkered.

If she was asking whether I'm moved to that place during the 'song service', because the songs are good and the drums are well played and the psalm she read was well chosen... then it's the latter. And the answer is no. I've written about that before.

But I said yes, because I took the question at face value.

This past Sunday was a wonderful worship time for me. That had nothing to do with what she had done.

All through the service, the hour and a half I was in the building, I was looking at people. At their faces, the backs of their heads, their profiles.

People I've known forever.

The elderly couple a few rows ahead of us. They're gracious and lovely. They sing with their hands raised, hers at shoulder height, his high above his head. One time after a service, she told me how much my contribution had meant to her and kissed me. I'll never forget that. She walks with a cane now.

Another older man, who used to be the pastor of this church. He and his wife spent their lives pastoring small churches, investing in the lives of the people around them, week after week, year after year, going wherever they heard God calling them to.

The woman in the same row, next section. She sits during the song service, not singing but nodding along. She used to play the piano in this room, out of the hymn book. She was widowed and, years later, remarried a rather nice man who is standing beside where she sits, not singing.

Further away, a younger man whose wife left him. He's remarried, too, and they have cute kids. I've never seen him sing. He has a passion for sports and an easy, wry smile.

His dad and mom were fantastic people, founders of this church. I never met his dad, but I sang at his mom's funeral. A woman with a "driving ministry". She'd get alone with someone in a car and pray that God would take the conversation somewhere good. And he did, time and time again.

The couple behind me. I answered the church phone the day he called to ask for prayer because she'd left him. The family went through a rough couple of years until they were both able to humble themselves enough to try again. And it worked.

The woman off to the other side. She's long divorced and she's walked through some mental illness. She's had some crap in her life, but she keeps coming back. In her professional capacity, she was a great help at school to my kids when they needed it. Patient and gentle.

That man behind me and to the left has struggled with depression.

The woman who's been married for I don't know how long, but I've never seen her husband in the building. Their son deployed to Afghanistan last week.

The man who is a single dad, reformed alcoholic; the passionate prayer of his parents for years - now being answered one day at a time.

The woman who is a single mom of a special needs son. He's taller than she is now, well into his teens. Wearing a Halo3 t-shirt and playing air drums. (Him, not her.)

And they're all there. Some sing, some don't. Some pay attention to the sermon, some don't. But they all take the bread and the wine and we all eat and drink together.

For me to sit in that company - surrounded by stories of redemption and reconciliation and healing, struggle and decades of faithfulness, help and helplessness and gifts given and received, triumph and 'two steps forward one step back', fear and trust - is to be refocused. Whatever the sermon is about is secondary. What songs we sing comes third.

Because it's all about those people and their God.

I remember every one of their stories and I 'enter into worship'. I thank God for each of them and for what he's done in their lives. I pray for them as I sit there and I hope they're praying for me.

I miss some of the sermon and I don't sing all the songs, but I listen to the music and look around at these people, these brothers and sisters, as the lyrics fill the room.

No guilt in life, no fear in death,
This is the power of Christ in me
From life's first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny
No power of Hell, no scheme of man
Can ever pluck me from his hand
'Til he returns or calls me home
Here in the power of Christ I stand...

But it's all memories. All in the past. Set aside as I am, I'm not part of the new stories. Not learning what God is doing in these people's lives now.

That's what I'm mourning. What I have to figure out or rationalize or justify for myself. 'Cause that's what I've lost.

I've lost the future.

r

Drama

2010-04-30T12:10:00.007-04:00

Really good Dinner this week. Roast beef. Ice cream for dessert.

Lovely stuff.

One of the members of the group providing Dinner brought a surprise. The members of her son's grade 3 class had drawn pictures of 'spring' and sent them to us to hand out to people.

A whole stack of brilliant crayon coloured tulips and birds and bumblebees, ducks and waterfalls, soccer and skipping ropes, cats and dogs and birds and trampolines.

There were two that tied for my favourite.

One is a scene of a boy who is standing on the shore of pond, (or possibly underwater between two dinosaurs) with his dog (or possibly a very small cow). Gotta love grade 3 art.

Here's the other one:

What makes it work for me is the bat winged guardian angel, complete with 'fro and halo. And the pumpkin - looking forward to Hallowe'en, I guess.

I handed out quite a few to people after Dinner. They seemed really pleased that somebody'd gone to the trouble to send them such a gift.

A few were PLAK'd by a local business and we'll hang them in the 'church' next week.

Things got a bit weird on Thursday morning when CL called me, in a panic. She wanted to know if I'd heard anything new. I said no.

So she told me what she'd heard.

"Everybody's" rent was going up $50 per month effective today, right now. Supposedly to help pay for the repairs. In a month's time cable TV, phone and "air conditioners" would no longer be included in the basic rent, and there'd be extra charges for those things.

Plus there were some new rules. She read them to me from the letter she'd received, with editorial comment.

1. All pets must be registered with the office, with up-to-date vaccination info.

2. Pet owners must curb their animals and pick up any poop. ("Well, what if you don't notice? What if you're standing there talking to somebody and you don't notice?")

3. Persons under the age of 18 must be under the direct supervision of a parent. ("What if you're there to visit your dad, but he's not home from work yet? Are you not allowed to wait until he gets home?")

4. Windows and doors must be closed and locked when the residents aren't in their units. ("What if you're just a few doors down, sitting outside having a coffee with somebody? You can see your door. Why does it have to be locked?")

5. All vehicles on the property must be licensed and in good working order. They must be registered with the office. ("Well, that's alright.")

6. There will be an 11:45 curfew. No noise, no outside activity. ("Well, that's just stupid.")

7. There will be no non-residents coming onto the property after 11:45. ("But what if...")

8. There will be no outdoor fires on the property. (I asked if indoor fires were OK. Apparently not.)

9. There will be a zero tolerance policy on violence. The penalty is eviction.

To be honest, I can't see anything in these rules that shouldn't have been there all along. Of course there is always room for common sense in enforcement, but that can be worked out as time passes.

But there should never have been unaccompanied minors wandering around, abandoned vehicles, piles of dog poop, violence, fires or unvaccinated animals. Those are the things that have given the place its bad rep in the first place.

And as for the rent increase, it's not "everybody". There are some long term residents who've had special deals with the previous management. Some were above board - in exchange for work - and some I don't want to know what they were for.

Those people have had their rates adjusted to be the same as everyone else who has the same sized room.

The phone and cable thing seems to be fiction.

So the drama dissipates until next time. We've all decided that when we hear a rumour, we don't believe it until it's confirmed by the principals.

Check first, panic later.

r

Too Good To Be True

2010-04-21T19:40:00.023-04:00

Today was our second Wednesday Afternoon Drop In Coffee And Donuts and A Chat. WADICADAC for short.

I'm learning to speak acronym, since it's the first language of corporations and committees.

When I arrived, one of the team was sitting at a Dinner table with a woman who lives there going over an application form. They filled it in together, neither 100% familiar with the form, but getting it done.Then others started trickling in. It was really nice. 8 or 9 of us sitting around talking over each other across and down the table.

About the weather, about some of us having our picture in the paper, about donuts (Walmart vs. Timmies. No contest, apparently).

We talked about our friend S. He's a big guy, with some health problems.

About 40 years ago, when he was a kid, he had some kind of accident and broke his ankle. They set it and, to help it heal, put in some pins and screws and a metal plate.

Only nobody ever took the metal out again.Needless to say, he's hurting, so he finally got a specialist appointment to see about removing all the bits. But he's got a decision to make.

To do the work, the doctor would have to put him out, general anesthetic. Which, in his current condition, would put him at risk for a major heart attack. So he's stuck.

We also spent some time looking around the space that our group will probably be given by the new owners. Space for drop in, conversation, for the street health nurse to work in, for a food cupboard...One of the team said tonight, that it's got to be a God thing.

All this time, she said, these things we wanted to do. Wanted to see done. Space to use, repairs and stuff that works. Rooms for the residents to live in that are actually liveable.
It's all happening. We couldn't do it. So God brought somebody along who could. It's got to be God, she said.

Can't say she's wrong.

Here are a few pictures of what happened today:

It takes 4 years to get that excited about cleaning a bathroom. We keep flushing the toilet, just to see the water go 'round. The fan's been removed, but the wiring is still there.

_________________________

Through the hole you can see the floor of the next room. The plaster and paint are damaged by water and there being no heat in that part of the house for at least 5 years.

_______________________

Broken glass and flies that died during the Trudeau years.

_____________________

Men working. Actually working. Fixing the roof where The Leak has lived and doing something electrical.

_______________________

Wow. A little slice of heaven. Feel free to gaze. The space we're discussing with the owners opens out to the back of the property, which is perfect. There's a room that could be social space, two washrooms, a large closet that would be perfect for a food cupboard, a mop sink, and an office with enough privacy to be used by a street health team. If it works out, it'll be better than we could have hoped.

___________________

Bonus: Shots from the basement. The basement is awesome. It's huge and cavernous, with 6 foot ceilings. Part of the floor is ancient brick, under the original house, and part is concrete. We think they're still working on this one.

________________________

There used to be a youth dance club down here. The floor drops about 2 feet from the level of the rest of it, so this ceiling is more like 8 feet. For me, it's the exclamation mark that makes it work.

There's also a sauna, which is working and we think the work crew is using it. Good for them. We have Dinner in the room above this.

Cool.

r

Be Excellent To Each Other

2010-04-19T16:00:00.012-04:00

When I arrived at Dinner last week and walked in through the door, all the people lined up ready to eat looked toward me and a bunch of them cheered. A few clapped.

It was very affirming.

Until I found out it was because somebody'd told them I was bringing the scalloped potatoes.

***

In line, I got talking to T. He said he'd seen me driving down a particular street and I said I'd seen him on a bike.

He smiled and said, yeah he'd just got it.

T: When I got it, it had 21 gears.

Me: Wow. Cool.

T: But the derailleur didn't work.

Me: Oh, that's too bad.

T: It's OK, I got another one from a wreck.

Me: Good. You fixed it?

T: That one has 18 gears.

Me: Not too shabby.

T: But only one works.

Me: Oh.

T: (shrugs and smiles again) It's better than walking.

***

When I walked in I was wearing a hat I bought recently at a charity shop. Paid a couple of bucks for it. It's camo. (See ill.)

While I was eating, W. started hollering at me from a few seats down, "Hey, Ruth. Give me your hat! Gimme your hat!" and snickering.

I thought she was teasing me until I remembered the camo leg braces. And noticed the camo lanyard around her neck.

So I gave her my hat. She says she's got the pants, now all she needs is a shirt.

But the exchange started up a conversation at that end of the table about how the Bible says that if somebody asks for your shirt, you have to give it to them.

So there.

It's funny how the Bible pops up in conversation now and then. More than at most church socials, I suspect.

***

The whole Not For Profit corp thing was a bit onerous last week. We had a meeting on Wednesday morning, and some press attention on Thursday. Local TV, one of the papers. And I went to another meeting on Friday morning to 'network'. Which was actually kind of good.

Sparked a few ideas. I met somebody I'd like to get together with for coffee and compare notes. And a representative of another organization who says we're welcome to read some of their documents and learn from them. Which would be really helpful.

Plus an extraordinary volume of emails going back and forth, some to one list of people, others to another list which, because of Conflict of Interest guidelines, must exclude certain people.

We're going to have to be careful of the corp. thing.

It was born out of the Dinner dynamic, which created friendships and understanding of and within a culture that's quite different from that of the rest of the town we live in. And that's a good thing.

And the purpose of the corp is to serve the needs discovered and defined by those relationships.

But... the corp has become the parent to its ancestor, if you know what I mean. On paper, at least, the Dinner people are under the aegis of the corp.

It would be really easy for the corp to start influencing the Dinner - the way we do things and why - instead of the other way around.

Plus, the corp can be very demanding and time consuming and high maintenance and fiddly and more than a bit exasperating. We've spent all of our time so far getting organized. Grants, insurance, bank accounts, job descriptions, filing this and filling in that and finding the right wording for the other. What are the rules for the provincial government? What are the rules for the funding body? What does common sense dictate? Do we have to vote on this? Or is a consensus enough? And what, exactly, are we going to do for these people?

(In my head, Bill S. Preston, esquire is saying "Most egregious, dude!")

I'm reading a book called, "When Helping Hurts" by Steve Corbett and Brian Fikkert. It's written to church folks who want to get involved in poverty, missions and cross cultural issues.

The chapter I'm in right now includes this story, told to a 'missions expert' by an African Christian friend:

Elephant and Mouse were best friends. One day Elephant said, "Mouse, let's have a party!" Animals gathered from far and near. They ate. They drank. They sang. And they danced. And nobody celebrated more and danced harder than Elephant. After the party was over, Elephant exclaimed, "Mouse, did you ever go to a better party? What a blast!" But Mouse did not answer. "Mouse, where are you?" Elephant called. He looked around for his friend, and then shrank back in horror. There at Elephant's feet lay Mouse. His little body was ground into the dirt. He had been smashed by the big feet of his exuberant friend, Elephant. "Sometimes, that is what it is like to do mission with you Americans, " the African storyteller commented. "It is like dancing with an Elephant."

We're going to have to watch that the corp doesn't dance all over the Dinner.

Especially not the scalloped potatoes.

r

Be Still My Beating Heart

2010-04-14T17:40:00.004-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, some of the team had an opportunity to attend a one day conference on mental health and addiction. It was organized by a church based group who work with and try to educate church people on these issues and the people living with them.

I went to two 'breakouts' - Addiction, and Spiritual Care of the Mentally Ill. Both very good and very helpful.

The Spiritual Care session started with the speaker asking us all to define the word "spiritual". The responses were really interesting.

"Being like Jesus". "Following God". "Showing kindness".

I whispered to my friend in the next chair, "Aren't these all kind of Sunday School answers?"

She frowned a bit and nodded.

The word "spiritual" doesn't mean to the rest of the world what it means to the church. We need to work on that. You can't meet people where they are, if you think they're someplace else.

During the session on addiction, there was some really interesting discussion. People sharing their experiences and their uncertainties.

How do you, as a follower of Jesus, relate to the addicted? The self destructive, trapped, deluded. The ones who hurt everybody around them by hurting themselves.

One woman, who works as a nurse in a neo-natal ICU described sitting for hours rocking and rocking and rocking a screaming baby who can't sleep because he was born addicted to crack and isn't getting any anymore. The pain she felt, the helplessness, the frustration. The disgust.

The question she asked was, "How can I love the parents of this baby? The Bible says we're to love everyone, but they come in, all worried and upset and all 'Oh my poor baby, I love him.' And I just want to tell them, 'Well you didn't love him enough to stop using while you were pregnant. Why should I feel sorry for you?' I know I should love them, but I can't. I just can't."

Powerful question.

How can I love them when I can't?

I was talking to somebody today and the name of a particular person came up. A person who used to be in a position of authority at the Motel. Who used that authority to manipulate and threaten and control and frighten. I won't get into all the details, but this is one extremely nasty piece of work. Who calls himself a Christian, but treats vulnerable people like bits of play dough he just scraped up out of the carpet.

I don't like him and can barely tolerate him. And I certainly can't love him.

I'm not sure I want to.

After all he's done to the people I care about, the harm he's done to them, the disrepute he's brought to the name of Jesus, the wedge he's driven between the Kingdom of Heaven and the poor in spirit.

I can't and I don't want to.

The closest I've been able to bring myself to anything approaching love for this man is a sort of unconvinced pity.

I suppose, I guess, maybe he's pathetic. Probably lonely, definitely in for a nasty surprise some day.

But, for the foreseeable future, that's it.

So I appreciated the answer that was given to the woman at the addiction seminar.

The instructor told her, "Then don't love those parents. If you can't, don't. That's not why you're there. You're there to love those babies. That's your passion. That's your calling. Do that."

For now, I'll take it.

r

Let Me See If I've Got This Right...

2010-04-07T20:00:00.008-04:00

Last night at Dinner was a first. Our first Muslim blessing. Just at our table. 'Cause we're special. But one of the regulars, who's a refugee from Iran, spoke a prayer over us all asking Allah to bless us. "Everybody except me," he said.

Afterwards we had a nice time of hanging out, chatting (can you remember what the 10 plagues were? No cheating), listening while SW played his guitar.

SW is a lovely man. He's taken to giving us all a big hug when he leaves. He's one who's missing quite a few teeth, and last night he was wearing lipstick and gold jewellery. An odd sort of glam.

We're not sure where he falls on the gender question. He might not be sure either. But we love him to bits. He sat at the head of the table, noodling away at "Eidelweiss", mumbling out the tune, and most of us picked it up and sang along what we could remember. The VonTrapps we ain't but it was a moment. SW wants to start a band. Sounds like fun.

I sat with W and her man again at Dinner. She wasn't feeling well.

She usually isn't feeling well. What with the cough, and the apnea, and the leg braces, and everything else.

They've had a rough week. She was nursing a sore head yesterday. They'd been to the big city to "undergo some tests" - both of them, he and she - and on the way home had stopped at a truck stop. She went into the washroom (restroom, for those of us south of the 49th). The floor was a bit wet, her footing's not good and she slipped and fell and whacked her head on the toilet. You can see the large scab through her short hair. She said she had a big bruise on her thigh, for which I took her word.

They're also dealing with some landlord trouble. They share an RGI apartment with an exceptionally large cat.

W's mattress got old, and she was given one by a local charity (who really should have known better and ought to apologize). A few days later she noticed she was getting bit and they discovered that her mattress was infested with bed bugs. They told the landlord, who called an exterminator.

When he arrived he was surprised to find that the landlord had moved the rest of their furniture out of their place (bad idea) and all that was left was the mattress in question.

He sprayed the place and came back a few days later for a follow up. Clean. Good.

Problem is, the landlord has decided to sue W for the cost of the exterminator.

Not only does she not have the money to pay the bill, or the money to hire a lawyer, it wasn't her fault. So she's pretty pissed off. Had quite a bit to say about the ultimate destination of the landlord and how soon he might find himself going there if she had her way. Fortunately, they've found another apartment and they'll be moving.

They're going to ask for representation from the Legal Help Centre. Which is the right thing to do.

In the meantime, there's the van. Vans.

They have two vans. The old one has windows that don't roll down, so they were happy to be able to get the new one. They love the new one. It works better than the old one, and the windows open.

However.

The old one is a '95. The new one is a '94.

Which means the old one is the newer one and the new one is the older one.

(With me so far?

Good.

Take notes if necessary.)

W and her man both use motor scooters. He has heart trouble and she has mobility issues. I see her sometimes scooting along the sidewalk delivering newspapers.

Problem is, the scooters are hard to get in the van, so they applied for and received approval from a local agency to have a ramp installed in the van.

Excellent.

But...

The approval was for the old van, which is the newer one. The new one, which is the older one, is too old to qualify. The agency won't install the ramp in the new (old) one, only in the old (new) one.

Further complicating things is the fact that the new (old) one and the old (new) one are only one model year apart. Which means that as of July first this year, the old (new) one will also be too old, just like the new (old) one.

So they've got to choose between having the ramp installed in the old (new) one - with windows that won't roll down - and not having it installed at all.

Feel free to go lie down in a dark room, now.

Can you imagine waking up to that every day? That's your life. These are the rules you're trying to play by. These are the tools you've got. Oh, and you've got to play without sleep and with wobbly ankles.

Of course, all their troubles - bedbugs, depression, worry - would go away if they'd just get a job and ask Jesus into their hearts.

Problem solved!

Next!

r

Ding Ding

2010-04-05T15:02:00.012-04:00

I started learning to play the piano 10 years ago, when I was 35. I'd just started 'leading worship' at the churchIusedtogoto.

The first thing I learned about leading worship is that before you can lead the congregation, you have to lead the band that's playing the music. You have to know the songs, understand the dynamics, have at least a basic clue about the different instruments and what they can do, not to mention the people playing them.

Being a singer trying to lead musicians was an intimidating thing. I felt like, yeah, I was leading the band, but I was leading them by pedalling off on my Schwinn Stingray, ringing the bell and asking them to fall in behind me on their big ol' Harley hogs.

So I had a lot to learn. And I started with the piano.

I'm kinda there again, these days. As I've mentioned, our Dinner group has sprouted a branch that's become an honest-to-goodness Not For Profit corporation, provincially registered. Our next step will be to pursue Charitable status, but we're not quite there yet.

And guess who is currently occupying the Chair? Really. Guess. Nope, guess again. Give up?

Me!

If I were the type of person who does things like including LOL in my writing, I would do that now. But I'd never do such a thing.

Nevertheless, I think it's hilarious. Here I am, back on my banana seat, pedalling away, followed by the rumble of 500 horsepower engines. Hoping I don't do anything stupid.

The members of this corporation are a fairly amazing bunch of people. All of them are either Dinner team people, or professionals working in various fields who've had a concern for some time about housing and health issues surrounding the marginalized in our area. Our little Dinner group has created an opportunity for these people to get involved in seeing something actually happen. Which is awesome.

They're way more smarter than I is.

One guy, whose name is Eddie, has been a huge help in getting things organized and functional. Eddie's moving away in the next few days, and we're really going to miss him.

He's a wonderful person, with a heart as big as a 12 unit supportive housing complex.

A little while back there was a foofaraw among his neighbours. The developer was going to expand the subdivision by adding some row houses. They'd cost less than the existing fully detached houses. Which some in the area assumed would attract - hm, how shall I put this? - less affluent purchasers. Which would lower the tone of the neighbourhood. Which would lessen the increase in property value of the existing homes. So they started making a fuss.

I asked Eddie whether he agreed with the opposition to the new development and he said, "No. Everybody has the right to be my neighbour."

You gotta love a guy who understands that increasing property value is not a right. It just means you're really really lucky.

Eddie describes himself as "somebody who gets involved and gets excited about things." But he's much more than that.

I was a bit challenged, getting to know him at our monthly corporation meetings. If my brain is a lava lamp, Eddie's is a spotlight. Capable of focusing first on one thing, and then another. He's someone who knows when things need to be clearly defined, and when they don't, and who'll persist when they do.

He drove me nuts for the first little while, making us vote on things, and make motions and second stuff and taking notes and asking for clarification so that the record was clear. He'd tell us not to act on emotion, but to make sure that we were not only doing things correctly, but documenting that we had.

For a lava lamp like myself, stuff like that can be eye-rolling maddening, but I've learned that it's necessary. You can't run a corporation by juggling blobs of good intention. There's a balance to be struck between the creativity, the passion - the "emotion" - and the rigors of following the rules laid down by the government for groups like ours.

When you get the right mix of lava lamps and spotlights, you can really get some stuff done. (If you don't strangle each other first. Tempting, but not productive.)

So I'm deeply grateful to have known Eddie. A man who's passionate, compassionate, humble, intelligent and fun. Who at the end of our last meeting, left us with the benediction, "God will always be with you when you do this kind of work." And who's happy to colour inside the lines, so some of us can scribble freely in the margins.

Happy trails, Eddie. And thank you so much.

r

Just In Case

2010-03-29T16:22:00.009-04:00

Our request to the local churches for new beds and bedding has had some interesting results. A handful of groups have gotten back to me, saying that they want to help and we should let them know exactly what's needed. (To which I say, "Yay, team!")

A couple of others have replied, "You should ask (major mattress retailer). They do that sort of thing."

K, guys. We're the CHURCH! WE do that sort of thing! Don't you make me come over there!

Meanwhile, just in case you have any delusions about small town life, here's part of an e-mail that one of our team wrote to the new owner after MH mentioned a little problem the work crew's having with the clean-up.

Hi

I just got some info from PARN, an organization that does outreach work related to drug use, and passed their advice along to [the foreman] by phone a few minutes ago. I will pass the same info to you as well.

Needles should be picked up only with kitchen tongs and placed inside a glass, metal or hard plastic container with a lid. Large coffee cans or 2 litre pop bottles work well. [the foreman] said that there were plenty of mason jars on hand. That will work. PARN also has sharps buckets that they can provide on site.

The next step is to store the container safely until it can be delivered to PARN for disposal. We can help with taking care of that.

They also offered that if you want advice on safe cleaning products, you can call for that information. AIDS doesn't have a long shelf life in these situations, they tell me, but Hepatitis C does.

Good luck

Can you say.... "Mayberry"?

I knew you could.

r

Good Meeting

2010-03-25T10:11:00.006-04:00

We had a good conversation with the new owner last night after Dinner.

Which, by the way, was a zoo. Definitely the largest number of people ever. You'd think we were advertising. Mind you, last night's Dinner was provided by the local Rotary club, so they may have told people.

I got a bit panicked when I saw the dessert they'd brought, and the number of people sitting at the tables. So I called a baker I know and she pulled all of her date squares from the shelf and put them in boxes. I drove over and got them. Put them on the tray with the cookies.

People love date squares. "Ooo, date squares!" "Hey, they got date squares!" "Date squares?" "I want some date squares!" "Look, date squares!" "Get me a date square!"

Exclamation marks all over the place! And crumbs!

Once we'd eaten, we went to the front of the main building to meet with MH. He's a nice guy, but all business. He says he's done 'restorations' like this before, and his father (who is his business partner) strongly feels that 'social housing' can be a functional part of what they are trying to build at the Motel.

So that's good.

Their priority is to get the restaurant end of things up and running and to sell wedding receptions, banquets and that sort of thing. Most of which don't happen on Wednesdays, so we're OK for the foreseeable future.

So that's good.

He's willing to let our group have some office space on the grounds so we can connect more immediately with the people we're working alongside.

So that's good.

His team, while they're finishing hauling away the 35 dumpsters of garbage (at $500 - $1000 each) left behind by the previous owners, are starting to 'turn over' the residents' rooms. Which means identifying what needs to be done - basic plumbing repairs, rewiring, replastering, painting - while beginning to reroof the middle section which has been uninhabitable for several years.

Which is good.

They've provided supplies - paint, plaster - to guys who want to fix their own rooms.

Which is even better.

He sees no reason why the property can't be divided visually in such a way that the affluent partiers can't enjoy their special occasions without the distraction of the residential component. (I worded that sentence very carefully. I'm terribly pleased with how it turned out.)

Which is also good, since it makes the long-term prospects of housing there much more hopeful.

One thing he's asked us to look out for is beds and bedding. OK, two things. Whatever.

He's not willing to buy everybody a new bed and won't provide furniture to the Motelians, but beds are needed. So we're asking community and church people to provide some.

Don't know how many, yet, but probably a bunch.

So things are going in a hopeful direction.

With the new management, residents seem to be less fearful, and so far they like the new owner. Drug traffic seems to be down with all of the activity and a greater degree of vigilance on the part of the work crew and owner.

Our new NFP corporation (did I mention that?) has received a grant that will allow us to hire someone to work 20 hours a week for the rest of the year, connecting people in need of resources or advocacy with what they need - ID, health care, transportation, other housing.

For me, the highlight of the meeting was hearing MH say that his goal for the Motel is to see the day when "child protective services won't automatically take away a kid because they live here."

Sounds good to me.

Exclamation mark!

r

Friends

2010-03-22T15:46:00.004-04:00

The Amazing J phoned yesterday to say that our friend with MS has found an apartment. She can afford the rent, it's in town, she can keep her cat, and it's not in bad shape. The apartment, not the cat. (J said she was thinking it needed painting. "It's a bit rundown. If it were my daughter..." But then the landlord told them he'd just painted it. So it's all relative.) The only hiccup is the last month's rent. They're going to see if any of the local agencies will cover that.

That would be awesome.

At the same time, we heard that W and her man might be losing their place. (The other week, W was grinning, showing off her new leg braces. Camo, baby. Camo.) I don't know why, but it's a problem. There's not a lot available locally. Apparently there's one more opening in the building J visited the other day, so maybe.

This morning, I was driving in the town next door and saw a former motelian walking with his son. The boy is probably going on 3; dad is in his early 20s, I think. The mother has moved back to the big city to live with her parents and the dad is doing his best to raise his son.

When the mom was pregnant, some of the team tried to connect her with a doctor, but she wasn't very good at showing up for appointments. When the baby was born, they had to move to somewhere else or the Children's Aid would have put him in foster care.

So they moved in with dad's parents. Then she left. For the next year and a half I'd see dad and son walking the streets of town, the little one in a wagon pulled by dad who had his guitar over his shoulder, heading off to busk somewhere.

Then, for some reason, he moved back into the Motel. Bad idea. 'They' came and took the boy.

Since then, dad's moved out and he seems to have his son back. Today they were heading downtown with dad, skinny and scruffy, pushing a stroller full of pudgy blond boy. I've never seen the boy walk anywhere. Just being pushed or pulled.

A young dad doing his best, a young mom who probably did the same, a little boy growing up.

It's tricky sometimes knowing how to be involved in the lives of marginalized people. How far to push, when to step back.

We've never had any training for any of this, but probably could have used some. Or at least advice.

There's one friend who is an ex-motelian. She moved out a while ago, and the friendship that had grown between her and some of the team has continued. She's a delightful person, warm and loveable, but even then - even when you're honest to goodness friends, enjoying each others' company as equals - things can get complicated.

This friend has a hard time saying no when people ask to 'borrow' money. So she lends too much and finds herself short near the end of the month. Needing groceries, or smokes.

So she'll vent to one of her friends on the team about how people suck when they borrow and don't pay you back.

So the team friend offers to lend her a bit, or buy her smokes or groceries.

She accepts the offer and promises to pay it back.

But she never does, because the same thing happens the next month.

Which is all difficult and complicated.

If I've got a lot more money than my friend, and my friend is in need, it's natural to want to help out. To lend, not necessarily expecting to get paid back.

The problem is that my friend is very bitter toward some other people who owe her. She says that people who borrow and don't repay suck.

Except that I've just put her in the same position. I've turned her into one of those people she despises. Someone who borrows and doesn't pay back.

But if I don't she goes hungry.

So what do you do?

We've always had a policy of sorts that we don't give anybody cash. It's a difficult one to live with, sometimes, but it's necessary. Or things get weird fast.

If a friend in need is a friend indeed, how do you define 'friend'? Somebody who gives you stuff? Or somebody who empathizes but keeps their wallet in their pocket?

Is it friendship to let somebody go hungry? Is it friendship to put somebody in a position where they're making promises you both know they can't keep?

We can't pretend that there isn't a have/have not dichotomy. We can't pretend to not have more when, clearly, we do.

I don't know. It's an unresolved issue that defeats any rules we'd like to make.

We're still working on it.

r

Navel Gazing

2010-03-17T18:41:00.020-04:00

I'm reading a book right now called Introverts in The Church by Adam S. McHugh. McHugh is a pastor and a self identified introvert who has struggled with the American-extrovert personality of so much of the Church.

It's a very cool read for someone like myself. We've grown up in the church being told, explicitly and implicitly, that to be introverted is at best a character flaw and at worst a sin.

It's refreshing to read a book that takes us seriously, as a group of people whose brains are hardwired differently from those of the majority, with strengths and weaknesses, beauty and pitfalls.

Especially after the latest chapter in my adventures with the churchIusedtogoto.

If you haven't been following the story, I used to be a volunteer worship team leader there and got fired by a pastor with whom I'd had some philosophical differences. He and I are friends again, both of us now being ex- of the aforementioned church.

But at the time, and since, I've mourned the loss of that ministry. Leading worship in a congregation is something I love love love doing. I told someone lately that losing it was like losing a finger. Especially since it ended so abruptly with no chance to say goodbye.

So I took a risk recently. I got in touch with the people at the churchIusedtogoto who are in charge of these things and asked them whether I could come back one time. Just once, to have a chance to stand in that space once more, to lead worship with a bunch of people I care about, and to close the door for myself.

They said they wanted to have a meeting and "discuss this." Which is never good.

But I said ok and one evening the three of us sat down to "discuss this."

I wasn't optimistic. I've known enough people who've been alienated from churches to know that you just don't try to go back. You just don't. Because it hurts.

One time a few years ago, I got a call from a woman who's the wife of a former pastor of another church in town. Their time there had ended very stressfully and he'd been fired. But she had founded the local chapter of a national prayer group and they were having their annual shindig. Guess where. She couldn't bring herself to walk into that building alone after what they'd been through and just wanted somebody to go with her. I said sure. She met me in the parking lot and we went in together. Those kinds of forays are tremendously difficult for the wounded.

Lately I've heard a couple of preachers say that "You don't have to forgive a church that hurt you. You have to forgive the particular individuals in the church who hurt you."

They're wrong. Completely wrong.

Anyway, my meeting at the churchIusedtogoto was cordial. The answer was no. Or rather, "Maybe someday."

Maybe someday. These are obviously people who've never read Proverbs 13:12.

The condition they set on the "maybe" was this: That there are people at the churchIusedtogoto who don't know who I am. People who would wonder, if they saw me at the piano, "Who is that?" And their policy is that "We don't have guest worship leaders."

That's it. That's the reason. Not that I've failed morally. Not that I'm a bad example. Not that I'm incompetent or dangerous. Not that I'm a communist, or a heretic, or I dress funny. Just that somebody might not know who I am.

And their solution to this "problem" was that I should attend the church regularly, spend time after the services talking to people, shaking hands, chatting, getting to know folks and to be known.

Then, once I'd built these "relationships", then "maybe someday."

As I said, I'm an introvert. I think about things. I use my brain to ask myself questions. People say things and I actually listen, and then give them thought.

I thought about this. And decided it was bumph.

After a few days, I wrote them back. In part:

I respect your answer, and won't pursue the question anymore, in spite of the fact that I really don't believe I was asking for much. Just one Sunday.

But your reason for saying no was so absurd. There are people there who don't know me. You don't have guest worship leaders.

All through school, children show up in the morning, occasionally to discover that they have a substitute teacher. People turn on the Tonight Show to find that the host is away and there is a guest host. The evening news anchor goes away for a few days and his seat is filled by a guest anchor. Just the other week, you had a guest speaker as churches do all the time.

And you'd ask me to believe that your congregation is so simple minded that they wouldn't be able to cope with a guest worship leader. It's almost funny, if it weren't pathetic.

I don't know what you think you're protecting them from, but if you treat your congregation like simpletons, don't expect them to challenge themselves.

Not my most diplomatic, but I figured, hell, the bridge is on fire. What have I got to lose?

(Yes, I know I said hell. See above.)

There might be a few things at play in their response.

First, this is a church that had a burst of progressiveness in the 80's and then just stopped. Since then the leadership has become dominated by policy wonks who seem to be always looking for one more loose end to tie down.

Second, we 'worship leaders' have been done a grave disservice over the last couple of decades by being given an exaggerated sense of our own importance. We're told that we're 'leading people into God's presence', that we're 'temple musicans' and stuff like that. Rather than that we are just one part of the body of Christ, whose diverse giftings are all of equal value and sacredness.

Which is all another post for another blog.

But reading McHugh's book has given me the language to better define the vehemence of part of my antipathy to their reasoning.

McHugh points out that, since we introverts usually struggle with social interaction, we find our ways into community by different paths than extroverts and normal people do.

He makes me smile when he describes the hellishness of "unstructured social events", and writes of a man who leaves church a few minutes before the service ends to avoid "the agony of the fellowship hour". I love that phrase. It warms the cockles of my contemplative heart.

Those of us who can't function in the schmooze and chat world of North American evangelicalism connect with their churches through the roles they find to fill. Having a place to step into when you get there is a tremendously valuable thing. It's a piece of ground from which to meet just one or two people at a time, to find like minded friends and to, yes, build real relationships, not ersatz hi-how-are-you-fine ones.

To insist that one of us has to run the gauntlet of coffee time in order to reach that place, is cruel and unusual punishment. Like telling you that you have to park your car a mile downhill from your house. If you want to go home at the end of the day, you have to sweat for it.

Screw that. Guess I'll have to make do with one less finger.

Which might be just as well.

r

Son Of The Leak

2010-03-15T15:17:00.009-04:00

Lamest horror movie ever.

But still a nightmare for some of us.

Got a call from CL yesterday. We've had a lot of rain lately and The Leak has returned.

It's a very clever and malicious leak, with a knack for finding the sickest person, the one who's in the worst shape, and dripping on their head.

Since last spring, E has moved out of the first room in the row and has a RGI apartment someplace else in town. She was able to navigate the waiting list quickly because while she was in the hospital in the town to the north, she was evicted from the motel for not paying her rent. Which made her homeless, effective when she was released.

She got a day pass to come back here and supervise while a bunch of us cleared out her room and divied up her stuff to store until she needed it, then checked herself back into the ward for a little longer. So she's escaped the wily ways of The Leak.

You'd expect any ordinary leak to drip in the same place it had dripped before. But no. Not this one.

This one knew somehow that in the 4th room in the row, was Q. She's got Crohn's disease and has good days and bad days. Has to be very careful what she eats. Not easy on government assistance and foodbank fare.

The Leak knew this, and has made Q's roof his home. So she's got 6 or 7 buckets strategically placed, catching the water.

CL tried to contact the new owner to get him to address this, but couldn't get in touch. She drafted a young guy who lives at the Motel to climb up on the roof and at least shovel off the water. While he was setting up the ladder, one of the guys who works for the new owner told him no way. No one is allowed on the roof under any circumstances. Understandable, but problematic.

CL's upset with the new owner. She says this section of roof should have been his first priority. Before the cleanup, before the dumpsters, before the tower. He should have had that roof fixed.

But I'm afraid she's saying this out of a pitbull optimism that believes he wants these people living there. That when those rooms are repaired, it's going to be so that CL and Q and the rest have better places to live.

Rather than so that well heeled visitors to town have a nice place to stay for a few days. And I'm afraid she's wrong.

Meanwhile, as Doctor Who says, "Water always wins."

r

No, No, No!

2010-03-10T22:23:00.011-05:00

We had an impromptu meeting after Dinner tonight. A few items of business to discuss.

And not the fun kind of business. Problems from several different directions.

I'd already had a difficult week. Tried to rebuild a bridge that had been torn down a couple of years ago. Had a long conversation with the principals, and realized that my bridge was being dismantled from the other side of the gap as fast as I could glue the sticks together. Left me feeling sad and deflated. It takes an awful lot of energy and courage-summing-up to reach out like that and when it fails, it takes a while to recover.

Which is why I was hoping for an evening like last week.

Last week, once most of the people had gone, a half dozen or so of us hung around while three women took in hand a big pink teddy bear that's been living among the donations. He's been there for months and nobody seems to have need of such a critter. So they decided he ought to at least get dressed. A few of us watched while these women in their 50's and north laughed and dug through boxes and piles of stuff to find a straw hat, a purple scarf, a toque, a t-shirt, a pair of shorts, some rubber boots and a pair of gloves and giggled like kids dressing up the pudgy pink dude.

The rest of us chatted and relaxed and SW serenaded us on the poor old piano. He even gave me a hug before I left.

Mr. Bear was still dressed that way this week, presiding benignly over everything, propped up on a coffee table at the other end of the room. Nice work if you can get it.

Last week was the last week under the old ownership. Since then, CL's had her keys taken and a team of young men has moved into the main house while they work at cleaning up the place. CL figures there've been 7 or 8 dumpsters taken away full of furniture even the poor didn't want. The swimming pool's almost empty as are the old cabins. The tower and base are all cleared out (a lot of that was clothing) and the rooms with caved in-roofs are getting the same treatment.

Our space is unchanged so far (except for the locks). There was a rumour that we'd have running water this week, but it hasn't panned out.

One of many rumours. The old manager collected the rents for March and skipped town. The new manager told everybody that the first month's rent was free. They're kicking everybody out. They're letting everybody stay.

Which was part of what we discussed at our meeting. A bit of a people problem. We've got one regular at Dinner, BC, who's a gossip. And when he's telling you something, he's so engaged in what he's saying that you think it might just be true.

A few weeks ago, BC got one of the other regulars kicked out of the food bank. Told the person on duty that the other guy was cheating and the volunteer believed the tattler rather than the defendant. Of course, when you're standing in line at the food bank, you're presumed guilty to start with.

More recently he went to a soup kitchen being run by one of our Dinner providing churches and told the pastor that Dinners were canceled and there would be no more meals. He's also apparently been through the population of the motel, informing them that they'd better get out because the place is coming down.

He's causing a fair bit of anxiety among the residents, which brought us to the question of what to do. CL has already told him off, using some "swearwords I didn't know I knew." It didn't help. So one of us is going to try a private conversation and see where that gets us.

If it doesn't help, we'll be looking at some kind of discipline. I'm extremely reluctant to ever tell anyone that they can't come to Dinner. We've had some nasty behaviour over the years and it's never come to that. Threats once or twice, but not actually having to do it. When people are that marginalized, I can't imagine kicking them out of what community they've got. Especially when they're not particularly liked in the first place. That just makes it seem worse.

One alternate suggestion was to make him go to the back of the dessert line. I liked the sound of that. Partly because it demonstrates two things: how well we know this guy (he'd probably cry), and the power of butterscotch.

The second item on the agenda was take-outs. We've always had take outs. From day one. I can still see in my mind one guy who, every week, would scurry in the door, fill his pockets (literally) with anything that looked like fruit or cookies, and run back out again.

We've had people who had to leave for work, people who weren't home from work yet, people who were sick. And take outs were fine for those situations.

The problem is when somebody wants Dinner, but can't be bothered coming to get it themselves. Often it's at the beginning of the month when there's still money left, and somebody's having a party in their room. Half a dozen friends sharing what they bought when the cheques came and it occurs to them that it's Dinner time.

So we'll see one person come in, fill a couple of plates and leave. Then come back a few minutes later and do the same thing.

And again when dessert is served.

It gets noticed by everybody that's hoping there'll be leftovers to take home for tomorrow. And it's resented.

Which leaves us needing to have a chat with somebody, or put up a sign, or make an announcement.

The final thing we talked about tonight was how we can better help our church groups understand the dynamic we work within.

I've mentioned this before, but it continues to be a surprisingly big stumbling block. The simple idea that you're not there to stand behind the table and serve. You're there to provide the meal, set it up, then move out of the way so people can move down both sides of the serving table and fill their own plates. By which time you should be standing in line chatting, filling your own plate and finding a seat. Not hovering on the wrong side of the table.

But, more with some groups than others, we get little clusters of people standing behind the table holding serving spoons. Supervising, watching, analyzing. Missing the point.

It's one of those "vision leaks" things. We have to keep reminding, reinforcing, pushing the point. It's about dignity, equality, sharing.

Maybe it's the Protestant work ethic. Maybe it's discomfort at being among the different. Maybe it's a need to control resources. Maybe they're afraid they'll be mugged. Whatever it is, we've got a few ideas about pushing back against it. Gently. Humbly. But firmly.

And if we fail, maybe Mr. Bear can sort them all out.

r

Clapping Along

2010-03-01T14:45:00.010-05:00

I had a rather fun weekend. I went to PowerUp 2010, a music workshop and choir bootcamp.

The highlight of the weekend was the opportunity for all of we Tremaine Hawkins wannabes to sing elbow to elbow with the fabulous Toronto Mass Choir ( a very talented and gracious bunch) under the leadership of Karen Burke, a woman who really knows what she's doing, what she wants from you and how to get it, all the while wearing warmth and a smile.

Our concert Sunday evening was hosted, in a way, by the Abilities Church. One of the presenters during the evening was the church's music pastor who is visually impaired. He belted out an impressive rendition of "I Can Only Imagine", with the mic in one hand and his white cane in the other.

While he was singing, a small group of people off to my left started clapping along. Rather quietly, a bit restrained. Clapping along in time. I joined them, not really sure why. It's a slower song, not the kind that gets people clapping, usually. Not Canadians, anyway.

But after a few bars I realized. When I'm standing on a platform singing, I can see the faces of the audience. I can see whether they're with me or not. Whether they're engaged. And that's a source of energy. A performer feeds off the energy of the audience to strengthen and deepen their presentation.

But a blind soloist can't do that. He'd be singing to invisible people.

So clapping along would let him know that we were there, and we were listening. With him.

I liked that.

Over the weekend, closer to home, there was a meeting of people interested in the housing issues for people like those who live at the Motel. The meeting was hosted by our brand new just born Not For Profit Corporation, which is loosely named after the motel, since we assume that the new owners will change the name in order to distance themselves from the locals' preconceptions about what goes on there.

(I missed the meeting because I was busy eating jerk chicken and singing gospel music with wonderful people.)

So the meeting on Friday afternoon was a brainstorming session, open to anyone interested in housing, health care and resource access issues specifically as they relate to those who are "difficult to house", as well as an invitation having been given to the Motelians.

One Motelian showed up for the chinwag. Another woman would have, but said she was too nervous about "getting on the bad side of the new owners." I'm sure there were others in the same boat. We've run into this before.

"Sure, those Dinner folks are nice enough, and they mean well, but what if they do something that pisses off the owners? And what if the owners think I'm their friend? They'll kick me out, and I'll have no place to go."

They've seen what happens to people who stick their necks out and they've only got one neck, so they won't risk it.

But in this case, while righteous anger is a tempting indulgence, we're going out of our way to communicate to the new owners that we're not going to be troublemakers, those pain in the butt activists who get up your nose. (Never let it be said I couldn't mix a good metaphor.)

One of us wrote to the new owners,

While the residents of [the Motel] are not our sole focus (they are aware of our group), finding and offering solutions to them is a priority. Having said that, I should also make it clear that we don't, in any way, 'represent' or speak on behalf of the residents of the motel. We see ourselves as assisting individuals toward healthier and more secure living situations.

The new owners have made it clear that anything that smells like a tenants' rights group is going to be a deal breaker, and they won't tolerate it.

Which, on one hand is deeply objectionable. But on the other hand, it's understandable. They didn't want to be landlords in the first place and they're only talking to us out of basic human decency.

The future, for us, begins this week when the sale is completed and the name on the deed changes. The new owners tell us that they'll have a team of people move in on day one to start the 'clean up'. There'll be a conga line of dumpster trucks on their way to the 'landfill' taking away all of the old mattresses from the swimming pool and the damaged furniture, old TVs and whatever all else.

Here are a couple of shots I took of the swimming pool space. Note the classy chandelier and the skylights. And consider that this is half of the room. It's filled end to end a good 5 feet high, and it goes down 3 - 10 feet.

Click on the picture for a better view, and if you see anything you want, let me know before Wednesday.

What happens to Dinners is still indefinite, though we haven't been told to stop and we've promised the Motelians that we'll keep showing up as long as there's an open door.

And our flock of church ladies and men who've been cooking meals for the last few months are ready to keep on keeping on as long as the Amazing J. keeps scheduling them.

A couple of guys from the corp. team are going to design a

list of questions to identify obstacles that we can use to help determine what help a person needs. Like, Do you have ID? Do you have health care? Have you applied for affordable housing? etc.

That info will help us understand where to start and what needs to be done.

Keep praying for us, that we'll be wise. That we'll know when to shout and when to whisper. That we won't forget why we're there.

Further bulletins as events warrant.

r

Gifts

2010-02-24T21:10:00.010-05:00

The first thing I saw when I walked into the room for Dinner tonight was a baby. 4 days old. A tiny little button, all wrapped up in a blue blanket and his dad's arms. Lots of admirers, oohing and cooing. Lovely. The mom and dad live at the Motel and Children's Aid has given them a few weeks to move out. They've been given priority by the social housing folks, and should be in a new home in the town next door by the middle of the month. Otherwise the little blue button will be in someone else's arms.

Children's Aid simply won't let kids live there anymore. Which is probably good.

CL told me all of this while we ate.

I said, "You get enough bad apples coming through, that kids really shouldn't be living here."

She agreed. Told me about a guy who'd just moved out. Into a room with barred windows downtown.

When she went in to clean his room, she found some needles on the the kitchen counter. She called the cops and they told her not to touch them. Not to touch anything. To lock the door and wait until they could send someone.

The someone came and went through the room. Found half a dozen more needles. He told CL he knew how to search a room, knew what he was looking for. Knew how to search a sofa without sticking his hand down anywhere he couldn't see.

Our group has been given the chance to partner with the local health care centre in working on establishing a 'street health' program. We're glad to have them because we don't have the expertise, and they're glad to have us because we're a bridge to the people who they want to reach out to with things like foot care, med management and harm reduction. The latter would partly involve needle exchange and possibly providing people with crack pipes of their own rather than sharing them, which can lead to the spread of Hep-C and HIV through cracked or bleeding lips.

Things are changing at the Motel. The manager has moved out of his apartment in the main building. He's still living in the area and still works for the Motel, in charge of collecting rents. CL is responsible for day to day stuff.

Last week the old manager paid us a visit during Dinner and told people that if there was anything among the 'donations' that they wanted, they should get it now or the new owners would dumpster it. A few people rummaged through the piles of clothing and dishes and old books and took what they wanted. SW took a purse for himself and was showing clothes to some of the women, saying, "This would fit you."

One thing that hasn't found a home yet is the waterbed. I love the waterbed. I think it's got to be the most marvelously useless thing anybody's donated to us. And that includes the salon chair which looks like this, except ours is so much cooler. It's yellow and has an ashtray built into the arm rest. Yes. An ashtray.

But the waterbed. What on earth? What's anybody going to do with a waterbed? If someone took it to their room, set it up on the poor old plywood floor and filled it, they'd end up in the crawlspace underneath with the cats and the spiders and the sewer gas.

Although, a couple of guys were saying that if you cut it up the right way, it would make a decent tarp. So there you go.

Dinner tonight was a bit tight. Enough of most things for everyone to have firsts, but no extra.

I'm deeply grateful for the partnership of our church groups in providing meals, but I wonder sometimes whether they really understand the situation.

Last week I overheard a snippet of conversation between two men. The group had brought a very good meal - meat and potatoes and veggies and salad.

The two men had watched the diners go down the table and serve themselves as they always do. And, like tonight, there had been just barely enough meat to go around.

One man said to the other, "There's got to be a way to keep them from taking so much meat."

I didn't say anything then, but I wonder whether it occurred to those men that this Wednesday's meal is, for most of these guys, the first meat and potatoes meal they've had since last Wednesday.

That they don't have chicken on Thursday, fish on Friday, lasagna on Saturday, roast beef on Sunday, chicken on Monday and sausages on Tuesday plus eggs for breakfast.

This is it. The only solid meal anybody cooks for them all week.

A few weeks ago, when we handed out the care packages put together by several church groups, one man at first said no thanks, he didn't want one. But once everybody else had theirs and there were a few left, he asked whether he could just take a loaf of bread. We said "Of course" and tried to get him to take the rest of the stuff in the bag as well. Pasta, sauce, canned stew, canned veg.

He said no thanks, just the bread. But then he saw a can of tuna. Said he'd take that. He could make sandwiches.

Well, we said, why not the rest of the stuff?

He said, "I've got no way to cook it." No stove, no microwave, no hot plate, no toaster oven.

Just sandwiches.

So we gave him a couple of loaves and an extra can of devilled ham and he was happy.

And we wonder why he takes so much meat.

r

You Have Got To Be Kidding Me

2010-02-24T09:54:00.004-05:00

My husband's business is the local Christian bookstore. We sell Bibles, music, books. Some giftware. Most of our customers are of the evangelical persuasion, but occasionally someone Catholic comes in looking for a particular item.

We personally don't use, wouldn't know how to really, a rosary or the deuterocanonicals but lots of people do, and it's a small town, so we try to keep a few of these things in stock.

We also carry crucifixes. Little ones on chains, big ones to hang on the wall. Growing up Pentecostal, I was always taught that crucifixes were, if not actually wrong, misguided things. You see, Jesus isn't still on the cross. And to portray him as such was to belittle his victory over death. To miss the point.

Since then, I've come to appreciate the image. Not to dwell on, but to be reminded.

So the other day we went to a Catholic supplier in Toronto to restock our supply of crucifixes. It's a very interesting store - so different from ours - and we poked around for a while, eavesdropped on the staff complaining about one of their suppliers who is also one of ours, admired the prints from the St. John's Bible, then picked up our purchase from the wholesale office and left.

When we got home, my husband needed to put price stickers on each of the half dozen that we'd bought, so he took them out of their white boxboard boxes.

When he opened one of them, something fell out and onto the kitchen floor. A tiny brass coloured nail. We figured it was for hanging the cross on the wall.

But no.

On closer examination, one of Jesus' hands was missing the nail that should have been holding it to the wood. There was a tiny perfect round hole in the middle of his right palm. And a tiny perfect brass nail lying in mine.

Um, yeah. Now what?

After some brief discussion, it was decided that I, as designated tool person in our house, should go get a hammer and put the thing back.

I should hammer the nail back into Jesus' hand.

What? Seriously? No way. Really? I don't want to hammer the nail into his hand. What am I, a lame sermon illustration?

Either that, or we drive all the way back to TO to exchange it for another one.

I was kind of hoping the hammer would be missing. No such luck.

So I sat at the dining room table and nailed Jesus to the cross.

Once the nail was in place, the tension of the arm being held down caused the other one to pop out. So I nailed that one, too.

If I get struck by lightning, you'll know why.

r

Torch Bearer

2010-02-15T11:58:00.009-05:00

This week was one of those weeks when I wished I'd brought my camera. You'd think I'd learn.

But there's a part of me that still worries it might get stolen. It's been a long time since I've been nervous or scared going to the Motel, but there are a lot of people there I don't know. And some I know a little too well. Some I know need money for things I'd rather not be involuntarily funding.

There are people who other people don't like to invite into their rooms because you know that when they leave, something will have left with them, even if it's just the handful of change on the table, or a couple of empties.

There are some people who aren't to be trusted near your lighter. If you're smoking crack, you need a lot of flame, so you need a lot of lighters.

There are people who are not to be trusted if they show up at your door, even if they bring a case of beer. Especially if they bring a case of beer. Especially if you've just got your cheque. 'Cause that case of beer can be a good investment. 'Cause if you're the right kind of person - tender-hearted, enabling, afraid of being friendless - and you've had a few beers, all of a sudden you're an ATM.

I walked into the 'church' Wednesday night, and SW was sitting at the piano playing away. Some old hymns. And across the room waiting for serving to start was a couple who lived with him for a while. They were desperate, having been kicked out of the Motel yet again, and he has a kind heart and he took them in. When they eventually moved out, so did a bunch of his power tools and half a dozen musical instruments.

At another table sat a woman, chatting with a guy who's ripped her off so many times in the past that you wonder they're still talking. But she forgives him because she's fond of him. He's very charming, and about the same age as her son.

So, I err on the side of caution with my camera.

This week the place was packed. Shoulda counted. Didn't. But I've no doubt we set a record.

A few old faces have returned. One of whom is Lovey, along with her man. He wasn't looking well. Kind of puffy and flushed.

But she was her usual brilliant self. She's got a job at the local McD, cleaning and organizing and such. She was glowing, talking about it. Seems quite happy. Which is good. The last thing I heard about her was that she was living with another woman while her man faced charges. Something about her being burned and locked in a closet.

The charges were dropped and they're back together.

CL and I got talking about how many people were there that night. She knows we've had the chance to talk to the prospective buyers, and that we're trying to connect with them again.

She said to me, "You've got to tell them that we need this. Look at all these people. We need this."

I promised I'd tell them, if I get the chance.

For some reason, it reminded me of the night the Olympic torch relay went through town. The route took them right past the Motel, so I drove over there figuring to watch the parade with some of the Motelians.

To get there from my house, I drove past the fire station whose parking lot was full of partiers, then past the grocery store - same deal. Hundreds of people packed together drinking hot chocolate and coffee and waving flags and laughing. Drove another block to the Motel parking lot and it was completely empty. Dead.

So I sat in my car and phoned CL. Asked her if she wanted to see the torch go by. She said she was too tired to go anywhere. I said, "It's going right by your front door." Told her where I was.

Heard through the phone her door creaking open as she looked out and said, "Oh, I see your car!" and told the dogs to shut up and get back inside.

She hung up to put on her coat.

In the time it took her to get ready and walk over to where I was, the first truck came by. A major soft drink company. Handing out a cheap LED battery operated light-up replica of one of their bottles, and a small sample in a 'collectible' bottle. I was standing there alone in the dark on the far side of the sidewalk from the road watching the happy dancing people on the truck.

One of the guys got off the truck, walked over to me, handed me their giveaways, slapped me on the shoulder and climbed back on board. Half a block away, I saw the truck stop as a crowd of people rushed up beside it reaching out for theirs. Guess that's what I was supposed to do.

I wondered what my benefactor thought of me standing alone in the dark parking lot of a scary Motel. I liked him for stepping out like that. And put the light and the drink in my pockets.

By that time CL had joined me and was quite excited by the whole thing. It did look impressive, coming up the street, the music booming and the police cars and everything.

She turned and looked up the street where the truck had got to and asked what they were giving away. I took the light out of my pocket and gave it to her.

She thought that was great, especially when she realized it was changing colours.

We stood together shivering and watched the torch bearer jog past, grinning and waving. Stepped out of the way so the ones running alongside on the sidewalk had a clear path. Saw the video link camera, the laptops showing a map of the route, the people in the van who'd be running later.

And when the show was over, I watched CL walk back across the dark parking lot to her room, the glowing LED bottle in her hand going red and blue and green.

I pictured her opening her door, yelling at the dogs to shut up and get down and finding a place to put her new souvenir.

I was really really glad I'd phoned her. She was the only person at the Motel to come out and see the show. Either the rest didn't know, or didn't care.

Or maybe nobody phoned them to say, "Hey, come on. There's something worth seeing out here."

Maybe they didn't want to be the one standing alone in the parking lot in the dark while the party went by.

There's a lot of aloneness at the Motel. But every now and then you get the chance to put your arm around someone and say, "Let's do this together."

Right now, some of the team are doing that with G. They were able to find out, somehow, that R. was sent from the hospital where he died, to the local mortician as an "unclaimed body." So he was buried at Union Cemetery in the town next door. They went there and talked to the manager who looked in his book and told them where the plot was. They went to the unmarked mound and took a picture to make it easier to find again later if G. wants to go there. And they're talking to him about putting together some kind of memorial of R.

Standing in the dark. Together.

r

Preach It

2010-01-30T09:45:00.014-05:00

Still no announcement. Still waiting.

A young woman who'd moved out of the Motel, oh - months and months ago - has moved back. She'd moved out with her man and moved back alone, with a diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis. Not good. She's very depressed at having to live there again and desperately wants out.

The Amazing J. took her apartment hunting in town and talked to the manager of one building that has a vacancy. The question of first and last months' rent is always an obstacle, but not an insurmountable one. There is help available for that. But when they asked about pets, the manager said, "No pets. Period."

Which is not legal. Landlords are not permitted to make that rule. Legally. Officially. Look it up.

But they do, of course. Because laws only work to a certain point. Then people get clever and they do what they want. Not only the marginalized, but the 'respectable', too.

Legality aside, when our friend heard the landlord say this, she had a bit of a melt down. Something along the lines of "I had to give up all my children, there's no way in hell I'm giving up my cats." So J. took her home.

So unfair.

They'll keep trying.

Speaking of trying, G was never given any information by R's family about a funeral or anything. He's got no contact information for them and they haven't been in touch.

So J called the local funeral home and said that she knew they couldn't really tell her anything, but explained the situation and asked if there was anything at all they could give away. She was put on hold, and when the woman came back on the line, she said that there had been no funeral.

Which probably means R was cremated. But not necessarily. G would really like to know at least where he's buried, so some of the team are working on that.

Now on one hand, if I were feeling particularly charitable, I might find it within myself to say that there are probably lots of families out there who wouldn't know quite what to do with Grandpa's boyfriend.

But I'm not feeling charitable. I think it's just rotten and it makes me mad.

So unfair.

Last week I was one of several local artists performing at a coffee house fundraiser. The beneficiary of the evening was the food bank, so of course I'm there.

The evening featured a "local celebrity" and about half a dozen lesser lights, like myself. It was a really cool mix of music. Standards and original music, countryish, folkish, acapella, guitar and uke (guess who?).

I particularly enjoyed the acapella duet. Lovely harmonies. Creative. Different.

Another thing I liked was a song written by a guy who goes to the church I used to go to. He'd written it out of some verses in Malachi (these ones, if I've got it right).

That theme, the idea of looking out for "the widow and the orphan and the foreigner among you" recurs in scripture over and over and over. The commandment to "act justly, love mercy and walk humbly". The principle of providing for those in your community who have neither income nor inheritance.

Thinking about these verses, listening to that song, I was struck by something.

Several people during the evening had used the phrase "good cause."

Supporting the food bank is a good cause. We should do this again in a couple of months to raise some money for Haiti because that's a good cause. Let's give because this is a good cause.

A good cause. It almost sounds optional, doesn't it?

We look at it and decide that, yes, it's a good cause. It's worth supporting. Other things are not, but this is. So we'll support it.

As if we have a choice.

As if it's somehow not part of our DNA, our roots, our guts, our selves.

As if we haven't been repeatedly commanded to do it.

As if somehow we could possibly not support the food bank, or the people of Haiti, or Darfur, or isolated Native communities, or east side Vancouver.

As if we have the right to keep the extra that we have when others are so terribly in need. Of food, of medicine, of building materials, of shelter, of hope.

As if.

And who better to remind us of this than songwriters. Singers. Dramatists. Poets.

The prophets among us.

Sing it. Write it. Preach it.

The widows - those who are alone, trying to meet their obligations, with no way to earn a living.

The orphans - those who are abandoned and lost, with no guidance and no inheritance.

The foreigners - refugees, dispossessed, new immigrants.

They need us.

r

What Should I Do? Signed, Perplexed in Poughkeepsie

2010-01-21T19:41:00.010-05:00

I sat with W and her man last night, beside him, across from her. Right before dessert, he went out for a smoke and some nitro, and W and I had a nice time chatting, until she started to cough.

I've seen her cough before, and it always scares the crap out of me.

It starts small, and gets bigger. The air goes out and out and out and out and none seems to go in to replace it. Her lips are sealed tight, good manners I suppose, and her whole body clenches and shakes. She tucks her chin close to her chest and gets a distressed look on her face.

The only sound her coughing makes is in her chest. You can hear the plosive wheezing as the air gets forced out and she braces herself with both hands on the table. Her face seems to swell and turns darker and darker and darker. I'd put good money on it that, unless you work in emergency services, you've never seen anybody turn that colour. I don't even know if it's got a name.

I'm sitting across from her, hoping she doesn't black out because there are people sitting between where I am and where she is and I don't think I can get there in time to keep her from hitting the floor full force.

She fixes her eyes on mine, coughing and coughing and coughing, like she wants to say something and fumbles for her styro cup.

"Do you want some juice?"

She manages a fraction of a nod.

"What kind?"

She mouths, "Purple."

I go to the juice table and grab the carton. "This one?"

She nods again.

I pour her some juice and she takes a shot at sipping it. It seems to help. Not sure why. But finally she's able to breathe and she relaxes and her colour goes back to normal

The first time I saw this happen, her hubby was with us. A couple of other people became very concerned that she might be choking and the word 'Heimlich' was mentioned. Somebody started patting her on the back and she twisted in her seat enough to wave them away. She doesn't like being patted on the back.

And in all this her hubby, with perfect aplomb, said, "She does that."

Oh. OK. I guess it's alright then.

* * * * *

A while ago, my husband and I were having lunch with a guy.

We talked a little bit about the Motel and some of the people who live there.

He said, "Maybe you can give me some advice."

He said that his church, a fairly typical evangelical church in a pretty ordinary city, has a recent problem.

They want to be able to 'reach out' to the marginalized people living on the streets in their neighbourhood. But one of these guys has started coming to Sunday morning services. Actually coming. Every week. Sitting in a pew, listening to the sermon and the music.

He looks like a street person, shaggy and rough and patched. Probably smells a bit like one, too. But that's not the problem.

The problem is that after every service, while people are milling about in the lobby having coffee and talking, this man starts working the crowd. Going from person to person, group to group, asking for money.

It makes people extremely uncomfortable. They don't want to say no. Some do and some don't. But, he said, "People shouldn't have to be in that position."

So our friend wondered whether I had any suggestions as to how to handle this situation.

I have to admit I don't have a good answer. It's a tough one.

I mean, if you want to reach out to the homeless and there's one in your lobby, it's a pretty easy reach, isn't it?

On the other hand, you don't want to be squeegied in your own church. And a lot of respectable, well-meaning folks find the marginalized intimidating.

So - the best I could say is this:

Don't give him money. Giving him money creates a relationship that's not natural or sustainable. It's not friendship, it's not love and it's not solving this man's problems.

Rather, recruit a few willing souls to take him in hand as soon as the service ends. The same people every week. Embrace him, get to know him, keep his focus on something other than begging. Give him the chance to see that you're real people, not just a source of cash. Be his friend.

And see what happens.

It'd be a lot of work for somebody. But it's better than doing nothing, better than feeling guilty for feeling relieved when he eventually disappears and definitely better than making him a source of discomfort for everyone else and, therefore, unwelcome.

If anybody has any other suggestions, they're very welcome.

And pray for W.

r

We Are, Are We?

2010-01-16T09:34:00.023-05:00

Got a call from CL on Thursday morning. The prospective buyers had been for another visit and, as the manager, she'd been talking with them. She said that they want to go door to door again, this time to measure the inside of every room.

She wanted to know if I thought they had the right to do that. I had to say that, if the purchasers have the permission of the current owners, I didn't think the residents had the right to refuse them. She asked if they didn't have some protection under the Landlord/Tenant Act. I said no, they don't. I reminded her that was why our friend had been going through that whole thing. But that the purchasers seem to be decent people and if she talks to them, they'd probably be willing to skip a few rooms for now if it's going to freak people out. They were there when our frightened friend had his panic attack, after all.

But she's very worried about having to find a new place to live with her animals.

Dinner this week was interesting.

No, scratch that. It was striking. Unsettling. Strange. Never "interesting".

I've got nothing against the word, per se. But it requires the perspective of distance. A clinical detachment that observes without involvement, that ought not to be applied to people.

Several years ago, when my son was in elementary school and we were struggling to find ways to help his autism fit with the system, a psychologist stood in the hall outside the principal's office, folded her arms, cocked her head and told me "He's a very interesting young man."

I said, "He's not 'interesting'. He's my son."

So now I correct myself. Dinner wasn't interesting. It was very good and very bad.

Some difficult things happened this week.

One of our regulars at Dinner learned this week that her family had lost a 17 year old boy in a snowmobiling accident. Pray for them.

The other difficult thing was that Tidy G. lost his partner. I don't know all the details, but he passed away in the hospital early this week. We feel badly for G. He's such a gentle man, peaceable and kind spirited. A veteran. He was adopted as a kid into a pretty conservative Baptist family, but gained a reputation for being "trouble". I guess you define that word for yourself.

So this elderly man has to go down that road now. He's hoping to be able to attend the funeral, but doesn't know whether R.'s family will have one. Or where. Some people's lives and loves are so un-simple.

R. never came to Dinner, and I'm not even sure whether I ever met him. I think so, once in the summer before we started Dinners. We were going to have a movie night to try to meet some people. We'd bought Madagascar and Spiderman. First a kids' movie, then one for the grown-ups. We borrowed a projector, a ghetto blaster and a DVD player and set it all up in front of the big screen that hangs in the 'church'.

There were more kids around back then, so Z. and B. had bought what we'd need to make Rice Krispie squares with the kids that came, using the microwave. We had popcorn and cold drinks (it was early July and really really hot) and chairs set up all ready to go.

I had a handful of leaflets with the info on them and, in fear and trembling, walked out earlier that afternoon on my own to give them to whomever I could find.

I remember seeing two older men, one clean shaven, the other bearded, standing outside the section of rooms where G. and R. live. I said hi. The bearded man said hi. I held out a paper and said, "We're having a movie night tonight in the church." He took it from me and grinned and said, "Oh, we are, are we?" I told him I hoped he'd come and he didn't reply. Just grinned and turned away.

And that was it.

So we started our movie night at about 6, I think. Around half a dozen kids came to see what was going on. Some who lived there and a few who were on visitation with their grandpa. They mostly ignored the movie and had a great time making the squares. Blobs, actually. It was so hot in the room, the stupid things stayed liquid. Messy, fun.

Once the squares were gone, most of the kids left. One girl, about 10 years old, stayed to watch the movie alone, and then stuck around for the start of Spiderman. She watched it for about half an hour and then thanked us and said she thought she'd go home now.

Which left just me and B. and Z.

None of us particularly wanted to watch Spiderman, and we turned off the projector. By this time it looked a bit dark outside those doors, and it was obvious that no adults were coming. So we packed up everything and loaded our cars.

I sat in my driver's seat, the back seat full of equipment that I'd have to return, and thought, "Well, we tried."

Started the engine, pulled out of my spot and turned toward the driveway that would take me off the property.

As I reached the corner of the main house, I turned my head just a little and looked across the lawn to where the rooms are.

The sun had gone down and the tall old trees' shadows had blended into the twilight. The air was cooling just a bit and the grass was soft and green.

And there were people. About 50 of them. All sitting out, in small groups here and there on the lawn, or outside their doors. Chatting, laughing, complaining, having a beer or a pop, sharing smokes, enjoying the cool of evening, hollering at the kids riding bikes and kicking balls and chasing cats.

As I passed, their heads turned and they watched me drive by and away.

And I thought, crap. That's where we should have been.

We thought that if we put on a show, they'd come. And all the time, they'd been sitting there in the shade, in their homes saving us a seat and ready to offer us a drink if only we'd walked over to where they were.

We were in the wrong place.

I've never forgotten the feeling of going from working in our empty room full of event, to driving past life that had been happening behind our backs.

What a lesson.

I wish I'd known. I wish I'd known to put my leaflets in my pocket and invite myself to sit down on one of the white plastic chairs outside R. and G.'s room and start talking about the weather. Ask them their names and their cats' names and tell them mine. To say sure, thanks when they offered me the beer that I know now they would have been honour-bound to offer. To start living alongside.

But I don't beat myself up about it. Because I didn't know. Couldn't.

It was a lesson I had to learn.

And I have.

r

Just Writing With No Idea Where This Post Is Going To End Up

2010-01-12T22:35:00.017-05:00

One time a long while ago I was having a conversation with a dentist.

Which you don't often get to do, what with the chair and the bright light and the pointy metal things and the Floss-Brush-Don't-Chew-Gum lectures.

But I digress. Rather earlier on than usual.

So this dentist was telling me that it was his dream to someday "work myself out of a job." To educate and train and repair people to the point where he was, professionally, no longer needed. To be so effective as to render yourself redundant.

To work yourself out of a job.

What a concept.

There aren't many jobs where that's really an option. Parenting comes close. But not really.

Teaching 4th graders, maybe. You can work yourself out of that job for a couple of months, at least. Until the next wave rolls in.

Maybe there's just no such thing.

Except I think I just may have done it.

Tonight, while I was home, there was a packing party going on for the folks at the Motel. The amazing J. had made her church's basement available for a group from a local Catholic congregation. They'd provided Dinner a couple of months ago and come up with a plan to put together care packages of practical items - TP, toothbrushes, paste, soap, shampoo, coffee, peanut butter... - to be handed out in January. Specifically tomorrow at Dinner.

So they've gone out and bought all of the stuff and some bags to put it in. Somebody's arranged for a boat load of bread from a grocery store. Everything was set up in the Baptist church basement and we'll see the grand results tomorrow.

A fairly cool idea.

With which I had absolutely nothing to do. I nodded. That's about it.

The number of people who've become involved in running this little adventure is quite something. There's the 10 or so of us who call ourselves regulars, then another 7 or 8 from each of 6 churches plus 3 teams of 8 or 10 from another church.

You do the math.

Plus quite a few who've never been to Dinner, but who are very concerned about the housing side of the question. Real estate people, lawyer people, health care people, surveying people, contracting people, building people - people with actual skills and education - all talking about what's going to happen to our little flock when the doors close.

There's even a brand new just born NFP. We're not exactly sure what it'll be when it grows up. But it's there.

Which is all a bit bewildering for me.

I'm an idea person. A noticer. A thinker. A pioneer spirit. A person who starts things. A catalyst.

And I'm not sure where that fits in with being a director of an NFP.

So the logical thing would be for me to bow out. To surrender the whole thing to people who know how and to look for what's next.

But it's not that simple.

Because it's not an organization. These folks at the Motel - they're in my life. They've coloured my thinking and shaped my heart for several years. I've seen some rise and shine and others crash and burn and yet others just keep putting one foot in front of the other over and over and over which is a miracle in itself.

I've seen perpetual drunks and addicts pull out of a tailspin and turn their lives into actual lives - some for years, months or even just weeks.

I've held my breath, watching those first few tottering steps and then wanted to cry whether they kept on their feet or not.

I've heard a friend talk about his kids and how he hasn't seen them in 4 years but last month at the Christmas play at the church he sat lost in the audience and watched and listened and was so proud at how great his kids did and how they've grown.

I've got to know a man, probably in his 70's, who lived there with his partner and left, then moved back when his partner broke his hip and needed care.

I've been regaled with stories of how things are going to get better soon that are masterpieces of denial and self-delusion and hope.

I've seen a lovely educated woman follow blindly the man she loves, even when he's being sought by both the cops and the dealers he was muling for, except he kinda forgot to give them their money.

I've known a man who can't walk away from the woman he loves even though she gets drunk and stabs him in a jealous rage. I've visited her in jail.

I've sat in what has passed for 'church' at the Motel and had the chance to tell a mom that - contrary to what she was feeling - she'd actually done the right thing in not taking up a pair of scissors to stab the man who punched her teenage son. If only because she'd be arrested and then her son would be on his own.

I've ached and ached and ached.

I've been hugged and kissed and thanked, sometimes for things I didn't do.

And, most of all, I've wondered where Jesus fits into all this. He's the reason I started down this wacky little sideroad. When I started going to the Motel, I found he'd been there ahead of me. So I followed. But I have a harder time finding his fingerprints there these days.

I've tried to figure out whether we're actually making a difference. Sometimes I think yes. Sometimes I think we're just along for the ride.

But on being along for the ride, we've had the chance to pull in all of those other dozens of people most of whom had had no idea who lived at the Motel and what life there was.

And now they know. Now they know someone by name who lives there. Now they're doing something about it. Whatever they can. It may not be enough. It may simply be to serve as many hot, nutritious meals, to have as many conversations, to laugh at as many jokes as possible before the doors close.

But, I guess, no matter how many of them there are and no matter how little I actually do, I can't work myself out of this job. 'Cause it's not a job. It's a life.

As my wise friend has written,

"And since I have no clue what to do next I'll just keep on doing what I'm doing now - even if it isn't accomplishing anything. Because, really - what options do I have? What options do any of us have? What option is there?"

Making It Up As We Go

2009-12-26T16:54:00.008-05:00

So Christmas has come and gone again.

A time when people think about giving. Charity organizations find their coffers refilling, some hoping for enough to get them through to the next wave of generosity a year from now. Churches, service groups and schools host free dinners, open to all comers.

It can actually be a bit difficult for people like the ones who live at the Motel to keep track of where the next turkey dinner is and how they're going to get there. According to the amazing J.'s book our town and the town next door boast:

Dec 5 - Turkey dinner, 4:30 pm, hosted by an anti-poverty group
Dec 7 - Turkey dinner, 12 noon, hosted by the Sally Ann and one high school's culinary program
Dec 9 - Roast pork dinner, 6:00 pm, hosted by a service group
Dec 12 - Turkey dinner, 5:00 pm, hosted by the other high school
Dec 19 - Turkey dinner, 12 noon, hosted by a church
Dec 23 - Us

There may be others, but that's all I've got written here.

Which is all very nice. Probably. I can tell you for sure that if half of those dinners were served in late January, the recipients would be much happier.

But, hey. It's Christmas! Christmas dinner is what you do. It feels good to give at a giving time of year.

We had our Christmas spread this week. It was an impressive production. "Quite remarkable, actually" as one person said.

Our ecclesiastical contributors (in no particular order):

Christ the Servant - Desserts and finger foods
1st Baptist - Turkey, cranberries
Grace Church - Cole slaw, dessert
St. John's - Turkey
St. Paul's - Dressing
United - Peas and Gravy, finger foods

Plus a long list of individuals who brought ham with pineapple rings and cherries, hot cider, coffee and accoutrements, shrimp rings, pork roast and gravy, mashed potatoes, corn, sandwiches, cakes, pies, shrimp rings, cheese and cracker platters, relish, rolls and butter - I have no idea who all brought what.

The Pentecostal church was also represented, and another Baptist church.

The leftovers were refrigerated and served on The Day for anyone hanging around the Motel on their own. CL cooked a couple of turkeys that had been donated.

Between 5, when we opened the doors, and 6, when we served the meal, I figure the number of people in the room got up around 80. Some people started scrounging in the "donations" for extra tables and chairs. After I said grace, a few contributors left without eating and the usual group took their take-out and went home to eat.

There were about 60 sitting and eating, I figure.

M and M were there, and Tidy G., H and CL and E and all of the usual lovely faces. Our frightened friend, instead of sitting with his head in his hands frowning at the table, sat smiling off to one side and actually laughed during TB's announcements. That was a keeper.

W and her man were there. I'm starting to like her more and more.

One of the things we did between 5 and 6 was a carol sing. A few of us gathered 'round the poor old piano and I played and we belted out a few songs. It was a lot of fun.

The Deacon offered to go out to her car and grab a hymn book, lyrics only, that the singers could share. When she came back in, W was standing by the piano and the Deacon handed her the book. Asked her to pick a Christmas song she'd like to sing.

So W leafed through the little paperback book 'til she found something she liked. I asked her what song she'd picked.

"You have to guess."

"Silent Night?"

"No." (grin)

The Deacon told her that she had to at least give me a hint. So W said, "It starts with "The G"".

"Um. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen?"

"NO! THE G!" (grin)

"Um... Er... The-e-e-e- Um. Hm."

W decided I was hopeless and handed me the book.

The Gift Of Love

1. Though I may speak with bravest fire,
And have the gift to all inspire,
And have not love, my words are vain;
As sounding brass, and hopeless gain.

2. Though I may give all I possess,
And striving so my love profess,
But not be given by love within,
The profit soon turns strangely thin.

3. Come Spirit, come our hearts control
Our spirits long to be made whole.
Let inward love guide every deed.
By this we worship and are freed.

I had to tell her I'd never seen that song before and I couldn't play it. I handed the book back to the Deacon and she closed it.

W frowned as only a person with very few teeth can frown, and she said, "Why not?" Didn't ask it. Said it.

"I don't know that song and there's no music in the book. So I can't sing it."

The Deacon said, "And it's not really a Christmas song, is it?"

W took the book back and found the page again and showed it to us.

"Yes it is. Look. The Gift of Love. It is a Christmas song."

And she stood there holding the book and staring at me and frowning and looking fiercely disappointed.

I took the book from her, set it on the piano's ledge and said, "I'll see what I can do."

So I made something up. Played some D chords and invented a melody - any resemblance between verse 1 and verse 3 was purely co-incidental - and sang W's new favourite Christmas song.

And she did what she always does. Said, "Thank you."

She moved behind me as I sat on the piano bench, put her arms around me in a kind of wrestling hold, pinning my arms to my side, put her head on my shoulder and whispered, "Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you." We stayed like that for rather a long time. Then she let go and went off to get some snacks.

The perfect parable for what we do at the Motel.

Singing songs we don't know. Making it up as we go along. Every verse a little bit different. Getting it right sometimes and - let me tell you you hain't never been hugged quite like you can get hugged at the Motel.

The new year is a completely new song. We have no idea what's going to happen.

Probably the purchase will be finalized and the 'restoration' will start and people will scatter.

Probably. We hear things now and then. One email told us that after the inspection, one of the prospective owners "couldn't sleep" for days because of what he'd seen of the conditions and safety concerns. We heard that "his people" were telling him to "run for the hills".

Another email told us that the purchasers are doing due diligence and waiting on a couple of reports to be finished before making their next offer.

So we wait. Dangling at the end of the rope with our friends to see what happens.

Singing songs we don't know. Occasionally getting it right.

Happy New Year!

r

Advent(ure)

2009-12-23T20:21:00.000-05:00

Something I've been thinking about lately.

There's been some discussion around here (at my house and on the 'net in general) about the hugely popular "shoebox" giving program.

If you're not familiar with this, the system is that a charity organization distributes thousands upon thousands of cardboard "shoeboxes" to schools, churches and other groups. Members of those groups fill the boxes with small gifts, selected for a boy or girl in a particular age group. The boxes get collected and shipped to other parts of the world where needs are great, and handed out to children there.

The program is promoted by slick and very moving videos and glossy ads. Some critics point out the difference between "charity giving" and "the pursuit of justice" and question the relative value and importance of each.

I'm not going to get into the whole debate here, but on one of the church based websites engaging the discussion I found this (click on the image to see a larger version):

It's an interesting side by side comparison. "Charity" is limited, short-sighted. "Justice" is broad-scoped and forward looking.

And the title is provocative. "Moving from... to...". Obviously, to the author, one is inferior to the other. One is where we are, the other is where we want to be.

Charity bad, justice good.

But what strikes me about this chart is its incompleteness. Something's missing.

Charity and Justice are both good and necessary, but they're both limited. Flawed. And, I think, in the same way.

Charity - giving goods to supply needs - and Justice - working among the powers that be to change the way society functions - both require an arm's length approach.

It seems to me that for each of them to function the way they do, there has to be a positional disparity between the workers and those on whose behalf they work.

Charity stands face to face, giver and recipient, hands extended each toward the other across a lunch counter or a desk or just a gap.

Justice stands over the fallen, and speaks upward to the powers.

They both presume to decide what's best for others and to dispense or pursue it in their own way and according to their own standards.

Which, granted, is all necessary. The world we find ourselves in requires these things.

But...

For those of us who call ourselves followers of Jesus, this Charity and this Justice are not enough. They don't follow Jesus.

True, he performed acts of Charity while he was here - feeding the hungry, healing the sick, even raising the dead.

And true, in time he will perform the ultimate act of Justice - redeeming and restoring his world, including humanity, to the health and beauty and balance it was created for.

But to see only those two things is to miss out on so much. To focus on what he did, and to miss out on who he is and that the most amazing thing he ever was - was simply human.

Those of us who believe that Jesus was and is and will be God forget sometimes that he was a guy, too. "Just this guy, you know?" Subject to hunger and blisters and morning breath and people who got on his nerves. He learned to walk and to saw straight and to read and to swim.

He chose this life because it was necessary and because he could.

He saw oppression and called it what it was. Arrogance. Power brokering. Exploitation. Hypocrisy.

...Christ Jesus:
Who, being in very nature God,
did not consider equality with God something to be used for His own advantage.
but made himself nothing,
taking the very nature of a servant,
being made in human likeness.
And being found in appearance as a man,
he humbled himself
and became obedient to death—
even death on a cross!

If I could, I'd add a third column to that chart up there.

I'd call it Presence. The Presence column would read:

Presence sits at the table and shares a meal from the Christmas hamper, or sits on the ground and shares the emergency food handout, and willingly goes hungry with the hungry.

Presence participates in the life of the poor finding beauty where it lives, knowing that there are greater evils than a lack of affluence.

Presence drives you to the hospital and sits for 3 hours in emerg until you're taken care of, and makes sure you get home alright.

Presence walks with the wounded to where they need to go, as slowly as necessary, and waits with them for the healing.

Presence listens, doesn't try to fix anything, holds your hand, lets you cry if you need to.

Presence is socially incomprehensible, largely powerless, heartbreaking, messy and the greatest risk.

Until the justice people get things fixed, charity people will be needed. Band-aids and all.

And as long as the charity people have work to do, justice people will be needed. Hollering and lobbying and raising money and changing the world.

But the church is called to Presence. To follow in Jesus' steps in choosing to be human.

"The poor you will always have with you," he said.

So where are they?

Where are you?

r

Your Second Face

2009-12-17T09:38:00.008-05:00

In the infinity of space there is a planet with two faces turning around an old, white sun to which it always shows the same side. The other is enveloped in total darkness.

On each face life has developed in a different way. The bright side is inhabited by people who call themselves Strefis, the illuminated ones, while the dark side is populated by the Ugeltz, the people of night.

No Ugeltz has ever seen a Strefis - however each civilisation remembers the other, in legends.

A quote from the intro to a game I played recently. You can find it here. It's very "adult" in places.

The plot revolves (but doesn't rotate, apparently) around a man who's been given the task of finding an energy source to keep alive the dying dark side of the planet. Their energy source has been something they dig up out of the ground, but they're running out of it. Crops are failing and they face starvation and extinction.

The dark world seems to be completely without beauty or art, except for statues of their hypersexualized god, Geltz, who doesn't really look much like his worshippers.

One of the puzzles in the game is for the protagonist to create a potion to bring on a vision that will show him his "second face".

He explains his quest to some people at the temple of Geltz. He says, "I am seeking my second face." A woman, lethargic and deadened, replies, "I have no face."

In the vision, he travels somehow to a place where he meets, without realizing it, a woman from the light side of the planet. She's beautiful and bright and warm. She is his "second face".

It's all very philosophical and metaphorical and whatnot, which is probably why the cliffhanger ending took me by surprise. Now I have to wait for the next chapter.

At Dinner last night, S. walked in with a stack of big brown envelopes containing the pictures from HelpPortrait day. And rather than just handing them out, he set up a table where people could, one at a time, open their envelopes and see their portraits.

Cool idea, creating a bit of an occasion out of what could have just been a give-away.

People would come to the table, sit down on the chair. They'd laugh a bit nervously, but smiling, excited. Reach into the envelope, pull out the pictures. Laugh again.

Flip slowly through the stack of photos, point at something, smile at themselves smiling back. Remember something funny that happened just before that one was taken and that's why they're laughing there.

Shuffle back through the pack to find the one they like best.

One woman had come on her own for the portrait because her man was working and she didn't want to miss out. She had a few shots in her envelope taken from a wider perspective - with a big pink teddy bear that's been languishing in the piles of "donations" that litter the 'church'. She laughed at those shots.

There were one or two of her that were close-ups, that caught the red in her hair and the colour of her eyes. Looking composed and comfortable and glad. She held one of those for a moment. Held and looked at it and was quiet. And said, "That's a nice picture". And sounded surprised.

A few weeks ago, S. had handed out a few candid shots he'd taken of friends at Dinner. One of the guys, A., looked at his shot and said, "Oh, my, Gawd. I look like an 80 year old wino."

I said, "No you don't. 70, tops."

And he laughed and swore and threw the pictures on the table beside his plate. But he kept looking at them. Like he'd never seen his own face before. Saying "I look like my brother." And sounding surprised.

He spent most of the rest of the meal telling everybody how awful the pictures were and how old and decrepit he looked. But when he went home, the pictures went with him.

It's an interesting thing to see people seeing their own faces.

They see them all the time in the mirror. But the mirror, contrary to popular opinion, isn't entirely objective. The mirror tells you what you think of yourself. It tells you what think you are and what you thought you ought to be and what you think other people see when they look at you. What you've been called, years ago and yesterday. What you've done. What's been done to you.

A picture taken by a friend - by someone you trust - tells you what they think of you. And it's far more beautiful, more true, more like what God sees than what you see of yourself. The wrinkles are still there, and you still look like your brother, but you're lovely and you belong somewhere. Someone wants to remember you.

To see your second face - the one that's beautiful and bright and warm and loved by somebody else - is a great gift.

r

Advent

2009-12-13T14:29:00.004-05:00

I love communion Sundays.

Growing up evangelical, the tradition is that they fall on the first Sunday of every month. We're served the juice (never wine) in small individual glass or plastic cups, passed around by a select group of (almost always) men using special trays that go up and down each row of worshippers. Like the offering in reverse. Everybody takes a cup and, usually, holds it until everyone's been served. The bread, in small pieces, is distributed the same way. And we wait.

The pastor reads from the Bible, almost always 1 Corinthians 11, never from the gospel account for some reason.

We pray together and drink and eat together. Or at least at the same time.

Over the last few years I've had the chance to take communion in other types of churches, in slightly different ways. A common cup shared at the altar rail, a common cup that wafers are dipped into instead of being drunk from, standing in a circle and having the cup and bread
brought around to each person in turn.

But my favourite is the usual evangelical form.

Partly because it's familiar, because I don't have to decide whether or not to drink from the cup that everyone else is drinking from, maybe even because I don' t have to stand in line.

But mostly because I find space in the ritual to think. There's something about sitting still in a quiet room, holding that little cup of deep purple juice, seeing the light hit the darkness and make it shine just a little. Something about holding that piece of bread between my fingers, feeling the texture of it and seeing the tiny crumbs that fall off.

It's very introspective for me. Centering. Pushing the reset button on my perspective and waiting for it to all fall back into place.

Last week we visited a church I used to go to. It was communion Sunday.

The sermon was over. It had been the kind of thing that makes for interesting reading, but a dry sermon. The type of material that a good dramatist can make pop, but most preachers have a hard time bringing to life. So I was a bit restless.

The Elders began to hand out the elements of communion and the pianist played quietly, some lovely tunes. The congregation was silent, except for some rustling, waiting. Listening.

There was a picture projected at the front of the room. Kind of like a stained glass window. A simple silhouette of Jesus hanging on the cross. A yellow and orange sky behind him. Stark. Focussed.

I got thinking about it.

About the idea that what I held in my hand represented blood and body. Bleeding and brokenness. That he bled and was broken for us.

And I found myself thinking about the people at the Motel. About how, if anyone asked me, I'd tell them that I do what I can do there because it's what Jesus did for us.

That he came. Lived among us. Shared our lives, the good and the bad. Did what he could, taught what we could learn, to point us in the right direction. Loaned us his strength and health for the time when we have none of our own.

And that, in the end, he was broken and bled for us.

I was struck hard, that morning, by this question - If I'm a follower of Jesus, if I name myself after him and pursue a life that is shaped after his, does that mean I'm called to bleed and be broken for the ones I've been sent to?

Isn't that what the Bible means when it calls us to be a "living sacrifice"?

So I thought about bleeding and being broken.

It's easy for me to find ways in which I bleed for my friends. The ways my heart aches for the hurt, what I want for them, what I'd do for them if I could and if they wanted me to. Empathy, sympathy, time, mourning with those who mourn. Desiring so much on their behalf and grieving the way the wounded world has wounded them.

It's not so easy for me to see ways in which I've been broken. Actually wounded. Defeated. Weakened to the point of helplessness. The topography of my skin and soul irrevocably changed by scars and loss. Could my being broken actually serve anyone? Maybe. I don't know.
Maybe not.

Because I'm not him. Only he could be. Which is pretty much the point of the whole exercise.

That only he could come and do what he did. Be broken, so he could put everything back together.

I sat there holding that little cup of purple, and that little cube of white. Thinking about how much it must have hurt. And how much it does hurt.

And how much, how very much, it's worth it.

And how very very grateful I am to have been bled for, and to have the chance to bleed for someone else.

What's Happening?

2009-12-12T18:43:00.010-05:00

When last we visited the GTI team...

The bus trip turned out just fine. When I arrived at the Motel that evening, having wondered during the day who was clearing the snow from the parking lot (answer: Nobody), the bus was there with a few early comers sitting inside waiting, and a couple more standing outside in the ankle deep slush having a smoke.

One couple, R & S, got on the bus, but had to get off again after a few minutes. He's been in some pretty fierce pain lately and trying to avoid the heavier meds. So he's hurting and wanted to go to the dinner for his lady's sake, but couldn't face the bus ride, not knowing what the chairs would be like at the hall and not having any quick bail out option should he want to go home early. So they couldn't come. Neither could CL. She's been pretty stressed lately and has a headache that just won't go away.

SW came in his own car to the Motel and picked up a few passengers who didn't want to or couldn't take the bus (including the guy who didn't want to be seen getting off it). J and K picked up one or two on their way to the hall after work.

Disembarking, we were welcomed by half a dozen smiling and friendly Santa hat wearing young people and by the smell of the meal wafting out into the dark. Nice.

There hadn't been more than 20 of us rattling around in a full size school bus, but by the time serving started there were, I figure, about 80 people seated.

The cook, who also works on the Sally Army lunch here in town, did a wonderful job and on the way home, spirits were higher, laughter stronger and voices louder than on the way there.

We'd brought with us a stack of foil take-out containers with lids which our hosts gladly filled with meals. One I gave to H., asking him to give it to his neighbour. H. said he'd be glad to, but he'd have to try to catch the guy some time when he came out of his room. Turns out we scared him so badly during the inspection that he won't answer his door any more. I feel badly about that one.

The other thing that happened this week is HelpPortrait. You can get the idea here.

That was pretty cool.

Unfortunately, the actual photographer who wanted to come give pictures was sick on the day. So the guy who was organizing the thing, S., scrambled some equipment from a helpful neighbour and took the photos himself.

I was there for 2 1/2 hours of the 4, and it was lovely. S. writes...

And did anyone show up to have their photo taken? People were standing outside, attired in their best dress-up wear, when I arrived, and we had a steady flow of smiling faces for the next four hours (smiling except for a couple of the young guys who were too cool to smile, preferring more of a thug image). A couple of highlights were the man who hadn’t been able to get a couple of small photos taken to send with an application for citizenship, and the young woman whose 2 year old son doesn’t live with her at the motel. Her mother brought the little boy for a visit while we were doing portraits and we ended up catching some lovely family shots with the three of them together. In the end, fifteen individuals or family groups were photographed (a little dog with a red bandanna and a largely uncooperative cat got in on the fun as well).

I wasn't there for the grandma/mother/son group, but I can't help thinking that someday that little boy's going to have that picture - and wondering what it'll mean to him.

One of the highlights of the day was a chance to catch up with Beautiful She. She's connected herself to another group of marginalized people - young offenders. She teaches art classes at a local secure facility where so many of these guys find themselves.

She said that some kids come to the classes with natural ability and some have to learn to draw. Which is a chance for one boy to mentor another. Very cool. They've created a training manual that contains some lessons for beginners, and a collection of work done by others in the class. The most awesome thing about it is that the writing in the manual is structured in rap.

She said that some of the kids have an affinity for poetry that seems to flow out of listening to rap. They've written some things that she's been able to share in the broader community (without names, of course) and that one boy wrote something that brought in a little revenue, enough to buy some cool new pens for the art class.

It's a wonderful thing to see that circle close. To see someone give back to something that has given to them.

The kids aren't in the facility for long - just a few months - but that's enough time for her to get to know them, to bake them their favourite cookies and to instill in them a sense of what they're capable of.

She said that someone is just starting up a chapter of Toastmasters at the facility. Brilliant. What an amazing way to teach these guys how to communicate, how to present themselves. What a gift - the ability to speak to the world.

Who would ever think of that? Toastmasters at the juvy.

I was talking to a woman a while ago who once a week volunteers at a soup kitchen in the town next door. She knows about my involvement at the Motel and she said to me that she loved to give her time at those lunches, serving the meals and "getting to know the people".

When she said that, I wanted to ask her a question. But I didn't. Maybe I should have. Maybe it would have just alienated her. Maybe it would have sounded dismissive or arrogant. Not sure.

I wanted to ask her how she was getting to know the people.

I wanted to ask her if any one of those people, the ones she 'serves', had ever bought her a coffee. If they'd ever got together away from the soup kitchen and sat down and chatted over a coffee that the one she 'serves' had paid for.

Or if "getting to know the people" consists of knowing whether they prefer coffee or tea and whether they like their bread buttered or plain. Of standing behind a counter, memorizing names.

Maybe I'm being unfair, but I wonder.

It's so easy to give money, give food, give clothing to people. But there are an infinity of ways to connect with the marginalized. There are so many ways that people are hungry. Disconnected.

It's an amazing thing to see how a little imagination, a little time and patience can connect people who might never have gotten beyond, "Here you go." "Thanks."

And it's even more amazing when the "Here you go." "Thanks." get turned 180 degrees and the beneficiary gets the chance to give.

r

We've Never Done It That Way Before

2009-12-09T10:02:00.003-05:00

No news on the real estate front. I'll let you know.

First storm of the year. First snow day of the year. For those of you in sunny climes, that means the school buses are canceled and lots of kids are very happy. Not only do you not have to go to school, you get to make a snowman. How perfect a day is that?

The trees are coated with ice and the air is full of tiny snowballs bound together with ice, falling and bouncing and making ticking noises against the window.

It's also garbage day. Put on my long bundly coat and spent a few minutes outside organizing the recycling and stuff before I realized, hey. This coat has a hood. I should put it up.

I put up my hood. Which was full of tiny snowballs bound together with ice. Which all promptly melted and ran down the back of my neck. Sigh. Someday I'll be smart.

One bus that won't be canceled (knock wood) is ours.

About a month ago, we were looking at the amazing J.'s calendar full of churches who'd be cooking over the year end and were concerned to see that there was one week not accounted for. Oh dear. That would mean we'd have to cook.

Having been completely spoiled for the last 6 months, we figured it was our turn after all and started planning.

Some time that week, J. got a call from a guy with the local Rotary club. They wanted to do a Dinner sometime in December.

Perfect!

They were thinking roast pork with all the trimmin's.

Perfect!

They could do it on the 9th of December.

Perfect!

They wanted to hold it at the Knights of Columbus hall downtown.

Um!

What?

Where?

So the amazing J. called me and I said, "That's not how we do it. Tell them we'd love to have them do a Dinner, but it has to be at the Motel."

It is at this point that I hang my head in shame. I can't believe I said that. I can't believe I actually told someone, "It's nice that you want to help, but that's not the way we do things around here." I can't believe that I fell into the trap and uttered "the 7 last words of the church". (see title)

Of all people, I should know better. I offer no justification. Just humble repentance.

Fortunately, the amazing J.'s friend was persuasive. She brought it up again, and this time we all had a chance to talk about it. The consensus that emerged was that transportation would be a problem and if they could figure that out, we'd go for it. (Yeah, right. We'll be cooking.)

The amazing J.'s friend asked, "Well, couldn't they just walk there?"

A bunch of hungry, anxious people walking, some limping, 1.5 km in the dark and cold, like a post-apocalyptic Make Way For Ducklings on weed, and then back again uphill afterwards?

We replied, "(hollow laugh) No."

We left the ball in their court to see what would happen, and - no freakin' way - the amazing J. called a few days later to say that she'd arranged for a bus and negotiated a cut rate price and it would be big enough to hold everyone that wanted to go.

Game on.

So that's tonight. We've done our best to make sure everyone knows that there'll be no Dinner tonight in the 'church'. Told everyone the plan, explained the bus.

One guy said he might not be coming. He doesn't want to take the bus over there because he doesn't want to be seen getting off it. Funny the things you don't think of. I hope we can convince him to come.

A few people won't be able to, and we'll have to make sure we get care packages back to them.

But, what the heck. It'll be an adventure.

r

We Have Met The Enemy And He Is Nice

2009-12-02T14:27:00.006-05:00

So we were at the Motel today for 3 hours, joining in with a door to door inspection. Everything went pretty smoothly, all in all. Except for one room.

It was supposed to be vacant, because the pipes froze a couple of winters ago and, like everything else, never got fixed. No water, no occupancy.

So CL took off the padlock and the door still wouldn't open. Something was jammed. A couple of the guys took turns trying to shoulder ram the thing open and after a few tries, it came open.

Very much to the shock of the young couple who had moved in without telling the manager.

Surprise!

They got dressed rather quickly while the 6 or 7 of us waited outside and the manager yelled at them from just inside the door. Told them to go to the office and wait there so they could get properly fitted into a room.

And they ran off across the parking lot, much to the amusement of M&M who were having a smoke outside a few doors down.

The reason there were so many of us trooping around the place today, knocking on doors and taking notes, is a pre-purchase inspection by the gentlemen who are probably buying the place.

I can't type that sentence without shaking my head and sighing. My arms are a bit shaky and I keep stopping to stare into space.

It's the one thing we didn't want to happen. Someone with a lot of money seriously wants to purchase the property and fix it up. Which, of course, does not mean keeping all the present tenants.

In fact, if the plans they've shared with us so far work out, it means keeping 7 of the current 60.

Which, in itself, is a minor miracle. They certainly are under no obligation to keep anybody at all. They could have insisted on buying it vacant and bulldozed. But they're not doing that and have been gracious enough to meet and work with our hobbitry, and say they hope to keep one row of the larger rooms. These would continue to be affordable to people like our friends.

As I say, they're nice people. We spent three hours together today which gave we hobbits a chance to explain a few things and to learn a few things.

It's still early days, but now all of us who live there have got the memo. There wasn't much reaction this morning as we went along, but we'll see how things go at Dinner tonight and over the next few weeks.

If the sale goes through, 6 of our friends will have to be reaccommodated by probably the end of January, since their current homes will be the first to come under the hammer. They may be bulldozed and replaced, or might be re-roofed, cleaned, replastered and insulated.

We'll have to see what happens there.

But longer term, we'll have several dozen people - some very vulnerable, mentally ill, disabled, elderly - in need of housing that doesn't seem to exist right now.

Part of the co-operation that needs to happen between the buyers and us is that they needed an "inventory" of who lives there, what ID they have, and what they pay per month.

One man answered our knock and saw the half dozen of us standing there. He tried to shut the door, but the manager held it open. So the man panicked, ran out his door and all the way across the parking lot where he stood frightened, asking, "Who are they? Who are they?" The manager tried to explain, but he was so upset we couldn't even ask his last name, which no one knows. So we let it go and moved away from his door so he could go home again.

And this is a man who's expected to get on a bus to the next town, walk into a big office building and through the door of the agency that has the forms he has to complete in order to apply for affordable housing.

Yeah. That's gonna happen.

The next few months are going to be tense and tricky, I think. Most of these people are survivors, as I've said before. They survived more than this. But the Motel has become a gathering point for the hurting and we're going to have to walk carefully with them.

And boy howdy, it's not what we signed on for. It's one thing to be bringing Dinner every week and sitting and chatting and playing cards with your little tribe. It's another thing altogether to see the tribe being scattered.

And yet another level of things that suck to have to help to do it.

r

Why I Hope I Never Have To Start Over

2009-11-30T10:53:00.003-05:00

There's a house in the town to the east. It provides temporary housing for people who are between here and there.

Teenagers who can't be at home, but don't have another place to go. Moms, with kids, who fell behind on the electric bill, got cut off and can't get the power turned back on. People just out of the hospital, waiting for an apartment to come available, or who are waiting for a court date to come around.

I've got a friend living in the House right now. She'd spent some time recently getting help with some stuff and she's got to kill a few weeks before she gets the keys to her apartment. The House is, in some respects, a really good place for her. Mostly because of the whole walls and a roof thing.

Other than that...

The residents, about a dozen people ranging in age from 17 to 50-something, have to be up at 7:00. They have from 7 'til 9 to take a shower (there's only one) and have breakfast. They can't leave their rooms unless they're fully dressed. No pyjama pants or dressing gowns. No showers the rest of the day.

Chores must be completed by 9:30 after which time they've got permission to leave the house.

Lunch is available, if you want it, but you have to go to the office and ask for bread and meat to make a sandwich.

Coffee is available through the day, but you have to go to the office and ask for cream and sugar. Coffee must be drunk at a designated table. If you step outside to have a smoke with coffee still in your cup, you have to leave it on the table, go to the office and ask to not have your coffee taken away because you're not done with it yet.

Supper is served at 5. Last week, the menu was as follows:

Mon - Ham and rice.
Tues - Ham and rice.
Wed - Ham and rice.
Thurs - Ham and rice.
Fri - Hot dogs.

They might get potatoes once this week, because every second week there's a meal provided by a local church.

Everyone is allowed two eggs per week.

There's an evening snack which consists of granola bars.

Food is not allowed in the rooms, including coffee. Residents are not allowed to bring in food. Chocolate bars, bottled water, chips, fruit - all verboten. Every bag brought into the House is searched.

My friend, who loves to bake, took the bus to the grocery store the other day and bought a bunch of supplies, including eggs, so she could (having got permission) bake a big batch of chocolate chip muffins. They disappeared rather quickly.

There's one TV in the house. It's turned on at 6 pm. Until 8 pm, it's kids' programs only. After that, the adults can fight over what to watch.

There's one computer, no internet, with only the games that come with the OS.

No puzzles, no books, no nothing.

No drugs, no booze. Officially.

If they've gone out for the day, they have to be back in the House by 8 pm. In their rooms with lights out at 10.

If someone breaks a rule, the manager punishes the infraction by taking away privileges. From everyone.

"Privileges?" I hear you ask.

One time last week it meant no snack time. Not even for the little kids.

One day it meant no coffee for anyone in the house. No coffee at all for anybody because somebody broke a rule. No coffee for the kid who had to get up at 4 am so he could ride his bike two towns to the east to be on time for a court date because the House won't arrange rides.

Another time it meant nobody could go for a smoke in the back yard. Instead they had to walk down the block and smoke in front of someone else's house.

You're shaking your head, now aren't you? You're wondering how... why... what the hell?

Who lives like this?

This all seems so backwards. You've got a house full of people who you're trying to help get on their feet, and you treat them like kindergartners?

It always amazes me that organizations can be run by people who seem to despise the ones they're supposed to be serving.

But we do. We don't seem to be able to find the difference between a hug and a headlock. A shoulder to lean on and a body check.

If you screwed up once, by howdy, I'm not going to let you screw up again. As long as you're under my roof...

But they're not always under that roof. They go out all day.

My friend hied herself off to the Sub shop one afternoon last week. Ordered the biggest, fattest roast beef sub they had, sat at a window table and reveled in her lovely ham-free extravaganza. Went back to the House in time for supper and said, "No thanks. I'm not hungry."

r

Inside An Enigma

2009-11-26T13:01:00.006-05:00

The rumour mill has subsided for a bit. Haven't heard anything for a while about the Motel being bought and shut down. Which is kind of weird.

Last night we had the usual robust crowd. I arrived at 6 and most people had already been served, since the food was ready early and so were the diners.

I love walking in there into the cloud of conversation. It's a very warm and inviting thing. Like a massage for your brain. A sauna for the soul.

CL always sits in the same spot. The farthest side from the door, but facing it so she can see who's coming and going, and closest to the serving table so she's available if anybody needs to ask her a question.

We chatted over Dinner. She's had a few rough days this week, dealing with one guy who lost his temper and started throwing things, then with a couple of guys who had their music cranked in the middle of the night. She bangs on the door 'til it's opened, then rips a strip off them 'til they step in line.

She's pretty respected at the Motel and has been doing the work of a manager for some time. Organizing, threatening, helping.

So she was thrilled yesterday when the actual manager told her she'd been promoted to manager. I asked, "What about him, the other manager?"

She shrugged and said he's still there. But more like an owner now and she's a manager. I didn't quite get it, but she was so happy I congratulated her. Said it must be nice to have the title.

She said, "Now I have some authority around here." and she grinned.

That whole thing was a bit perplexing, but then I got talking to W.

W. and her man C. are relative newcomers to the Dinner. They don't live at the Motel, but in an RGI apartment in town. Nice people.

She's short and walks with a bit of a limp, speaks with a lisp partly because she's got 3 teeth. She laughs easily and loves to tease. She sometimes bakes muffins and brings them to Dinner for dessert. Friendly and fun.

He's a big bear of a guy, smart and compassionate. Always talking about a landlord who ought to be doing something right, or a friend who's having a hard time getting his health card, or somebody who's not feeling well.

W. came up behind me where I sat, grabbed my shoulders and said in my ear, "Who stole my seat?" She laughed and sat down next to me.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine. But guess what?" and she grinned her toothless grin.

"What?"

She cupped her hand around her mouth for secrecy's sake, leaned close and whispered, "It's my birthday on Friday!" Glowing.

"Hey, congratulations! How old are you?"

She told me.

I said, "Should we sing Happy Birthday for you?"

She hiked up the grin a few notches and nodded. Clenched her hands into fists and clapped them together and pressed them into her lap, smiling.

So I stood up and hollered out the news and we all, about 40 voices, sang Happy Birthday to W.

While we sang, I turned to look down at her, expecting to see the grin. But she was sitting hunched over the table with her back to the group. Curled up a bit with her chin in her hand and her eyes down, frowning fiercely about something. She looked like she was going to cry.

After the diners had finished singing out her name, and I sat down again, she put her arm around me and hugged me and whispered "Thank you." There was pain in her eyes and the grin was gone.

She was very subdued for a while after that, went out for a smoke and came back for dessert, her usual bubbly self, grinning again because she'd been given the leftover beets to take home.

But I couldn't help wondering what she was thinking in that minute or so while we sang.

So desperately wanting to have everybody sing for her, and looking so sad when we did, but then so grateful.

This small woman, who you'd probably never really notice, is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside a secondhand winter coat.

She laughs and weeps, gives and takes, and mourns things she'll never tell you. And she's inexpressibly lovely.

r

Invisible

2009-11-16T23:21:00.002-05:00

Me: Hi.

Her: Hi.

Me: I'm Ruth.

Her: Judy. I'm Judy.

Me: You just move in?

Her: Nah. Been here a coupla months.

Me: Like it?

Her: It's alright.

Me: Cool.

(silence)

Her: You ever lived in Elburg?

Me: No. Visited there.

Her: You look a lot like a friend of mine who lives in Elburg.

Me: Yeah?

Her: Yeah. A lot. You really look like her.

Me: Hm. What's her name?

Her: Sally.

Me: Don't think I know her.

Her: Hm.

(silence)

Her: You lived in town for a while, eh? A few years?

Me: Yeah, about fifteen.

Her: Yeah. Me, too. I seen you around town a few times.

Me: Yeah?

Her: Yeah. Downtown. I remember seeing you a few times.

Me: Hm.

(longer silence)

Her: Nobody's ever said that to me.

r

Tsk Tsk

2009-11-11T12:49:00.010-05:00

You're sitting at a red light downtown, waiting. You glance at the sidewalk and see a man walking.

He's grubby and unfocused, hands in his pockets, cap just slightly off centre. It's got one of those Indian looking eagles on it, and the word "Pride". There's a dark bruise on the back of his wrist.

He stumbles over nothing without noticing that he's done it and keeps walking.

You despise him for drinking too much and figure he should sober up and get a job. Go back to school. Something.

You don't know his name.

But I do. I know him. He's a friend of mine. Met him a couple of years ago. Since then he's bought me coffee a few times and we've talked.

I like him. He's got a streak of humour as narrow as your baby finger, but a mile deep. If you can hit the right spot, you get back this reluctant sideways smile, all in the eyes, that's just brilliant.

His wife died a few years ago, after he'd nursed her through the last of her lung cancer. He's had a few relationships since, but nothing solid.

He's got a couple of adult kids; one keeps in touch sometimes, the other disappeared long ago and just resurfaced. She's got a crack addiction and her two children are in foster care. He hasn't seen them in 8 years. Doesn't know what they look like anymore. He's got pictures in his wallet, taken when they were 2 and 3. Now they're 10 and 11.

He's got enough money to live on. Just. But he's an easy mark for "borrowers". He's always had a hard time saying no, especially after a beer or two. So he pays the rent late and gets yelled at. Or not at all and gets evicted. If he's desperate, he'll go the the local "lender" and borrow $500, which will cost him $700 to pay back.

His doctor's trying to get him to go to the hospital, but he's not ready. He's afraid that once he's in, he won't get back out.

The pain in his back is caused by two slipped discs, complicated by arthritis.

The slipped discs (and the bruises) are the result of the blackouts caused by an asphyxiating cough brought on by walking too fast, eating too fast, standing up too quickly or laughing. The reason it's so bad is the COPD, which has claimed 75% of one lung and 20% of the other. He coughs, he blacks out, he falls, he wakes up injured. His face bruised, his wrist hurting.

He takes little white pills for his heart condition and slightly larger ones to keep his stomach from getting any worse.

He needs a new pain med for his back, but hasn't started taking it yet because it will make him nauseated.

He can't sleep, so he's tired all the time.

Once he's in the hospital, they'll do a biopsy on the tumor on his leg. He's scared about that one.

He's very depressed. Nothing ever gets better, and nobody's ever happy with him. Just can't seem to get anything right. His doctor wants him to get a mental health assessment, but he's not ready for that either.

But you talk to him about Jesus, and he'll sparkle. Jesus is good and loves him and someday Jesus will take him to be with his mom and grandma again. That'll be good. No more of this shit.

But then the present is back with us, and the sparkle is gone.

The present pretty much sucks. And the foreseeable future. The past's largely a wash, too.

So he drinks. He drinks way too much. Until his BAC is literally something that would kill you.

Of course he drinks. He loses focus. He stumbles.

Hell, I would too.

r

Waste (Not), Want (Not)

2009-11-04T07:40:00.007-05:00

Last week after Dinner I gave E. a ride home.

She's been through a lot lately. Her health isn't good and her life has been very stress-filled.

One thing she's been glad of, though, is that one of the team fixed her door. Most of the rooms at the Motel fasten with padlocks, often provided by the manager who keeps a key. Problem with a padlock is that when it's on, everybody knows you're not home. If it's not, you're in.

So it's nice to have that bit of basic privacy. The simple ability to pretend you're not there if you so choose, and to not have everybody know all of your business.

There is a drawback, though.

Last month she was in the hospital for a while. She didn't want everybody to know she was away, so once the ambulance had come and taken her, only a couple of people who live there knew how long she was away for. Those of us who don't live there had more info, but we didn't tell, because E. wanted it that way.

However, after a few days, somebody knew she'd gone and hadn't been seen coming back. They figured that probably meant she was still gone. So they took a chance and, late one night, broke in.

Stole a bunch of her stuff, including her bank card.

Problem is, she wasn't still gone. She'd been sent home by cab so she wouldn't be "under surveillance" as she puts it, for Thanksgiving.

She was lying there in the dark, in her bed, holding her breath, not moving, terrified, while this person rifled through her home and took anything with a street value.

Which left her very shaken and badly spooked. She's afraid to be in her room alone now, even though the windows are screwed shut. Afraid to open the door to a knock. Afraid to walk home across the parking lot in the dark.

I guess that's the problem with being tough. It's necessary for survival, but creates its own peculiar weakness.

You become tough by, stick by stick, stone by stone, building around yourself scaffolding and buttresses and they hold you upright and create space that other people can't walk into. But you forget that, in the end, you're just you, small and vulnerable and already wounded, and that the scaffolding and buttresses are there for a reason. Because you're standing alone. Sleeping alone. Walking alone.

And when somebody who doesn't care takes a good hard kick at your buttresses, you're left with quite a draft.

But we all do that. We all put on a front of health and alrightness.

Even businesses.

A few weeks ago, a chain of dairy and grocery stores suddenly closed its doors. They're a regional business, family owned and the traffic going in and out of their 20 or so stores must have been tremendous. They had the best price on milk, cheap bread, were involved in the community. They were the place where you'd take your family for ice cream after soccer practice.

But one day, the managers got a phone call saying that at a certain time in the afternoon, they were to lock their doors and walk away. It was over.

The story in the papers was that they'd declared bankruptcy.

It took me a few days to realize what this meant.

These stores were full of perishables. Bread, milk, cheese. Some of the stock was frozen and would last forever, but what about refrigerated and unrefrigerated stock? Surely it wasn't an asset to be sold to pay debts. And it could only be an asset for a week or so. Then it would become a liability. A fuzzy blue, stinky liability.

So we saw an opportunity and started asking around. Phone calls, emails. Networking it, trying to get an answer to what was happening to the bread and milk.

We never heard back from anyone.

I asked the local Sally Army guy, and he hadn't heard anything either. But he was concerned because they'd just bought a bunch of milk vouchers from this company. Were they worthless now? Probably.

What a mess. It just makes me angry. I could stand at the window of the store, watching the racks of bread go moldy, but nobody would even tell us why we couldn't give it to people who could eat it.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

r

Deception

2009-10-21T11:38:00.002-04:00

Our local food bank occupies space in the basement of a United Church, having been bumped out of their previous spot by somebody with more money. There was, at the time, a short lived suggestion that they relocate to the room we use for Dinner, but it wasn't taken seriously because of the lack of running water.

They used to be open 10 am to 1 pm on Wednesdays but a while ago changed to 10 am - 12 noon, and 6 pm to 8 pm every Wednesday. It's a good change, allowing people who work during the day to get over there.

Lots of people in town fall into that category. There are guys living at the Motel who work either as roofers (a job that came last on a recent job satisfaction survey) or chicken catchers.

Chicken catchers catch chickens. Chicken catchers catch ckickens. Chicken cithcers catch chidkcnes.

The chickens are raised in big barns, running around on the floor. When they get to a certain size, it's time for them to be shipped all over the region to farms. So the chicken catchers go into the barn, where the chickens, for several weeks, have been doing what chickens do. The men bend at the waist and pick up three in each hand. They deposit the birds in crates and when the crates are full, load them on a truck. When the truck is full, they drive the truck to the customer, unload it and drive home. Because it's 'piece work', these guys have, at times, been paid $50 for 12 hours' work. That's improved recently because they've had their mileage allowance taken away and their piece work rate raised. Most of them are in their 40s or 50s and most have back or knee problems that keep them from roofing.

So, anyway, the food bank.

Clients are served in a small, utilitarian space by a woman seated at a table who looks at their ID cards, checks them against the register of names, and gives them a number. They step to the window, hand over their number and tell the person in the warehouse how many people in their household.

This is a huge question.

Imagine you're making do with less than a living wage, or on the good graces of "Ontario Works", our provincial welfare system, which pays less than you need to cover the rent, feed yourself and your family and buy all the necessities, let alone go on vacation, own a car, subscribe to a magazine or eat at a decent restaurant.

So when the person who has it in their power to give you food asks, "How many people in your household?" and you know that the answer determines how many boxes of cereal and cans of vegetables you're going to be given, you've got an answer ready. You answer, "We have 4 kids." You don't add that they're all in their 20s and none of them live at home, because if you did, you'd get less food, and you'd probably run out before your two week waiting period expired and you could come back for more.

My gut reaction to this kind of thing is to say it's wrong. Lying is wrong. It's a sin. You're not supposed to do it and I don't understand how you can look someone in the eye like that and lie just to get free food. What I want to do is wait until there's an opportunity and tell you that it's wrong and that you should be honest and good and noble and trust God to provide, because you've done the right thing.

You would smile politely, and maybe nod and agree, and then, in two weeks, do exactly the same thing again.

In his wonderful book, Jesus and the Disinherited, Howard Thurman says:

"It is safe to say that the common attitude taken toward these deceptions that have to do with survival is that they are amoral. The moral question is never raised. To raise such a question is regarded as sheer stupidity. The behaviour involved is in the same category as seeking and getting food or providing shelter for oneself. It belongs in the general classification of simple survival behaviour."

In his book, The Door Is Open, Bart Campbell quotes a welfare case worker:

"Of course we know they cheat. If they didn’t they’d be dead by now.”

Recently I was talking to a physician who established and runs the new health centre in town. They started last year taking patients who 1. don't have a family doctor, 2. have a family doctor who practices outside a reasonable distance.

In a short time, their clientele has grown to the point where there's a 3 month waiting list for an initial visit. They prioritize those who have no GP but, he matter-of-factly says, "People lie."

If your family doctor is an hour's drive away and you don't have a car, you probably haven't been looked at in years. And if you're hurting or you know something's just not right and you're scared, you lie to get help sooner.

This is another one of those things that I will probably never quite resolve. I know what I believe, but most of the time, I have to let it pass. I've been lied to. I know that. Move on.

My husband was talking to a long standing Salvation Army officer. This man grew up in the corps, his parents were officers, working on the streets of a big city.

My husband asked, "How do you know whether people really need help? How do you decide?"

The response was, "My dad always said, "If in doubt, help 'em out."

Works for me.

r

Interesting Times

2009-10-15T21:01:00.018-04:00

It was an eventful week at the Motel.

Some good - one of the guys had a turkey given to him, so CL cooked it up on Sunday and had a Thanksgiving dinner for "ten or so" who had no place to go.

Some not so good -

Every now and then the fire department conducts an inspection to make sure that the bare minimum safety standards are in place - that there's no way to flick a lit cigarette into the mattress filled swimming pool, that the feral cats aren't having kittens in the circuit boxes, that the fire extinguishers haven't been traded for smokes... that kind of thing. Just like at your house.

So last week at Dinner CL made an announcement that anyone who didn't have a smoke detector (a whole smoke detector) with batteries (working batteries) (plural) in their room should come and talk to her.

She had a clipboard with a list of room numbers and names and a column for signatures and one for check marks. She was filling it in as people talked to her, whether they had or needed something.

Anybody not at Dinner got a visit the next day and she and her assistant took a look, clipboard in hand, to make sure before the inspector came.

There were a few smoke detectors, complete with batteries, in dresser drawers. People keep taking them down. We're not sure why. Sometimes the batteries get used for other things. Sometimes things get sold.

These inspections are not popular, among management or residents. Management sees it as some kind of harassment despite the universality of the policy throughout the county. The residents tend to be very private people who don't cause trouble and expect to be left alone as a reward.

When it was almost time for the inspectors to arrive CL, one of the most private people, was in her room. There was a knock on her door. She opened it and there stood K, a local cop. Off duty, in civvies. She let herself in, uninvited (HUGE faux pas) and asked CL when the fire inspectors were expected.

CL got mad real quick, and bundled her back outside again to wait until the inspection team came. When they started at one end of the first row, knocking, showing their ID, checking for what they'd come to check for, K tagged along and went into each room. CL said she was "nosing around" for drugs and asking embarrassing questions.

Which is really surprising. You don't expect cops to be that clumsy. Not only does everybody there know this woman by sight, but once she'd been to the first room, the phone calls had started. "K's here and she's snooping in the rooms."

If anybody had anything they shouldn't, they wouldn't have by the time she got there.

Doesn't seem like the most effective search methodology. But what do I know.

Plus, around the same time, the child welfare folks came and took away another young one. From a single dad.

Those stories are so hard to hear. On one hand, you think that kids just shouldn't be living there. Period. Ever.

On the other hand, at least he's trying, ya know? It sucks.

Families are a rare commodity at the Motel. Folks just don't have them.

OK, I suppose technically out there somewhere there are adult kids and sisters and brothers. Step-families and cousins. But they're just not visible. People live independently, disconnected, self reliant because they've had to be or they're too stubborn to be anything else.

If you'd been there on Wednesday, you'd have seen 'the church' quite full, mostly of men. Only one of whom lives with a woman, one of whom lives with another guy. A few are dating, but the vast majority are single. Most divorced or estranged.

While we were tidying up after the room had cleared, one gent noticed the leftovers and was looking at them. We told him where to find a plastic container to take some home.

He lit up. "Yeah? Really? Boy, you know how much money this'll save me?" He gathered up enough turkey stew for a couple of meals and half a loaf of bread and packed it in a little box with a bit of dessert. "This is great. I'm a bachelor, you know."

Which is a huge factor for a lot of the guys. "I'm a bachelor" = I never learned to cook.

Really basic stuff - "Directions: Microwave until hot" - they can do, but if they could just learn how to use a crock pot it would make a big difference.

Which is probably why we get more and more men coming to Dinner who don't live at the Motel. It's a hot meal, homecooked, served by and eaten with ladies who are glad to see you. Nice.

CL made a freudian slip last night when she commented on how many people we get "from out of town". I thought that was awesome. The Motel is her town.

She really loves the place and she's worried. Occupancy is down and she's not sure why. But with fewer rents being collected, it's harder to pay the electric and water bills. She figures that more people will move in now that the weather's getting sharply colder, but she knows that those people will use more power and water and increase the bills that their rent is supposed to help pay. And if there's not enough money now...

So she's worried.

Me too. The "end of November" rumours persist. We've heard them first and second hand - from the manager and from people he's told.

And last week, after CL made her announcement about smoke detectors, the manager made a point of letting a few of us know that he was off to give a tour to a potential buyer. "Did you see those black fellas out there? Well they're waiting for me. I'm supposed to show them around."

Yeah. Great. Thanks. You go do that. Don't trip over any feral cats.

r

How Do You Get From Here To There?

2009-10-08T10:15:00.011-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, right after Dinner, when there was a crowd hanging around outside the doors, sitting on the concrete steps smoking, chatting, laughing, I took this picture.

It's very us.

As often as they can, when the weather is good and not about to change for the worse, K and R join us for Dinner.

It's quite a trek for them, on their wheels. On roads, sidewalks, across the train tracks, cutting through the grocery store parking lot, another couple of blocks, through the potholed parking lot and up the home stretch to the Sherwood Room. They don't stay long 'cause they don't want to have to do the reverse trip in the dark.

Every week that they come, somebody brings out this table. A big white plastic one, big enough for 6 adults, and sets it up with a couple of chairs and sometimes a candle. I'm not sure where the table lives the rest of the time. It must be somebody's.

R. is able to wrestle his walker up the steps into the room and sits at the front of the line on its seat waiting for serving to start. He recruits someone to help him put together a plate for K. and together they gather what the two of them will need and carry it back out and down the steps. Drinks, napkins, salt and pepper, cutlery... So K. and R. can dine alfresco.

K. waits outside, smiling and chatting to whoever comes by. She can't do the steps in her chair, obviously. There was a time when the handyman at the Motel tried to build a ramp for her. It was made of plywood and an old table top that got slippery when wet...

I wouldn't want to wheel up it either.

So the solution we've got now is the best so far.

It's too bad, though. They miss out on the hubbub and conversation of the meal and, as I said, the weather dictates everything.

Last night was a happy night. Not sure why, exactly, it just was.

I'm sure the turkey dinner with all the fixin's followed by homemade apple and pumpkin pie had something to do with it. But every now and then the place is just in good spirits and there's that good natured, light conversational popcorn going off all around you that makes you feel like everything's warm and ok and you're where you're supposed to be and nobody cares that there's no background music because we're each other's background music.

At the same time, you know there are voices missing, because you're listening for them. Voices that were there last week, but not this week. Laughs that aren't laughed. And you miss them, but you trust they'll be back.

There've been a lot of rumours lately about the end of November. That "the small rooms" will be closed.

We worry about the people who live in the small rooms. Some genuinely, and quite literally, have no where else to go. No family, no friends who can accommodate them. The only place they could go is to one of the big rooms and whether they can afford that, who knows. Not to mention the stress of moving.

But there's a growing sense of concern in the larger community, among people aware of the Motel in particular, and the housing problem in general. More and more educated, effectual people are asking more and more questions about the "what if" of the thing.

Questions about what the municipality might do to help, about what spaces are available for emergency shelter if the worst happens.

It's very exciting to see that happening. I don't know whether anything can be put in place before the end of November, if those rooms were to be closed, but still. We all know the Motel can't stay what it is forever. Its condition is deteriorating and the thought of one more spring's thaw on the roof of the front section is worrying.

But no matter what happens at the Motel in the next month and a half, these people will continue to exist. To live. To be human.

People who need not a ghetto, but a neighbourhood. Not a development, but a community. People who need a place like the Motel where they can find each other and find hope.

We'll see what happens.

r

The Good With The Bad

2009-09-19T10:41:00.016-04:00

We had a treat this week at Dinner.

Somebody had pulled into the parking lot earlier towing a trailer load of fresh picked that day corn, all husks and silk and waiting for boiling water and butter. CL had talked to him, found out that it was extra from the market and said, hell, yes, we'd love some, thanks.

When I arrived at 6, there were pots of water steaming away on the stove. J, our organizational genius, and the nurse were pulling ears from the water, putting them on whatever would function as a platter and serving the farmer's gift from table to table.

We had real butter in the fridge, left over from something else, so it was perfect.

Unfortunately, corn on the cob wasn't an option for N.

The first thing I saw in the parking lot this week was N, walking slowly toward 'the church', his left hand held up at shoulder height, wrapped entirely in bright white bandages.

He'd been helping a friend do some construction and was in charge of the table saw. If you're squeamish, just skip to the next paragraph. He was making slats for part of the job and the first, the second, the third, the fourth all went just fine. But wood being wood, the fifth one decided it wanted to go in a different direction and, instead of the blade meeting the wood, it met his hand between the thumb and forefinger. He said it looked like hamburger and there's a chance he could still lose them both. But for now, he's up to his neck in pain meds and doing what he needs to do to take care of it with the help of a public health nurse who comes to visit.

Somebody helped him get his plate filled and to a seat, but corn just wasn't going to work.

The other news this week was that we've lost a friend. K's stepdad, the cranky Dutchman, passed away young and unexpectedly of a completely unforeseen heart attack.

I don't usually use names here, but his name was John. I liked John.

He was rough and gruff and, yeah, cranky.

I never actually saw him smile. His heart was all in his eyes. If he thought something was funny, his eyes would laugh. If he thought it was unfair, his eyes would flash anger. If he thought it was ridiculous or stupid, they'd beam disgust. Once in a while, one corner of his mouth would turn up and he'd shake his head and swear and you'd know he was busting a gut over something hilarious.

He'd sit at Dinner and talk about what his Mom used to cook. It seemed to be mostly meat, which he chalked up to being Dutch. Beef and pork. But he loved bread, too.

The closest I ever saw him to an actual smile was one night as everybody was making their way home. He bounced up to S. carrying something wrapped in a couple of paper towels. He said, look at this. Unwrapped it and showed her a whole 8 inch across dimpled, golden brown round loaf of soda bread, made by one of the women who'd brought the meal that night. She'd heard him admiring the bread, and made sure she set aside one loaf just for him and he looked completely thrilled.

One of S.'s kids is a little blonde tornado of a boy. He'd get into everything and everywhere he wasn't supposed to and John would just pick him up and hold him and not let him go until he thought the tornado would behave.

John knew the value of work, of family, of health. He'd had them all and lost them all, and knew what they were worth and how to be grateful when you had them.

He'd light a cigarette and hold it between this thumb and first two fingers and tell you in his gravelly voice, talking more out one side of his mouth than the other, what was wrong with the world.

He'd listen, but not necessarily agree.

He recognized a fool when he saw one.

He'd sit at the piano and play jazzy tunes and chords.

He walked quickly and talked fast. He wore black jeans or shorts and always boots with socks peeking out the top.

He'd work and work and do a good job and get tired and work some more.

He'd get hurt and refuse to go to Emerg until S. got us to gang up on him and make him go and then admit he'd been wrong about refusing to go and say it was a damn good thing he went.

He was hopeful, in spite of himself. And he was lovely.

I don't know where things stood between him and God. Hard to say sometimes. It's not always as simple as you'd like it to be.

But he was a good man. A good dad, a good friend, a good worker, a good guy to have on your side.

And I wish he was still out there someplace.

r

Taking Stock

2009-09-11T09:23:00.006-04:00

The china/styro combination was back. I'm glad.

Anyway, Dinner this week was provided by a local United Church congregation. Very tasty, nutritious, on time.

We've had a few new families the last couple of weeks. I don't know their names yet, but they're both families of adults - grandma, mom, dad, adult kids. The only conversation I've had with one of them so far was to point out where the juice table was, in case they wanted something to drink. The juice is provided every week by the same guy. He says he can't cook, so he brings cartons of drinks, which are really enjoyed by the Diners.

One of the people I was talking on Wednesday looked over at the table, lit up and said, "Oh! Fruitopia!" A little luxury. A lot of joy.

Speaking of luxury, I was thinking on the drive home about how nice it is to be able to just show up. I've written about this before, but it's kind of a big deal for me.

In the early days, here's what my Dinner day looked like:

Late morning - figure out what I'm cooking, make a list of stuff I need (including frozen concentrated drinks, bread, margarine, dessert); drive to grocery store, spend half an hour shopping; drive home.

Early afternoon - start chopping/slicing/thawing/timing; cook what can be cooked ahead of time.

Late afternoon - cook what has to be cooked late; fill 20 l water jug; keep hot things hot, cold things cold; load it all in the car, arranging it so that if it spills, my car won't smell like chili all summer. Remember to bring something to make the juice in.

Later afternoon - drive very carefully to the church that's our umbrella; let myself in, go downstairs and load up boxes of styroplates, cutlery, cups, serving utensils, condiments that are in the fridge; carry it all up the stairs in 3 trips and load the car. Remember to lock the church.

15 minutes to 6 - drive very carefully from the church to the Motel; carry in boxes of plates etc., hot food etc, water jug etc. Make the juice while B and Z unload their contributions and CL organizes it all.

After Dinner, drive back to the church and carry the unused plates etc. back down the stairs for next week. And there were large pots and pans to be washed. (Confession - sometimes, if it was cold enough outside, I'd leave them in the car until the next morning.)

It was all rather exhausting, on one hand.

On the other hand, we were running on the adrenaline that comes with a new adventure.

If we hadn't seen our team grow the way it has, and if the churches in town hadn't jumped in to help, I don't think I'd still be doing this. I'd be tired and frustrated and it wouldn't be fun anymore. I'd be annoyed with the Diners for needing me to do all this week after week after week and I'd call it quits.

As things stand now, my first passion continues to be for the spiritual. The times I spent having church at the Motel were some of the best of my life and I look forward to the chance to do that again. Knowing that the Dinners are being looked after gives me the energy to start thinking along those lines again.

This is the beauty of having people step into the spaces that only they can fill. Because they want to, because it excites them, because it's what they're gifted for. Which frees other people to do the same.

I don't have any definite plan right now for 'church' at the Motel, but it's an idea that's not going away any time soon.

r

Dribs and Drabs

2009-09-07T10:19:00.003-04:00

I've been neglecting the blog lately, spending my spare time building a cigarbox uke. Making the neck and fingerboard from scratch. In case you're interested.

But there are a few little things bouncing around in my head that I wanted to record.

1. The other day the Cassini sisters were in town for a few hours, packing up what they have in storage here to truck down to Nova Scotia where they're working and living these days. They emailed and asked my sons if they'd help lug boxes and furniture up the ramp. The kids said sure, but the youngest had to work that afternoon and the eldest had to go to the U. to get his ID card. So it would have to be in the morning. The Cassinis said that would be fine.

But when they went to pick up the truck, it wasn't there. It was in the town to the north, 40 minutes' drive each way. By the time they got the thing and drove it back here, it was too late for us to help.

Funny thing is, this kind of thing keeps happening to me (yes, it's about me). Someone asks me to help with something, I say yes, then something goes wrong that keeps it from happening. A storm hits, an appointment gets rescheduled, somebody gets the flu... And someone else ends up doing the actual help. I hear about it later and write a blog post. If you go back and read some of my older posts, you'll see that I write about "so and so did such and such." It's seldom about me doing anything.

Not sure what to make of this, but I wouldn't recommend asking me to help with anything important. It'll probably get cancelled.

2. I sat across from CL and a new friend, MR, last week. MR is dating a guy who lives at the Motel. She's a really nice woman, funny and quick. She told us that one time she asked a friend to give her a ride to her beau's place. Her friend agreed, but wanted to drop her off just down the block. She didn't want to drive onto the property. MR asked why and her friend said, "I don't want anybody I know seeing me there."

"Why?"

"I just don't want to be seen with those people."

CL was incensed. She told us another story about a person who'd visited Dinner with one of the church groups this summer. The person had later been talking to CL's sister-in-law and told her that they'd never go to Dinner again. Why? Because "I don't want to associate with that kind of people."

CL doesn't know this person. They've never met. She doesn't know that this person has been in jail for violence against a spouse. That this person struggles with the same mental illness that affects a number of the Motelians. That this person's source of income is the same as most of the Motelians. That this person has been so far down that it's amazing they've come this far back up.

She just knows the Motel's been dissed yet again. And she's mad. She's mad because she loves the place and the people and she defends them both as her home and her family and if you ever - ever - get caught by CL badmouthing either - She will

Take

You

Down.

3. Dinner is served every week on styrofoam plates. It is quite amazing how much food a motivated person can put on a styrofoam plate. We don't like using the things because of the environmental side of things, but with no running water in the building we don't have a choice.

One gent has been bringing his own plate lately. Which is cool. If more people did that, we'd make less waste.

Problem is, his plate is a serving platter. The thing is honking huge.

We got a couple of complaints about how much he could fit on there and CL decided to talk to him about it.

Last week I noticed he had a styro plate on top of the big china one. He filled the styro one.

I have mixed feelings about this kind of thing. I don't want anybody embarrassed or driven away, but at the same time I have to respect the rules of the place. People respect CL and if she speaks to them, they generally fall in line.

But I noticed he wasn't at Dinner the next week. So we'll see.

4. We've got some shelves in the 'church' for storing the stuff we use for Dinner - plates, cups, cultery, tinfoil, salt and pepper, sugar, whatever. One is a standup cabinet given to us by a church in town and one used to be the bar when the place was a restaurant. We've turned it around so the shelves face out and use the counter space to keep the desserts on until we're ready to serve them.

These two units have signs on them asking people not to take stuff from there, since it's for the Dinners.

There's another table against the wall near the stove that has a sign on it. "Help yourself to what's on this table."

Sometimes church people or town people will bring donations of food to the Motel and CL will put the stuff on that table for folks to take when they come to Dinner. As people are standing in line for Dinner, they walk past the table and browse and take what they want or need.

These donations don't happen very often, just once in a while.

However, the little table never gets emptied. Every week I walk in there and it's full. Full of cans and boxes and stuff. Soup and veggies and pasta and cereal.

So where does it all come from?

From the Motelians. They come home from the food bank, look at what they've got, and if they can't use it, they put it on the table.

It's our own little food bank. That table is a lovely thing.

r

Oh, To Be Johnny Cash

2009-08-21T21:18:00.010-04:00

I missed Dinner this week.

Late last week one of our team members who works for an organization called "Community Living" sent out an SOS of sorts. They were holding their annual barbeque and "music under the trees" and had some trouble lining up the music. As it turned out the fiddler and I were both available.

Great party. Lovely people. Really lovely.

Community Living is a registered charity, "Providing support to individuals with intellectual disabilities since 1959". The annual barbeque is a community-wide invitation to any and all, in the spirit of "promoting an inclusive community and (providing) an opportunity to meet new people."

To be honest, I wasn't quite sure what to expect when I got there. I've never sung for an audience so largely made up of adults with intellectual challenges. I haven't spent a lot of time with people who fall under that umbrella and I was - not nervous, exactly - maybe just very aware, very conscious of the fact. Hoping I wouldn't say something inappropriate, assume something unfortunate... Don't know exactly what. But nevertheless. It's that self- and other- consciousness that you get when you know that you're a bit different from everybody else and don't want to make a fool of yourself. Or that feeling you get when you're surrounded by strangers who you think might decide unexpectedly to enthusiastically hug you whether you want them to or not.

Or is that just me?

Because regardless of how terribly PC and tolerant we all are these days, there is still a fear of the other. The different.

And this was definitely different.

When I arrived, the fiddler was in the little open tent, setting up his gizmos. The kind of thing, pedals and switches and such, that I associate with rock guitar. An impressive array of boxes spread out on the grass. All I had to unpack was my pair of ukes (Pooch and Nina) (Oh, like you've never named anything. I bet your coffee maker has a name) so I went on first.

I set out the ukes one one chair on the right side of the tent and my orange song binder on another.

Clue 1 that this would be a different kind of gig was the man standing at the back of the tent with a drum in his hand. He smiled a warm, welcoming smile and introduced himself. "I'm the drummer!"

"Are you going to play for me?"

"Yeah!" (Everything anybody said to me over the next hour was punctuated with an exclamation mark and a smile.)

"Great!" (Now I was doing it.)

An older lady wearing a visor emblazoned with "Las Vegas" in pink sparkles came up to the side of the tent and gave me a big "HI!".

"HI!"

She picked up one of the ukes and said, "Do you need help with these? Do you want me to hold them?"

I told her thanks!, but no. They were safe where they were.

She said, "OK! Do you know Jesus Loves Me?"

I told her I knew it, but I didn't think I was going to be singing that one!

"What about Kenny Rogers?"

Had to disappoint her there, too.

She pointed at the binder and asked, "What's in there?"

I said there were a lot of songs in there! but that I should probably get started singing.

She said, "OK!" and sparkled and grinned back off somewhere to the right.

I started with a medley, the best part of which was Skinnamarink because I could hear it being sung back to me.

Right after the first song, Sparkles came back. She stage whispered, "HI!"

"HI!"

"Could you say something to Susan?"

"I think I'm just supposed to sing!"

"OK! Bye!"

"Bye!"

I sang a few more songs and saw a sparkly wave out of the corner of my eye.

"HI!"

"HI!"

"Could you sing a song for Susan?"

"What kind of music does she like?"

"She likes music!"

I looked at my binder and the next song up was "Ring of Fire."

I asked Sparkles, "Does she like Johnny Cash songs?"

Gasp. "OH! Yes! She likes Johnny Cash!"

"Me too!" This from a man in the front row wearing a cowboy hat.

Sparkles pointed at the mic and asked, "Can I use that?"

I said, "I think I'd better use it!"

She said, "OK!" and she grinned and put her finger to her lips in a sparkle of conspiracy and whispered, "Sing for Susan!"

"OK!", I whispered.

And she sparkled away again.

I turned to the mic and said, "I understand that there might be somebody here who likes Johnny Cash songs!"

Probably a dozen people thought I was talking about them and hollered back.

So we all sang Ring of Fire. We didn't all sing the same words or the same notes at the same time. Some of us sang with our voices, and some with our feet, and some with hands in the air. But we were all singing the same song.

After the first couple of chords, a middle aged woman with curly dark hair ran up in front of me, fixed me with the most intense, joyous eye-contact and danced with the kind of abandon most of us have forgotten. She sang, but with her eyes and her grin and her fists. She sang the words into the ground with her feet.

"Love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring
I fell for you like a child, and Oh, the fire went wild

I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down and the flames went higher
And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire
The ring of fire."

I can still see her there, dancing and singing and loving Johnny Cash the way so many people do. Joy. Just joy.

When the song ended, I said to her, "You must be Susan." She laughed and nodded and ran off somewhere. When she came back, she smiled exclamation marks at me and showed me the plastic mic in her hand. She stayed in that spot for a while singing along, with her joy and her mic and her feet.

The whole time, about an hour, that I was singing, there was a young woman off to the right of me, also singing along. Just loudly enough that I could hear her above the sound system and myself.

It took me a while to notice it, but once I had, it was the strangest and most magical thing I've ever experienced.

I sang a mix of familiar songs - Ring of Fire, True Colours, Somewhere Over The Rainbow - and a few of my own. And she sang along on every one.

On every song.

Even the ones I'd written, that she'd never heard in her life.

She did this by following me - I'd sing a word and a split second later, I'd hear it sung back. I'd sing a note and a split second later, hear it matched. Like some kind of human reverb. Not distracting, but engaging, intriguing.

No matter how I improvised on the melody, or changed keys or octaves, my echo followed.

She wandered up and down in the space to the right of the tent and sang and sang and sang.

Until the last song.

The last song was Love Me Tender. Quiet and gentle, in an easy 3/4 time.

Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go
You have made my life complete and I love you so

I was looking forward to singing that one with her, moving back and forth. But she surprised me.

She walked right up the side of the tent and stood there, in one spot, for the whole song. Echoing, following, word for word, note for improvised note, sweet and gentle and plaintive and so so achingly vulnerable.

Followed me on the key change, followed me on my rather unpredictable melody, as though we were hand in hand on our way someplace new.

We sang together, sang of love and longing and belonging and being held. We sang together of sweetness and tenderness and trust and dreams. I sang for her and she sang for me.

And when the song ended, she wandered away again.

I think I learned something from her. I'm just not sure yet what it was.

So, yeah, it was different.

Thank God!

r

Welcome (Slightly Off Topic)

2009-08-18T17:19:00.002-04:00

I've had some renewed correspondence, of sorts, around the church I used to go to.

It's a bit awkward, because they seem to want some kind of reconciliation, or at least absolution, while I'm trying to explain to them my position on questions they don't seem to have even asked themselves.

I don't really have any interest in settling in there again. No malice, no grudge. Just not interested.

But they're in a transition time between pastors and that's a good time to clear the books.

The outgoing pastor is one I had a series of disagreements with and who, ultimately, "fired" me. I've since had a chance to forgive and move on from that, as, I believe, has he.

Because of our past conflict, I really wanted to sing a particular song at his Farewell service. To show people that grace and reconciliation, though hard sometimes, are powerful things.

So I sent an e-mail to the church. It took them over a week to answer and the answer was no. I wrote back, expressing my disappointment that they didn't have the courage to do the unexpected.

I got a note back that said, in part, "You are always welcome here."

And that's the problem. They believe I am. I know I'm not.

Not the real me. The passionate, stir-the-pot, let's-go-for-it me.

The me who is welcome there is a nice woman.

The me who is welcome there is a good singer. With a great voice, basic piano skills and an "anointing". The me who is welcome there comes on Sunday morning and stands and sits when told. Sings one song, then three songs, then one to close. Drinks coffee. Chats. Goes home.

The me who is welcome there goes to Women's Ministry gatherings and weekends away.

The me who is welcome there works and works to make things work, in the name of unity, even when she disagrees with the whole premise, in the name of humility and in the silent hope that some day, someone will actually listen to her when she says, "No."

The me who is welcome there will lead a remarkable time of worship, see the response of the people, hear their hearts when they sing and then go to a "Program Team" meeting two days later and say, "OK" when told it wasn't what she was supposed to do and never do that again.

The me who is welcome there will never say anything that sounds "pastoral" from the platform.

The me who is welcome there will never have the temerity to suggest that she might be a good option when the pastor is away and they're looking for someone to preach. She would know that her glands are in the wrong spots.

The me who is welcome there will never get angry at promises broken or visions squashed.

The me who is welcome there will toe the line.

Since I left, I've accomplished (if I may say so) some fairly remarkable things. Built something good and strong and rich. I have (if I may say so) proved myself to be a leader.

The me who is welcome at the church I used to go to is not a leader. A singer, a nursery worker, a secretary, a Sunday School teacher, a maker of coffee. Maybe even a "worship leader." But not a leader.

I - me - my true self - I am not welcome there.

The Difference Between a Jig and a Reel**

2009-08-01T14:37:00.012-04:00

Dinner last week was the only one our core team had to provide this summer. Originally the date had been spoken for by a church group in town. Then they realized they'd committed to something else that evening. (These folks are good evidence for the 80/20 rule - 80% of the work is done by 20% of the people.) So we told them not to sweat it and took the Dinner back.

We had a barbeque. Pre-cooked burgers, a wonky grill, salads and the best desserts.

There were a few guests visiting. A couple from Australia, staying with B. and her family. I never got around to introducing myself, so I didn't catch their names. But they threw themselves into the fray and seemed to have a good time. So far our little meatloaf heaven has been graced by folks from Australia, New Zealand, Ireland, Switzerland, and Holland.

We also had a couple of musicians drop in. One is a skilled fiddler and the other a warm and wonderful guitarist. They both specialize in folk music of one kind and another, and we had fiddle tunes with our burgers, and a music circle for dessert. Fiddle, guitar, mandolin, uke, uke, drum and several singers. Including our jetlagged visitors. We sang and played a song or two and then SW arrived, guitar in hand, so we played for a while so he could have something to eat and catch up.

Highly recommended as a way to spend an evening.

CL was a bit upset because right before Dinner there had been a car crash in the parking lot. One of the girls she's been adopted by ran into a pizza delivery car and smashed the guy's window. And then she took off. Problem.

H. told us the whole story, from the perspective of someone on a bike who was in the way and narrowly got out of it. It's wonderful what a good dramatist can get out of a fender bender in a parking lot.

The room was kind of dark. We've lost some lightbulbs and it takes a long time for them to be replaced. So it gradually gets darker and darker and darker until one week someone gets a ladder and takes a couple of bulbs from the other end of the room and pops them in where they're needed and we spend a week commenting on how bright it suddenly is.

The numbers were strong again at Dinner, even though several people have moved out. Which is related to the most recent rumour going around. Someone told me that they'd been told by the manager that he'd been told by the owners to not refill the rooms as they empty. Because they want the place empty by November so they can - you guessed it - shut it down. The plan being to not have to pay for another winter of heating.

This rumour has some plausibility at the moment. None of the empty rooms has been refilled. Might just be co-incidence, might be a seasonal blip. We'll see.

When SW had finished eating and got out his guitar, he sat back down in his seat, a row of tables away from the rest of the circle. He stayed there, smiling his quiet smile, and played along with us as we sang, S. calling out songs and keys and chords over his shoulder so SW would know where we were heading.

The audience was small, 3 or 4 Motelians who stuck around to hear, and the spirit was large and noisy. Lots of laughing, lots of mistakes, a few solos.

Eventually we ran out of songs and it was time to go home. I zipped my uke into its case and turned around in time to see the fiddler hand his instrument to SW.

We all stood and listened while this quiet man in his pageboy wig and denim skirt sat at his table and played Danny Boy. As he ended, he got lots of clapping and woots and well dones.

And that's as it should be. The quietest soul in the room got the noisiest applause.

r

** One is in 4/4. The other is in 6/8. Or the other way around. I think.

Eeny, Meeny...

2009-07-19T22:44:00.013-04:00

We were away for a couple of days visiting our favourite church away from church, Mars Hill in Grand Rapids. Really good service.

When I turned on this machine and checked my mail Sunday evening, there was a message with the subject heading: [Reminder] Breakfast @ Sun Jul 19 10am – 11am (Ruth Wilkinson). My completely useless attempt to organize myself. These automated reminders invariably arrive after I get home from Breakfast each month.

This one was more useless than usual, because we didn't have Breakfast this month. See, we'd decided that for the summer, we'd just have muffins and coffee from Timmie's across the road. No ham, no scrambled eggs, no J.'s oven baked hashbrown heaven.

Subsequently, there was some discussion among those of us who live there that if we couldn't do it properly, we probably should just take a break. Which was borne out by the very low attendance at June's Breakfast. So we put Brekkie on hiatus until September, when the world starts revolving again. Which is fine.

After all, summer is the time some of us have a chance to get away and see the world. Or bits of it, at least. My husband and I enjoy getting in the car, playing 20 questions at the longest undefended border in the world, and then heading southish to see cities we've never been to. We find the public transport and then walk around downtown to see what there is to see. So far, we've found that Atlanta and Boston are good for this, but Grand Rapids not so much. (Not a lot to see, except for the people hanging around downtown who reminded me of folks at the Motel, which made me homesick.)

Boston was one of our most recent expeditions. Really interesting city (American history machine aside). Cool architecture, good subway, Chinatown, really easy to get lost, terrible maps, good food. Perfect. Some historic churches. Mostly for "freedom" reasons, of one kind or another.

We chanced upon one that really struck me. Not as old as some of the others, probably. No "Paul Revere slept through the sermon here" plaques. But a lovely red brick building, tucked away in one of the more serpentine neighbourhoods. We climbed a few steps to a back door and found it unlocked, so we went in. Found ourselves in a foyer of sorts, creaky floored and unlit. There was another door in front of us, so we pulled that one open. Creak. Stepped to the threshold. Creak. Peeked through the door. Creak.

It was beautiful inside. Warm and hushed and soaring. Stained glass windows, old dark pews, draperies and candles. It smelled of polished wood and wax and flame and time and prayer. But we didn't go in any further. We closed the door and left. Creaking all the way.

Quite a contrast to the building we have Breakfast and Dinner in. No such loving preservation there. Nothing's been polished in yonks, if ever. Windows are cracked. Some don't open. Some don't close. It smells funky, like it's been wet too long, which it has. The floor is covered with a carpet that's 1 part rug, 2 parts unsuccessfully cleaned up spills.

But it has its moments. Sometimes when it's full of people eating the best meal of the week, chatting and laughing and grateful. When eyes are met and hugs returned and chairs are shuffled to make room for one more. It has its moments.

It bothers me sometimes that we don't have anything that passes for "church" there. Nothing of a clearly spiritual nature. Nothing that mentions Jesus by name. God, yes. But not Jesus, really. It bothers me that we don't pray together more, or read from the Bible. That we don't sing those songs. It bothers me a little that people talk about Dinner as being held "in the church". I want to challenge them and ask them what that means, knowing full well that it just means that room and nothing more.

Still. The room does mean more to people than just a meal. And they recognize that the impulse that brings it to life is a "church" impulse of some kind, or at least a "community" one. A "kind" one. Human and Spiritual.

And when I hold up our weekly feasts side by side with that church in Boston...

You see, the reason why we left without really going in is that when we opened that inner door, we heard something.

Someone speaking. One voice.

One voice echoing through the room, over the pews, off the windows. The pews that were completely empty, the windows that were telling their stories to no one.

One voice, chanting in what might have been Latin. Reciting a text that no one would hear. Except the speaker and God himself. Because they were the only ones in the room.

As we left, we looked at the sign on the fence outside. "5:00 pm. Mass". It was 5 pm. So the Mass was being said. Whether anyone was there to hear it or not. It had to be said.

Why? I have no clue. But it had to be said. If only to the antique pews and the priceless glass and the glowing candles and absolutely not a living soul. Haunted and driven by tradition. Disregarded by life and humanity.

One church with a sermon and no congregation.

Another with a congregation and no sermon.

Is one right and the other wrong? Both wrong? Both right?

Dunno.

But I know which one at least feels alive.

r

Chastened and Rebuked

2009-07-15T20:16:00.003-04:00

Having been chastised by the Cassini sisters for not blogging, your humbled scribe sits down with quill in hand and awaits the muse.

They've been in town for a short interval between south and east. Their volunteer mission to Cambodia has fallen through and they're waiting to see what God has for them instead.

Their young 'un, who looks like Christopher Robin, was having a great time hanging out on the front steps with a few of the guys. One of them was A., still reveling in his new life out of the Motel, but still coming to Dinner every week.

A. is a 6 foot something, gangly, eagle faced guy, greying and wrinkling. Christopher Robin is as tall as a bookend, bright eyed and quick. A. was smoking on the steps and Christopher Robin looked up, looked wa-ay up, and asked him, "Are you good?"

A. answered, "No, I'm not. I'm an old buzzard."

Christopher Robin replied, "Well. No old buzzards are allowed in here."

A. burst out laughing, and came in the room to tell us all, tripping over a chair on the way.

We've all noticed the change in him since he got his apartment. The cloud is gone and he seems lighter. One woman said, "Such a small miracle makes such a big difference."

The place was packed tonight. We have 65 chairs and everyone of them was occupied, plus a few take-outs.

SW sat at the piano and played for us until someone came to fetch him, needing a ride somewhere. I wonder sometimes where else he feels welcome.

I hadn't seen anybody much in a couple of weeks, so I spent most of the time chatting and catching up. Apologizing to C. (who has also moved out, but still comes to Dinner) for being so slow in editing chapter 5 of the novel (have I mentioned she's writing a novel? She is.), catching up with CL and hearing about how PA is doing, what they've got for the baby, and when the next sonogram is. CL is honorary Grandma.

She had a rough week. Threw her back out and couldn't work for several days which, for some of us, is torture.

I talked with the Cassini sisters, planned with J., compared travels down east with R., heard (in detail) (lots of detail) how L.'s surgery went.

Lots of conversation.

Problem is, I have to make myself focus on the conversation for its own sake. The writer in me is always looking for material. Which is so wrong. Sort of.

On one hand, I think that maybe by reading some of these stories, people who have never known these people might get to know them, might get to understand what they've been through, might look twice the next time they see somebody sitting on the sidewalk with a paper cup and a cardboard sign, or somebody riding a bike down the highway, piled high with groceries, or somebody paying for something with a voucher or food stamps, or somebody who smells like beer.

On the other hand, it seems very disingenuous to be listening and taking notes at the same time.

I'd make a lousy reporter. My head would go off in one direction, and my heart in the other.

But it's interesting to be writing one of these posts and seeing how the links I put in from one story to the previous one carry over, sometimes from one year to the next. To see how long I've known these people and been sharing their stories and how we've gone up and down together.

I wonder sometimes who I'd be if I hadn't had all of this extra life to live, if I'd never crossed the line and actually done this thing. I'd be less - something.

And, yes, sometimes the writer in me clashes with the friend and the would be friend and I'm very aware of the way I balance my writing between the knowledge that very few of the people at the Motel have ever read any of this, and the knowledge that they very easily could.

I guess that's just the vagaries of writing my memoirs in real time instead of 20 years later.

r

Music and Analysis

2009-06-11T11:49:00.011-04:00

Last night it was all about pasta. Tuna casserole, tortellini, penne, noodles galore. We don't usually do a lot of pasta, but it's a good busy-day solution. Apparently yesterday we all had a busy day.

It's early in the month, so numbers were down a bit at Dinner.

Got me thinking about why people come each week. There are a few different reasons.

1. They're hungry. Which is why numbers swell near the end of the month near pay day. The cupboard is bare, and a meal is needed.

2. They have something to give. People cook and bring the meal and share it. Then sit down and eat it with those they're serving.

3. They're lonely. It's nice to sit down at a big table once in a while with lots of other people and chat or eavesdrop and to hear the background murmur of a group.

4. It's home-cooking. Food bank food tends to be canned and a lot of the residents are guys who never learned to cook from scratch. Some work really long hours and have no energy for cooking on the hot plate or in the microwave when they get home.

5. It's an event, a happening - an anchor to the week.

6. There's pie.

7. They have friends there. It's a chance to catch up or make plans or play euchre.

We've seen less lately of M & M. They come to Dinner faithfully every week when the weather is bad, but when it warms up and the sun's still shining after 7 pm, they'd rather sit outside their place with a few friends. They're very sociable and hospitable people.

The weather also plays a big part in how often we see K and R. They're a couple who live far enough away from the Motel to make traveling difficult. When there's no snow and it's not raining they wheel their way over for a visit, both on their motor chairs. The hiccup is that there's no ramp at the Motel. (The handyman built one a while back, out of scrap lumber and an old table top. The table top was slick when wet and K went off sideways. She wasn't hurt, but that was the end of that.) So they have a table set up outside the doors where they dine alfresco when the sun is shining. If it's not, they stay home.

We had a visit from SW, too. Good to see him in good spirits. Didn't come on the tractor, because he was wearing his plaid skirt and pageboy wig. He brought a guitar with him, a very pretty black Fender. He keeps buying them, because they keep getting stolen. H. played us a few songs. SW played and sang a couple and said he couldn't remember the words and smiled.

Music kept popping up last night, here and there.

A group standing in line for dessert started singing Happy Birthday to a guy who walked in just then.

We talked about busking and how annoying it is when you're playing at the farmers' market and somebody shows up with a sound system.

Little 18 month old B often bangs away at the piano for a while. Last night H. sat down on the bench beside him, told B's mom which notes to hit to make a rhythm and H. played some jazzy vamp for the boy sitting on his mom's lap.

Children are cherished at the Motel. So many of the residents have family they never get to see any more. E brought a bundle of pictures of her grandkids, age 1 to 11. She'd had a really good visit with them for the first time in quite a while. Some of the older ones had been given up for adoption years ago and she hadn't seen them since. At least now she has up to date photos.

It was a nice evening. Quiet, ordinary, relaxed. With music.

r

Screen Grab From My "Recent Visitors" Map...

2009-06-06T14:12:00.001-04:00

...which tells me that either:

a) my blog is being read by someone on a Navy ship

b) my blog is being read by pirates

c) my blog is being read by aliens hovering somewhere over the equator

d) whales got internet

r

Coming and Going

2009-06-04T09:39:00.019-04:00

Spring. The mother of all metaphors. Last night as I was getting in the car to head over to Dinner, the sun was coming through the maple tree, suffusing the world with that green, that fresh incomparable green that you only get for a couple of weeks in late May. Not yet dusty or dry or bug bitten or tired. Just alive.

I drove over there with no food in my car. Just an empty pan to return to J. from the last Breakfast. We've been planning our schedule for the summer and, much thanks to J., we've got every week covered from here to the end of September. (Except for Canada Day, which is a Wednesday. That's TBA.) The Dinners will be provided by an assortment of 7 churches. A most auspicious number. Catholic, Presbyterian, Pentecostal, Baptist, Anglican, Evangelical Missionary, Catholic again.

Our regulars only have to cook one Dinner in all this, and put together Breakfasts. Sigh. Lovely.

B. dropped by last night for the first time in quite a while, paying her way with a butterscotch pudding dessert which is part of the reason we love her so much.

Had a good chat with E. She's very happy about the future right now. Since her disability pension came through, she's been able to pay off some debts, plan a weekend away visiting her grandkids and start looking for an apartment. She also made a couple of donations. One to us, for Dinners, and one to the Legal Help Centre.

That's a very cool thing. A registered charity. Don't know where all their funding comes from, but some is donations. They have a few lawyers on staff who "further and promote social justice, equity, and the right to self-determination through our services and programs in income security, housing security and health security." As opposed to Legal Aid, which helps when you've been charged with something and will be facing a judge. Legal Help fills a great gap for a lot of people who don't understand their rights, the processes involved, the jargon in which they're defined and what the hell do I do now? Good people.

When E. started her appeal process, she signed a contract of retainer, and the bill she paid in the end was simply for expenses incurred. So she wanted to give something back. Everybody wins.

On my way out, I walked past K., sitting on the steps having a smoke, and stopped to talk to A. He's in a really good place right now. This is the guy who told me a month ago, "I'm stuck between everything but what I want to be between." And now, a bunch of things have come together over the last week or so, and he's moved out of the Motel and into new digs at the Hilltop Apartments.

Really nice heritage building downtown. It has a truly majestic lobby (seriously). The apartments have high ceilings and cast iron radiators and windows that you could actually walk out through. (And land in traffic. Not recommended. But they look fantastic.) He says it's clean and quiet and wonderful. A really good shower. I wasn't sure he might not cry, telling me about it.

He said, "You know, it's like I say, one good thing about living here is it's as low as you can go. There's nowhere to go but up."

I said, "And now you have."

He grinned.

I congratulated him and walked to my car where I saw the pan I was supposed to give back to J.

Grabbed it and headed back up the steps past K.

Who said to me, "I used to live at the Hilltop Apartments, ya know." He took a drag and said, "I really miss my apartment."

I said, "Yeah, I know." 'Cause that's all I had. What do you say?

He'd heard my chat with A. About how wonderful it was to be going in that direction. All the while K. is going in the opposite direction. I hoped I hadn't said anything to A. that would hurt K. but you can't play that game for too long at the Motel.

Everybody's story is different, but they're heading in one of only two directions and you have to rejoice with those who rejoice. If they're grinning, you have to grin back. And try not to feel guilty about it.

But you love them both the same, the upbound and the downbound, and you dig into their stories in spite of the mental confusion.

Because you can't not love. You can't not embrace. You can't not care.

My husband gave me a wonderful book yesterday. It's called "Flawed Dogs - The Year End Leftovers at the Piddleton 'Last Chance' Dog Pound", by Berkeley Breathed. The last page reads:

"So in this world
Of the simple and odd
The bent and the plain,
The unbalanced bod,
The imperfect people
And differently pawed,
Some live without love...

That's how they're flawed."

r

Worrying Just a Little

2009-05-23T19:44:00.011-04:00

Yard sale today. The second annual.

It was cloudy and cool, so I've only got a minor sunburn this year. Wore better sandals, didn't get up 'til 7, wore a hat. These are the things I learned last year. Applied knowledge is a wonderful thing.

I don't think we made quite as much dosh this year, but that's not really the point. (Although I'm informed that, according to our "financial umbrella", we're in the hole to the tune of $84. I think we made that much, at least.) (Probably.) (After the hot dogs are paid for.)

A few of us were on the lawn at the Motel from 7:30 until about 2:30. There was lots of help to set things up. There are always people around who need to earn community service hours and CL finds work for them where she can.

A few dissolute souls (you know who you are) dragged in a couple of hours later, recovering from a late night out at a Leonard Cohen concert and a long drive home. They stayed later to help clear up.

We had hot dogs and drinks and face painting. I got a ukulele on my cheek. With music notes.

BL and I brought our ukes and had a jam session of sorts with H, who can really play the guitar. He has a drum machine which, for we strumming newbies, was a great thing. He gave us a chord progression and we followed. It was a lot of fun. A Lot! Loved it. Best part of the day. H. had a health scare earlier this year that I didn't write about, and he seems to be recovered and making plans. Beautiful man.

We set up the finger pinching tent outside E's room again and had a cooler of drinks, a tank of coffee, a picnic table and a barbeque for the dogs. The barbeque is one CL got for free from somewhere and it works just fine as long as you don't open the lid all the way. Then it falls off. Makes an impressive crashbang on the parking lot. Ask me how I know.

The highlight of the day for E was a visit from a local musician who's visited us a couple of times. She has his picture on her fridge and his CD in the player. He came by today and brought his guitar expressly for the purpose of singing a duet with her. "Doo Wah Diddy Diddy Dum Diddy Doo." (None of which my spellchecker objects to. Interesting.) She sang full throated and joyful with such animation, smiling and gesturing, all three times through the song. Such a grace filled moment. He stood chatting outside her door for a while afterwards with his own voice blasting out from the stereo indoors. I wondered what that was like.

A couple of friends who used to live at the Motel came along and set up a sale of their own closer to the road, which was cool. The more the merrier. I bought a Toni Braxton CD from them. Love Toni Braxton.

We missed one friend today, who moved out last week. She and her man split up. Sad. I like them both quite a lot and I was sorry to hear about how things were going.

K and R turned up, wheeling across the wet grass to come say hi. K makes jewellery and she made me some earrings. Now I have to get my ears pierced. That was the deal. The earrings are lovely. Turquoise crosses with white gold. She's another artist who finds her supplies and her inspiration all over the place. Resourceful and creative.

There weren't as many customers this year as last, so there was more time for sitting. From outside E's room, you can see all the way down the row to the back of the property, and across the front parking lot and the lawn on the west side of the house.

You can see that CL is limping. Her legs are giving her a lot of trouble lately, especially going up stairs. She works long days, doing what should be the job of an assistant manager. Last Sunday, as we were getting ready for Breakfast, a rucus broke out down crack alley. A woman who doesn't live there was trying to kick down a guy's door. She wouldn't stop, so CL had to go yell at her and send her away. Just as the woman was driving off, someone came running around the corner from another row shouting for CL to come right away. Somebody had been maced and hit with a baseball bat. Yelling wasn't going to fix that one, so she called the cops. She said later that she felt badly about that. It was the first time she'd actually had to call the cops. She's a person people depend on and she thrives on it. She's 71 years old.

You can see that PA is really showing now. Four foot something, with a child's face and delicate frame. She has a couple of kids already, in someone else's custody, but she's expecting this new one with joy and hope. She and her man really love each other and this is such a wonderful thing for them. They've asked CL to be Grandma and she was shopping the yard sale today for things for the baby and for their home. But you can see in her eyes that she's not taking care of herself - around her eyes that she's not given up some things she shouldn't have been doing in the first place, certainly not pregnant. You wonder if she'll get to bring the baby home.

You can see that U has been drinking more than he should. He's on a few meds for serious health stuff and the drinking makes everything worse. His breathing and his circulation are getting so bad he's afraid to take showers now in case he falls, and he finds it hard to stand up once he's in the tub. He bought a couple of things today for grandbabies he never sees.

You can see the bow of the roof of the rooms down the row. The broken windows. The cat with the crooked head.

You can hear H talking about how now the place has been sold they don't know what the new owners are going to do with it. You don't know whether it's true, because you've heard the same thing so many times and it's always turned out to be baseless.

You hear a couple of people talking about what happened the other day when the power was turned off again for most of the day because the bill hadn't been paid. You hear several versions with blame being placed in different quarters, but after about 7 hours with no power, everybody'd been worried about their fridges.

And you start to see everything through a veil of vulnerability. Everywhere you look, vulnerability. Tenuousness. Health and family and infrastructure and hope. And you start to worry just a little. How can it keep on like this? How long can it continue?

And you start to think, "Not much longer." You start to think this might be the last time you sit here, in the sun, outside E's room seeing these smiles and these walls and the broken barbeque and A driving by, waving, and G strolling past with his hands clasped behind his back, smiling that quiet smile, and you start to grieve. Grieve for something that hasn't even happened yet and that you can't even name. But something that suddenly seems inevitable.

Today was a fun day. Light and friendly and comfortable and homey. Hanging around at the Motel for several hours with nothing to do but talk and listen and watch.

But it's somehow left me sad. I've found this seed of foreshadowing planted in my gut. I'm worried. Worried that such a precious little enclave of humanity, truest true imperfect and lovely humanity, is under siege and failing. Worried that we're losing our hopeful, infuriating, contentious, embracing, wounded, unique, fractured family. That we've lost it already and just haven't got the word yet.

That another moment like Doo Wah Diddy can't possibly ever happen again and maybe the reason it happened at all is so that we'll have something wonderful to look back on when it's all gone.

I'm not even sure where this is coming from, and maybe I'm just tired. But right now I feel like we've lost.

I guess I'll see how I feel in the morning.

r

Show Me Yours and I'll Show You Mine

2009-05-10T14:00:00.015-04:00

Went to church this morning. There was a woman preaching. Must be Mothers' Day.

Best part of the morning was talking in the lobby afterwards with R. Some folks at this particular church have been good friends to him and he attends there occasionally. He sat about halfway back by himself wearing his trademark red fleece jacket and a bright yellow button that says, "I've survived DAMN near everything." I'd never have the nerve to wear that to church. But I'm working on it.

Afterwards, he sat in the lobby, on his own again, with his cookies and coffee and called out to me, "Hi, Ruth!" so I went and sat beside him so we could catch up. Asked him if he'd called his mom yet. He said he'd tried, but the line had been busy. He'd try again. Can't imagine what that call must mean to her. Wow.

He told me about an AA Roundup he'd been to the other day, from 10 am to 6 pm, with a bunch of speakers. I said that sounded like a long day. He said it was, but there was lots to eat, so it was OK.

He said that next week he'd be getting his new teeth. He's one of many I've got to know whose dental health has suffered from no money. What generally happens is that your teeth decay to the point where they all have to be pulled. All of them. At which point the government will cover the cost, and help pay for dentures. Not much help available to keep the originals, though.

I said that would be great, he'd be able to enjoy his cookies more. He laughed and said yeah.

Then he said, "Hey, wanna see my new tattoo?" I said sure.

He stood up and started fiddling with the zipper on his jacket.

And I had one of those mental gap moments.

I thought, "What did I just agree to? What did I just give permission for? In the church lobby? On Mothers' Day?"

Hadn't even thought about it. Just said yes. My thoughts flashed ahead to some shirt-removing or unbuttoning scandal that would be discussed at church board meetings for years to come. With me in the middle of it, surrounded by gaping grey haired saints and young children. "Mommy, what's that?"

Not that I really thought R. was likely to do anything entirely shocking, it was just one of those moments when I wished I'd asked for more information before committing myself.

But it was fine. He took off the red fleece jacket. He was wearing a tank top and showed a few of us standing nearby his arm with a big Popeye tat. Most apropos, for he who had "survived DAMN near everything."

I also talked to a woman I haven't seen much in the last year. We've heard that the family has been going through a rough time, but hadn't been told exactly what was wrong. We'd heard rumours, hints, half thoughts, probablys... But not the actual story. And we'd certainly never asked them.

On one hand, it's not really any of our business. On the other hand, we care.

We walked together out of the service, and she asked me how we were doing, so we chatted briefly about my boys, in school and church and life.

But it was another one of those mental gap things. My mouth was happily going on about what my family is up to and where the eldest is going to university in the fall and how's business and are you still doing that thing at the Motel. Meanwhile, my brain was trying to decide whether or not to ask, "And how are you guys doing?"

What if it seemed intrusive? What if she didn't want to talk about it? On the other hand, how could I not? How could I talk about myself and how good this and that are without acknowledging that she must know that I know that for her, things weren't quite perfect. It's a small town. Everybody knows enough to know when something is up.

So I asked, hoping she wouldn't just say "Fine" 'cause then I'd have to pretend to believe her. But she told me - what they were dealing with and how stressful it had been and how God had brought some help to them just when they needed it and what was hopeful and what was making them nervous.

And I recognized in her eyes and her voice that whatever-it-is you feel, that I've felt, when somebody else brings it up. When you get to vent for a bit about what's pressing on you and somebody actively listens. When you don't want to go on and on about all your troubles, but you'd love someone to ask. When you get past "Fine" to the true state of affairs and don't have to pretend.

So I just listened, glad I'd asked, because church can be such an ungenuine place for we, the imperfect and the struggling. And sometimes we need permission to admit that that's what we are.

And that, yes, we're surviving damn near everything.

r

Oops

2009-05-07T10:28:00.008-04:00

We actually ran out of food last night. I always worry that we will, but it's only happened once before and then we had hot dogs on hand. Last night a few of us went home having had only dessert. It was mostly a planning problem.

One the plus side, we've got a new partner, these days. Local Baptist church has promised to provide meals on the first week of every other month, which is awesome. We're starting to realize that we're suffering from cooking fatigue. Some of us have been doing this nearly every week for almost 3 years and, much as we love the people we're cooking for, it's getting a bit old and we're happy to have some others to share that.

Local Baptist is the church where our Public Appearance took place last Saturday. C. wasn't feeling well enough to come, which sucked, but C.L. and I went and had our chance to talk about what we do. It went really well, I think. C.L. talked about the people who live there, and I talked more about Dinner in particular. And I played my ukulele. Yay.

The women asked a number of questions, one of which keeps coming up. Seems like everyone I talk to about the Motel asks, "How many people live there?" The answer, "About 80" always comes as a surprise. Such a basic piece of information, and nobody in town seems to know, not even town staff or officials. The place has been a blind spot for so long, all anybody knows is that it has a bad reputation and that every now and then they see on the court page of the local paper "The accused lives at the Motel."

I was talking last night with C., who has a real passion for the place and how good a thing it can be. She said that a few months ago, when a church group was providing Dinner, she found herself sitting with some 'church people'. She said that one of them leaned over to her and said, "I feel so sorry for you having to live in a place like this."

She said, "It made me feel tiny. Just tiny." She's a very intelligent woman, creative, strong and hopeful and to be pitied like that must have been sickening. But that's the attitude that Motelians encounter all the time. A mix of uninformed pity and mistrust.

She's looking at organizing a residents' meeting to talk about community issues and sort out some stuff, which is awesome. I was eavesdropping on the conversation last night after Dinner and I have to admit I kept wanting to offer to help. I've got some experience organizing things and working with people and she's just getting started and maybe I could help her avoid some pitfalls. Help her design the poster, to choose the wording, to keep things under control. After all, I want to see her succeed. I want to help her succeed.

But...

I bit my tongue. What could I possibly have to contribute to a town hall meeting for a town where I don't live? It would be so easy and it's so tempting to stick my oar in and tell her how to do things and give her advice and whatnot. It's so easy to play the colonialist and assume I know stuff she needs to know. It's so easy to be superior and to help when I haven't been asked to and probably won't be. We keep reminding ourselves that we're guests at the Motel. We don't live there. It's not our home. We visit friends and have fun, but it's not our community.

Which is a strange thing sometimes.

Like this week. A friend at the Motel was facing an appeal hearing for disability benefits, a long frustrating process. She was hoping that she'd get word that the hearing was unnecessary because her denial had been overturned. I was going to go along to the hearing for moral support, so she wouldn't be on her own. I was actually looking forward to it. I've never been to a hearing like this and wondered how they're run and what happens there. I thought, to be honest, I might get a blog post out of it.

But she got the news she was hoping for. The hearing was cancelled because her appeal had been approved. When she called to let me know, I was genuinely happy for her. It's wonderful news. (More on that whole thing some other time.)

But when I hung up, I admit I thought, "Oh, well. Never mind."

It would have been nice to be the friend, to have her be grateful to me for going along, glad to have me there. It would have been nice to be able to help.

But why? Why do I want to help C. with her residents' meeting? Because I'm the strong one? The smart one? Privileged? Beneficent? Condescending?

I know that's not entirely true. But it might be a bit.

And it's not just that we all need to be needed. That's a little too kind.

Truth is, we all want to be admired. Appreciated. We all want to show off what we've got, just a little, whether it's intelligence or wealth or compassion or efficiency. It's how we remind the world and ourselves that we're worth something. Worth listening to. Worth patting on the back.

We're happy to work invisibly all year if it means we'll get our name in the paper, nominated for "Volunteer of the Year". We're happy to help folks if they know it's we who helped them. It's my car, I took time off work, I could be doing something else right now. But I choose to be here with you. I feel so sorry for you having to live like this.

But that's not humility, is it? It's not love. It's not respect.

And how can you be a friend, a real, honest-to-God human being if you can't look at someone without looking down on them? Hoping they look up to you?

I'm a great believer that "There is no limit to what can be accomplished if it doesn't matter who gets the credit."

Great believer, imperfect practitioner.

r

Bon Voyage

2009-05-01T12:31:00.012-04:00

Apparently I had the address wrong.

When C. went to look at the house, on one of the few remaining days in the month, she found that it was a complete disaster. Not only were the plumbing fixtures gone, so was the front door and there was "no kitchen".

So for a mere $350 a month plus materials and labour (just replacing the front door and fitting it with locks would be a couple hundred), they'd have been renting a bombed out box. Fortunately, they hadn't officially given their notice to the Motel's manager. He'd heard unofficially that they'd be moving, and he'd got someone lined up and ready to move into their room. But C. hadn't spoken directly to him, so she and her man still have their roof.

It amazes me every time how quickly these rooms are filled when someone moves out. That there is a waiting list for this place just says that there's sumpin' ain't right.

I learned this week from a study done in our area that nearly 9% of people in our county live in homes "requiring major repairs." Which is a measure of "residential" buildings. Not sure whether it includes the Motel.

There was a pile of tarp on the ground next to E.'s room the other day from when the wind blew her roof open. It's patched now. Who knows. Last year's patch job was a mud flap from a semi truck, glued down with driveway sealer. Works great, if it don't rain and it don't snow.

We said toodles this week to our very own Cassini sisters. They're on their way south for the summer (!) and the adventure continues from there. Gonna miss them. Their spirit, their perspective, their smiles. We hope to see them again in a few months when they swing by on their way to more exotic places.

Tomorrow morning is a first, and I'm not quite sure what to expect. We've (those of us who live there and those of us who don't) been invited to a ladies' breakfast at a local church. This congregation has committed to providing meals for Dinner once every other month, which is a tremendous gift. Some of us are getting a bit fatigued with the cooking.

So anyway, they invited us not only to come to Breakfast, but to speak. Three of us have taken them up on the offer: C., who has lived at the Motel for less than a year, C.L., who 's lived there for 6 or 7 years, and I, who have never lived there. We'll each take 5 minutes or so to say whatever we have to say and then I'll sing a couple of songs. Very exciting. Not exactly "Women of Faith" (copyrighttrademarkallrightsreserved), but still... Better, maybe.

C.L. has written some letters to the local paper, which have been published, objecting to the reputation that's been foisted on Motelians by uninformed citizens, characterizing them all as criminals and the Motel as a "haven for pedophiles".

C. is writing a novel, which I'm enjoying editing. 'Cause it means I get to read it first.

They've both come through pretty harsh stuff, and emerged loveable and bright, undefeated and indefatigable with spirits that shine and 100 watt smiles. I'm looking forward to hearing what they have to say. And I get to play my ukulele. All that and danishes, too.

C.L.'s van is repaired now, thanks to a young guy who lives at the Motel. For a while she couldn't start it up and go anywhere, for fear she might not get home again. She'd tried a couple of batteries, and a few other things, but couldn't get it working again. At Dinner this week, she was smiling a mile wide saying that all she has to do is turn the key and it starts! Wonderful luxury.

There's been some talk lately about the "community" that exists at the Motel, both among the GTI team and a local body called the "Affordable Housing Steering Committee". Some of us attended a local forum on the subject last week and we were able to inform some people, who are interested in the issue in general, about this specific corner of town. There is, I think, a real concern and a growing awareness that the Motel is needed and that it serves a genuine need and a niche. That, rather than being a "haven for pedophiles" or a ghetto, it's a good thing. And that it could be better.

We talked at Dinner this week about how good it is when it's good, and how wonderful it could be if the drug dealers could be got rid of. We talked about fixing things, and helping each other, and having residents' meetings to talk about stuff.

Encouraging.

r

Transitions

2009-04-23T13:27:00.014-04:00

We were wishing we'd counted heads last night. Long, long lineup, a number of new faces, people who don't live at the Motel.

When I walked in, SW was there, playing the piano, filling out the conversations that had started already.

One group had set a table for themselves, with plastic knives and forks and spoons, styro cups and plates, and a candle. 6 of them sat chatting, waiting for the meal to start. Lovely. Homey.

Spaghetti dinner. We don't do a lot of pasta meals because people get lots of that from the food bank - noodles and canned sauce. But ours was homemade and meaty with lots of veggies. I pre-heated a huge pot of water at home and took it over there to put on the stove so S. could cook the noodles. Pre-heating seemed like a good idea since the stove there takes a long time to do anything. I also brought a huge caesar salad.

Which means my contribution last night was boiling water and lettuce. Have I got mad skills, or what?

After Dinner, there was a first. I got roped in to playing euchre. There's a regular game every week including trash talk and what may or may not be cheating.

But this week they were a hand short, so I got drafted. I've never played before and still don't know how. This is because D., the electrician and local euchre guru, sat behind me and told me what to do. Think Edgar Bergen and Charlie McArthy. He'd tell me to say, "Pass." I'd say, "Pass." He'd tell me to put down that one. I'd put down that one. He'd tell me to pick up that one. I'd pick it up. He'd lean in close and whisper strategies in my ear. He'd reach around from behind me and grab my hand, angling it so E. couldn't see my cards, or to sort them by suit. He'd been drinking but he was still way sharper than I was. I was very aware of the fact that, not that long ago, I'd have been very uncomfortable doing this. But that was then.

In the end, I think we won. And I think I know what a bower is. Approximately.

We found out this week that a couple who joined us recently will be heading out with a service organization to Cambodia. They may not be back for a year or two. I'm not sure how long, but we're sorry to see them go. Glad for them, though. One is a nurse and a midwife, the other a dental hygienist, and those skills have opened the door for them. I can't imagine what it will be like to be a Jesus follower in Buddhist country. Quite an adventure.

One guy has stepped back from the planning part, but will still be coming to Dinner. He's built friendships with a couple of guys and wants to continue that, but doesn't want to go to meetings. Which is cool.

But part of the reason for this flows from conflict in the core team.

We're a fairly diverse bunch, as far as our experiences of 'church', and that can cause friction. Some of us have healthy happy roots in the organized church, and some of us have walked away from it because things haven't gone well.

But we all believe that to do what we're doing is to follow Christ's example.

As a group, we've struggled with the easiness of tarring numbers of people with the same brush, whether they deserve it or not. It's so easy to talk about 'church people' in a dismissive or judging tone, not remembering that there is one literally rubbing elbows with you who doesn't deserve to be lumped in with the ones who fairly could be criticized.

We've also struggled with that thing where you're sitting across the table from someone and they say something you disagree with or take offense with. Ideally, you'd speak up and respectfully address the difference, but what usually happens in church meetings (and probably other groups) is that you bite your tongue until you get home and you vent on the nearest pair of ears. Or you hold it close and get angrier and angrier.

And, apparently, the way we function is enough of a departure from the usual way of doing things to be a challenge. There's been a lot for us to learn. About hierarchical leadership vs. flat leadership. About what unity is and isn't. About why we do what we do and don't what we don't.

It's been suggested that some of that learning is necessary because this is a group founded and led primarily by women which creates a distinctive type of structure. That women are more collaborative, more intuitive, and less prone to "white guy" syndrome. We don't need to have a "white guy" and we don't need to be the "white guy".

Which is an interesting idea (and a whole other post).

But it all came to a head this past week. People got upset. E-mails were sent, conversations were had. Unity took a hit, a trench was dug and we've had to start working through some pain.

I keep wishing I'd gone to school to learn some of this stuff. Knowing full well that there isn't one.

It would be nice if somebody were entirely right and somebody else entirely wrong. But no such luck.

Being part of this group has meant the world to me. Seeing us grow and stretch and learn and teach each other. Seeing us deepen and strengthen and become what we're becoming. Seeing us build, down and out.

But the honeymoon, if there ever was one, is over. The ways in which we've responded to this recent conflict say much about us, and will shape how we respond to each other in the future.

So far, I think we're doing alright. Things aren't going to go back to "normal" any time soon, but we're talking and thinking and prioritizing in good and necessary ways.

And, God willing, we'll walk on from here knowing better who we are and who we want to be.

r

I'm Feeling Much Better Now

2009-04-17T07:34:00.004-04:00

My husband and I are off to Missionfest Toronto, today. Not quiet sure what to expect. It's a sort of trade show for Christian missions organizations, of which I sort of am one. Sort of.

I tend to approach these things with a bit of cynicism. Part of me wants to roll my eyes at any seminar with "women's" in the title. Past experience has not been helpful. And any event I'd want to attend comes with a price tag attached that I just can't afford.

But it'll be interesting. Maybe there'll be someone there with info on housing issues, addiction, mental health. Hope so.

Dinner on Wednesday was provided by St. Thingy's Anglican, their usual week. It was very good. Ham, scalloped potatoes, lovely chocolate eggs with dessert.

Heard some hopeful news from C. She and her man are looking at renting a house for $350 a month. A whole house. The catch is that it needs "some work". Apparently, someone broke in and stole the plumbing fixtures. Including the toilet and bathtub. Must have been some cat burglar. But at least the landlord is replacing the tub, so that's good.

I drove by the address last night, expecting to see some disaster, but it's actually quite nice from the outside. Not more than 20 years old, brick. Rather far from downtown for someone without a car. But considering what they've been living with, a bit of a walk is a small price to pay.

She told me the other week that she has a nice TV that a family member is using right now. She bought it through a "rent to own" program. Over several years of "renting", she figures she paid about $8,000 for the thing. This industry is, I suppose, helpful to a lot of people, but it seems to make most of its money off people who have none. If you can rent a computer for $12 a month, you can manage that. But after enough years of payments you end up with something old and useless that you've paid twice the market value for.

Breakfast is coming up again Sunday morning. Back to normal. We hope. Last month was the tailgate party. We talked about that on Wednesday night. How great it was that the debacle happened before all of the 6 dozen eggs were cracked and scrambled. The way it worked out, S. was able to just give them away intact, which was very welcome.

Last night when I left, A., who lives there, and S., who doesn't, were doing that thing where guys stand around with their heads under the hood of a car. S.'s radio had quit and A. is quite the mechanic. Apparently, fixing the radio involves the engine. I'll have to take their word for it. But A. looked like he was enjoying himself.

A. is a man in his 50s or 60s. He's got a van parked outside his room that hasn't moved all winter. It needs some parts to get it going. As I understand it, he could get the parts and do the work, but then he'd have to get the thing inspected and it would need an emissions test, which he can't afford. He also expects that, once it was in someone's garage, they'd tell him it needed some work to pass the road-worthiness inspection that he can't afford to have them do. So there's no point in fixing the thing. But he's keeping it because he's got a really good deal on insurance that he'd lose if he let it lapse and he can't afford a rate increase if he ever got another vehicle. So he's hanging on to it.

H. has been working on some birdhouses to sell at a local music festival in September. He spent Easter weekend busking outside the liquor store and said that business was down from last year at the same time.

The pot holes in the driveway at the Motel are reaching epic proportions. I'm not sure they qualify as pot holes anymore. Pot holes should probably not be bigger than your car.

We're talking about having another yard sale in the spring and hosting another 'meet and greet' for people in the area working in the fields of justice and social issues.

Life goes on.

r

I Think Next Year I Should Just Stay Home

2009-04-10T12:34:00.004-04:00

Went to the Good Friday service this morning. Made a scene. Yelled at a woman. Went home.

But it wasn't my fault. Really.

I hadn't planned on going, but changed my mind last minute and drove over to the Motor Inn and Conference Centre where it's been held the last few years. I was wearing jeans, my spring coat with the ripped pocket and my favourite cap. (Which is probably relevant.)

There's a large room upstairs that's used for weddings and dinner theatre. The front end, where the windows are, was set up with all the paraphernalia of a modern church service. The back end, with a stage set for the next performance of the play that's running right now. Kitchen table and chairs, living room, fake fireplace.

Place was packed, so my son and I sat on the stage with a few others.

The band was good, songs were well chosen. The sermon was about the two thieves on the crosses next to Jesus and the choices they made. It ended with a repeat-after-me opportunity for people to pray and ask Jesus into their hearts. Which everyone prayed out loud, so no one would feel uncomfortable speaking out for the first time.

Which is where I made my blunder.

I didn't pray out loud. Huge mistake.

First rule of not being noticed in church - if the pastor says "repeat after me", REPEAT!

The Amen had hardly been spoken, when the nicely dressed lady next to me, whose name I didn't know, grabbed my hand, leaned in close and stage-whispered "Will you ever be blessed?"

She held my eyes for a few seconds, squeezed my hand, gave me a pious smile and let go.

I must have looked a bit bewildered, what with being bewildered and all. I know I shook my head, then turned and made a face at my son.

The service moved on from there to the closing song. It was a good song, so I sang along, but I just wanted out of there. I figured as soon as the song was over, I'd take off because I knew, I knew, I knew, that my new best friend wasn't finished. She just had that vibe.

But I was too slow.

I stood up and she grabbed my arm, with both hands, leaned close again and asked me intently, "Do you know this Jesus we're talking about?"

And I found myself suddenly and very angry.

I answered, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. And you should stop judging by appearances. Excuse me."

I tried to walk away, but she wouldn't let go.

She said, "I'm not judging you. I just want to bless you."

"Let go of my arm."

"I have a Word for you."

"Let go of my arm!" I pulled free and turned away. She grabbed the bag I was carrying. I pulled again and walked away.

She called after me, "I just want to bless you!"

I was so angry I was vibrating.

This kind of religious arrogance infuriates me. The "I know you better than you know yourself", "I know what God wants to say to you" self importance. (I'm still angry, by the way, in case you hadn't picked up on that.)

I encountered it once before. I was 16 and visiting some cousins in Montreal. We went to a youth service. I hadn't planned my wardrobe with sufficient care and went to church wearing a denim jacket and jeans. At the end of the service, there was a time of worship that involved everyone gathering at the front of the room, singing together, their hands raised.

I stayed in my seat. Huge mistake.

Second rule of not being noticed in church - don't get separated from the herd.

So this woman, a complete stranger, plunked down next to me, put her arm around me and started praying loudly that I'd come to know Jesus as my Saviour.

I didn't want to disappoint her by saying that I already did, so I played possum and waited for her to finish.

I can't quite believe it happened again. This time I didn't play dead. I fought back.

In the post-match analysis over lunch, my family agreed that if Conan the Converter was going to assault anyone, it might as well be me, rather than someone who isn't a believer and might go away thinking that all Christians are like that. I can take a hit. Takin' one for the team. Yeah.

But she drove me away. There was someone in that room I actually wanted to talk to. I saw him sitting with his family. Someone I wanted particularly to shake hands with, or give him a hug because we've got history and his family is going through a rough time right now. I just wanted to make sure I said hi.

Instead, I headed for the exit like a - yeah, I'm gonna say it - bat out of Hell. Because this arrogant, religious, presumptuous woman accosted me and tried to force her version of God's will for my life down my throat.

I'm still angry.

Happy Good Friday.

r

Goin' Everywhere Twice - The Second Time To Apologize

2009-04-03T11:30:00.005-04:00

Good Dinner on Wednesday. Uneventful, if ya know what I mean.

Large crowd, new faces. Lots of people taking their food back to their rooms to eat. That debate continues.

After Dinner we did a run to the food bank. And the winner of the Donation Of The Week award was...

A one gallon jug of vinegar! Yay! Vinegar! Nutritious and delicious! Spread it on your sandwiches. Put it in your tea. Feed it to your children. Yummy.

I had 3 passengers, two women I've just met, one of whom has the most awesome tat. The face of a sweet eyed, rosebud mouth girl, peeking out from behind her V-neck shirt. Quite lovely.

The other passenger was GJ, a guy who doesn't live at the Motel. He's a nervous person, not socially comfortable, tall and gaunt and easily perplexed. He has a hard time focusing on details. He walks quite a way every week to get there, and gets R to phone me on his behalf if it's too cold or raining and he needs a ride.

GJ was late for Dinner tonight because he'd been looking for his food bank card. Had a hard time finding it, but eventually made it over. He's lost his card a couple of times before and they charge for replacements. We debated on the ride over there whether it was $5 or $1. Probably $1.

But the woman who usually mans the desk gets impatient with these things. She has to look up your number in the book, check the name against your ID, write out a new card. This process always includes a lecture and lots of head shaking and tut-tutting, while people are standing in line behind the offender, waiting. It's embarrassing.

Especially if you can't remember your card number. Then the look-up takes longer and the tut-tuts get louder.

So I teased GJ in the car about losing his card again. "She's going to get cranky at you." Ha ha. I'm so funny.

We got there and the women went in. GJ hung back outside to get organized. He wanted to have his card in his hand when he went in. Only he never came in. I went back out to see where he was and he was standing on the sidewalk, emptying his pockets trying to find his card again.

He knew it was there somewhere. I laughed again and said, "Now you're in trouble."

Because I'm an idiot.

He didn't think it was funny. He has a hard enough time communicating with people, with facing up to authority figures that this was undoing him. He couldn't go in if he didn't have his card. He went through his pants pockets, shirt, vest, anorak, his bag. It wasn't there.

"She'll yell at me. She'll get mad. She's always yelling at me." He was genuinely upset.

Hoping to help, I told him that it wasn't that woman this time. There was a man at the table tonight.

He said, "Thanks." and poked his head in the door. But in the few minutes he'd waited, the line had gotten long enough to be intimidating and he just couldn't do it.

He decided he could wait until next week. Maybe he'd find his card by then. So we stood outside and chatted and he showed us the case he carries his phone in "to reduce the radiation". And he walked home from there.

I know it wasn't really my fault he didn't go in, but I didn't help, being flip. If it had been me and I'd lost my card, and the woman was tut-tutting at me, I'd tut-tut back. I'd probably find it a bit amusing and shrug it off.

But for people who've spent their whole lives down and who have social challenges to begin with... it's a deal breaker. And I should have known that by now.

So I felt like I should apologize to GJ, but I'm not sure for what exactly. "I'm sorry I didn't assume you couldn't cope."

No.

r

Dear Martin Smith, Wanna Job Swap?

2009-04-01T13:11:00.007-04:00

Dear Martin Smith,

Wanna job-swap? 'Cause I think it might be fun.

We have a lot in common, you and me. We're both writers, and singers. We've both got a passion for the poor and the marginalized. You've got the whole skinny-suit, great-hair Doctor Who thing going on. Me, I'm more Donna Noble.

You put together the Compassionart project. Great idea. Looks like a lot of fun, and I hope it does a lot of good.

You brought together a bunch of warm, talented people – musicians, writers, singers, worship leaders, American, English, Australian - to create something new and cool.

I've put together a bunch of warm, talented people – bakers, writers, lovers, Baptist and Pentecostal, gay and straight, cynical and hopeful – to create something new and cool.

You've got a really good band, and you travel the world making really good music.

I've got a bunch of punchy, bewildered hobbits, making really good meals and hope and friendship.

You've got an audience of millions for the articles you write about worship, and the songs and the interviews.

I've got a blog with an average daily readership of point 2.

You've got a platform to share your passion and your heart and to see things happen because of the things you do and say.

I'm having conversations that are exciting, but I can't tell you anything about them either because they're private, or because if the wrong person heard about them, the roof would fall in.

You've got the hardwood and glass and rarified air of Abbey Road.

I've got the raccoons and sticky carpet of the Sherwood Room.

To be honest, I get a bit jealous. I see what you and your friends are doing, and what you'll leave behind and I compare it to my little spark, cradled in my hand, being kept alive by the breath of the few of us who bend close enough blow on it. And I wish...

It can get a bit discouraging, being small, believing you're capable of more. Wondering why God puts some of us here, and some of us there. Pressing your nose against the window, wondering what that feast tastes like.

What I'm doing is necessary and good and, I believe, a God-vision. But at the same time, the professionally produced making-of documentary, on the 42 inch TV, with the studio time and the music making and the MacBooks is so seductive and lovely. I wish, I wish, I wish.

But if I weren't doing what I'm doing, who would? If I hadn't started out for Mordor, who would have?

Maybe God would have tapped someone else. I don't know. And I have no regrets.

But I have dreams.

Blackholes, Wormholes And The Metaphysics of What the Heck Happened

2009-03-24T14:15:00.006-04:00

(or... Back Up The Roller Coaster)

OK - What we can agree on is this: Our team heard on the Thursday from a reputable source that the power at the Motel was going to be shut off, leaving the residents with no heat and an expected low of -15. Two of us drove over to the property to see if anyone needed help making alternate arrangements.

Which is where things get weird.

Version 1:

They arrived and went to the office building, the top floor of which is the manager's apartment. They rang the bell and no one came to the door. The manager's wife came out onto the balcony above.

The guys asked to talk to her husband and she said he wasn't feeling well and was asleep. They said that we'd heard that the power was going to be cut. She said that he was on the phone 'right now' dealing with that and it would be alright. (Feel free to go huh? as necessary)

The guys walked down along the rooms, knocked on a few doors to let friends know what we'd heard. They hadn't been told anything about it, and they were concerned, but at least now they had warning. One person later spoke to the manager about giving his notice to move out.

Later that evening, the manager phoned one of us at home and said that he couldn't have come out onto the balcony to talk this afternoon, because at that time, his wife was in the bath and needed his help getting out. But the bill had been paid, out of his own pocket, and everything was fine.

Our reputable source told us that the manager "had bought some time".

On Sunday morning, our group showed up to put on Breakfast and the manager came down. He told them that we had better stop interfering with his business and he could shut down Dinners and everything anytime he wanted to. One person spoke up to him, saying he had no power over us and we wouldn't be bullied.

He got angry and said that was it, we were out of there. No more Dinners, no more Breakfasts. We were banned from the property. He was in charge, not us. We packed up the eggs, the ham, the frying pans and everything else and left. We had the tailgate breakfast.

Version 2:

They arrived and went to the office building and rang the bell. The manager came out on the balcony and told them that the bill had been paid, and everything was fine.

The guys then walked down the property telling everyone that the power was going to be cut, scaring them, and a bunch of people moved out because of it.

On Sunday morning, our group showed up to put on Breakfast and the manager came down. He told them that he'd be happy to have us keep putting on Dinners and Breakfasts, but that he'd appreciate our not interfering with his business. One of the team got "mouthy" and the manager left.

He came down later, very surprised to find nobody there, and the tailgate breakfast taking place out back. He couldn't understand why we'd left. He'd certainly never banned us from the property. He was innocent and perplexed.

Pick a version and stick with it. Try not to think about it too much.

Last night we had a meeting, the first time we've all been together for nearly two weeks. Some of us have seen all this before, some are new to it.

Some of us are angry warriors, ready to dig trenches with our bare hands. Some are fresher to the battle, and therefore wiser.

Some of us know that Dinner has always been a means to an end, the end being to get to know people, and now that we know them, we want to act. Others see the intrinsic value of Dinner more clearly.

We debated whether it was time to take a stand on principle and say, "You can't just deny that you kicked us out. We know the truth. So now we're not playing nice anymore. The rules have changed and you can't win."

We could work in the background, organizing church groups to do a Dinner a week, lurk out back in our cars for anyone who needed a ride to the food bank, or hang out across the road at Timmie's, playing euchre. All the while, fighting a more public fight to have the Motel repaired and brought up to a human habitation standard. Very subversive.

Or should we play along? Pretend it never happened and show up on Wednesday with Dinner just as always?

We spent a lot of time talking through our hurt and frustration of the last 3 years. What needs to be done and what might go wrong and what if, what if, what if…

Until the wisest woman in the room asked simply, "What would the people who live there want us to do?" Silence.

Another wise woman spoke up and reminded us of how important the sense of community is at the Motel, of looking out for each other, of shared burdens and common experience and she said, "The people there would feel a great sense of loss if Dinner just fizzled away."

And they were right. So we sheathed our swords of justice, and TB phoned the manager. She left a message on his machine to the effect that we'd heard that we weren't banned after all and that we wanted to have Dinner on Wednesday.

We planned something that could be served tailgate style, just in case. We'd bring everything in foil pans so if something goes down during Dinner and we have to leave suddenly, we'll be able to leave the food behind.

We laughed together and dispersed.

By the time TB got home, there was a message on her machine. Sorry, misunderstanding, come back.

So we'll see what happens. One of us has been honest enough to admit that he's run out of cheeks to turn and if pushed, he will push back. So we may be out again. Who knows?

But - one of the things we talked about last night was that there've been several groups in the past who've tried to start 'ministries' at the Motel, had run-ins with the manager, and left. Given up.

TB said, "I guess that's the difference between us and them. We're not going away."

Roll on Wednesday.

Exile

2009-03-22T11:49:00.002-04:00

Home again.

Sounds like Dinner went well on Wednesday. In God's timing, it was the regular week of St. Thingy's, and they were quite happy to go in without us. We were a bit concerned that they might get grief from the management, but it didn't happen and the meal was good, according to a resident who attended. CL asked the Deacon if they'd be back next month, and she said yes, absolutely.

The exiled tribe met across the road at the donut place for coffee and euchre and conversation and several residents came over to hang out, which is awesome.

The larger conversation continues by e-mail and phone and face to face, considering next steps and hows and whens. We've got a meeting or two planned.

One fact that came out in a phone call between a team member and a local agency rep is:

"a bunch of things, including the history of (their) dealings with (the Motel). ... mentioned that, several years ago, the power was cut off for non-payment. It stayed off for 3 months (no plumbing either) and no one moved out. Which is incredibly sad."

We, as a team, have been finding this a bit of an obstacle course. Part of the problem is that, with me being away and everybody being busy, most of our communication has been e-mail and we've had to be careful not to misunderstand each other. It's very easy for frustration to sound like arguing, and for debate to sound like disagreement or criticism. It's important to give each other the benefit of the doubt, and a little extra clarification.

We've made the decision to stand together. Technically, only two of us are banned from the property right now, and technically, the manager wouldn't object to the rest of us putting on Dinner. But we've made the difficult call that we're a team and we're not playing the divide and conquer game. We won't be played off each other and if a principle is important, it's worth sacrificing for.

But that's really, really, really difficult.

Last night we got home late from our trip and there was no milk or bread in the house. I got in the car and drove over to a 24 hour place to get some. The guy working the counter there comes to Dinner sometimes. He asked me how it was going, and I told him I didn't really know because we'd been kicked off the property again.

He was concerned and said that maybe people who live there would talk to the manager to change that. He said, "People there really need that meal, they really do."

Yeah, tell me.

r

Update

2009-03-16T21:15:00.005-04:00

I'm in Charlotte, NC. Back home, everything is interestinger and interestinger.

Sunday was Breakfast. Ham and eggs, bagels and coffee. Only it never happened.

TB writes:

"as it stands right now we have been kicked off the property. (The manager) has told everyone 'he was using us as a lesson to let everyone know he's in charge.'

the power is still on as of this moment. (BL) is tracking down that situation from the other end, people have contingencies in place as best they can with no where to go....

the red cross can help 25 people for 72 hours. that's all. then they are maxed out."

Sometime before the team arriving and anything actually happening, we got kicked off the property again. One of the team spoke up to the manager about something objectionable, and he decided he didn't like her attitude. Or her 'disrespect'.

"i could have let it ride

i could have genuflected

and pled mia culpa.

but no"

So there would be no more Dinners, no more Breakfasts and we were not to set foot on the property again.

The team packed up what they'd unpacked and headed across the road to the coffee shop, where the coffee we'd ordered was waiting along with some muffins and stuff.

"so we packed up

went and got the stuff from timmys

and went around back and opened the trunk

the police came by

and said what we were doing was great

and they were on again on wed

and if we wanted to have the dinner out there on wed

we could"

The world's first tailgate-party-church-breakfast.

So that's where things stand right now.

I'll end this with what she writes:

"these are stressful days - pray for peace that passes understanding. i'm only experiencing a tiny bit of the stress that makes up the lives of the women and men who live at (the Motel).

and for discernment to know when to stand and when to bend.

thanks for being in this with us. we couldn't do it without you!

(TB)

ps has my quote ever been so apropos? :)

“There is nothing stable in the world; uproar's your only music.”
- John Keats"

r

Tick Tock

2009-03-14T10:18:00.006-04:00

Our little band of hobbits has a friend who works for the town. He's been aware of us for a while and cares about the folks at the Motel.

On Thursday afternoon this week, he sent a note to BL saying he'd heard about the power cut at the Motel. Wanted to know what he could do to help.

That was at 2:30. BL expressed her hope that he was referring to the one the other day, not one pending. The expected low that night was -14.

At around 5:30, BL got another note saying that the power was going to be cut because the bill was way overdue and huge. He offered to contact the local agency that could provide emergency relief, if it was wanted, to those who couldn't stay in their rooms in the cold.

BL called a friend at the Motel and got a yes to emergency shelter and passed that on to our friend who started trying to get in touch with the agency in question.

Team members made calls to anyone they could think might help, either to prevent the cut or to find homes for up to 100 people on short notice.

BL looked into whether there was any legal way of stopping the cut (re time of year/weather restrictions) but because our friends are not under the Landlord/Tenant act, even if such a law existed, it probably wouldn't apply to them.

Several team members said that they'd be available to help move people if it was needed, just let them know.

At about 6:00 K, the pastor of the church that is our financial umbrella, and S drove over and started knocking on doors. The manager didn't respond. They were told he wasn't feeling well and was lying down.

None of the residents had heard about the impending power cut, but CL told them that the manager had told her that the bill had been paid that day and the power would stay on.

The messages left at several social agencies hadn't been returned, probably because it was now after business hours. K said that if push came to shove, we could use the church basement. We'd have to find cots or something, but at least it was a warm space.

But we figured that, for tonight at least, everything would stay as it was because the power company wouldn't send out a crew this late in the day.

At 9:30, BL got word from our town friend that he'd not heard back from social services, and that even if the bill was partly paid, it would still be cut. Apparently, enough is enough. He also gave us a number to call if things went pear shaped, that would give us the ability to call out town resources, including the fire department, to help move people. He'd spoken to them about this and the fire department was concerned about what might happen if people were trying to keep warm.

With that to dream about, the day ended.

Friday came and went with no more developments, thank God, and now it's the weekend. We don't know what might happen on Monday. Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday. And on it goes.

We all spent Thursday afternoon and evening waiting for the bat signal, twitchy and angry and helpless, praying and worrying, making calls and sending e-mails, wondering what would happen if all the pipes froze, what about the pets, what about the food in the fridges, would they be able to call for help if the power was out... but grateful for our friend's support.

And even more grateful for the anti-climax.

Further bulletins as events warrant.

r

Sense and Sensibility

2009-03-08T09:30:00.003-04:00

Question: What do you do if you believe someone is knowingly, habitually breaking the law?

I had this conversation with a friend recently. Hadn't given it much thought until then, but we do find ourselves sometimes privy to information that we wish we didn't have. It comes of being trusted. People tell you things. Things they probably wish they didn't know either.

So, every now and then, I see a person driving around town. Someone I know superficially, to say hi to and how're you doing. Someone I've been told has no driver's license.

They used to, for probably 30 years, but then things got tight and the renewal notice came and they just didn't have the $75. Figured they'd have it soon, so they let it slide for a couple of weeks, a month, a year... 'til it was too late.

I know all of this second hand. Might not be true. So what are my options?

1. Turn them in. Go to the police and say, this is what I've been told.

2. Do nothing. The current plan.

So my friend and I were talking about this. Is it right to do nothing? If the person is breaking the law, do I not have a responsibility to say something?

If I were to act, and it turned out to be true, the offender would be looking at huge fines. And if they couldn't afford the renewal fee, there's no way they could afford the fines. They wouldn't be able to apply for a new license until the fines were paid off. They could be looking at jail time. Which would leave a family member, disabled and seriously ill, on their own. This is why the offender has needed to continue driving. To care for someone, to provide.

If I were to turn them in, what would happen to the one they love?

All the times I've seen them on the road, I've never seen them do anything irresponsible or worrisome. Which makes sense, I guess. You wouldn't want to get pulled over, so you'd be very careful and law abiding and conservative. A safe driver. Safer than most, I'd bet.

I can't come up with a good enough reason to rat them out. The best I can do is "If I have to have a license..." But that's lame and petty.

Which leaves me a third option.

3. Confront them.

I could, I suppose, take the tiger by the tail and, sometime, tell them I know and they should fix it. Except I know they can't. The idea of walking into a government office and asking for mercy and help is anathema to most of these people. The government is, if not the enemy, at least an obstacle.

For me to insist that they fix it, would require my commitment. I'd have to be willing to do what needed to be done to make it happen. Put my money where my mouth is. Follow it through. Go with them to court, help pay the fines, walk with them through the licensing process, drive them everywhere until it's done.

We're very good at telling people what they ought to do, or ought not to do. We're very good at knowing why we're right and what's unfair and who shouldn't be getting away with what.

But, in the church and in the community, we're not so good at fixing things. Doing the work, inconveniencing ourselves, spending time and money and love on people to work together to make it the way it ought to be.

This question makes me squirm. Every time I see this person behind the wheel somewhere, I squirm, not because I think they're a threat to public safety (quite the opposite), but because the whole thing is so freakin' complicated.

Call my silence 'compromise' if you want to. Or 'slippery slope'. Or 'rationalization'. Or 'situational ethics'.

I call it empathy. Compassion. Maybe even grace. As Shane Claiborne says, "You can have all the right answers and still be mean. And if you're mean, nobody will want to listen to you."

But it still makes me itch.

r

Spring is Sprunging

2009-03-07T11:12:00.007-05:00

We're getting there, weatherwise. The birds are starting to sing more, the snow is melting. Fortunately, and unfortunately.

Who would have guessed that the patch job done on E's roof last spring wouldn't be effective? Who could have foreseen that it would start leaking again this year? How could anyone have possibly been expected to anticipate such a thing?

The leak has evolved. He's more clever this year than last year. Then, he'd just drip drip drip dribble drip in the same place all the time. This year, he's learned to migrate. He spends some time over the fridge, then takes a break and, when he's feeling mischievous again, reappears over the toaster. Then later, in the middle of the kitchen counter. He's a very adventurous leak. No mere gravity follower, he. Charting his own course, seeking out new horizons. Where will he appear next? Who knows?

He's been known to put in a guest appearance next door, visiting N. (HepC), or even further afield, dropping in on M. (Crohn's disease), or H. (HepC). He has yet to show up at CL's place (chronic pain and neuritis).

Knowing what we know about the age and condition of the building, we've got some fairly solid concerns about the safety of the roof. It can't last forever under the weight of the water (see the pic in the slideshow to the right), and then what?

But we can't complain because people have nowhere else to go.

A lucky few get housing elsewhere. I say lucky, but that's the wrong word. There are waiting lists for better housing, rent controlled and therefore properly maintained. But the lists are long. Some people enter the lists at the bottom and work their way up over the course of a couple of years. Others, mostly abused women escaping with children, enter the lists at the top.

The folks at the Motel are mostly adults with no child custody. A majority have significant physical health issues, but are not in crisis. They're just hanging on and making do. So they don't move up the lists very quickly. I've heard people say they were at number 10 or number 7 on a list, but that was quite a while ago. Haven't heard much lately.

So, in order to get moved up the list, things have to get massively worse for you. You have to be assaulted by a partner, or suffer a monstrous, systemic breakdown in physical condition.

That happened to one couple recently. One of them went into the hospital for a pretty routine operation, but in the end, probably because of diabetes complications, spent months an hour's drive from home and returned having lost a hand and several toes.

The distance from home was a problem because it made visiting largely impossible for most friends who have no wheels and no money.

But, since then, they've been moved from the Motel into an apartment which is good. In the town next door, which is difficult.

People who move out of the Motel often find themselves lonely. Isolated. There is a community there, in spite of all the yuck, that doesn't exist in apartment buildings or suburbia. People support and look out for each other. When you move out, you lose touch with that. And it's lonely.

But this week, I saw a lovely thing. Lovey and her man moved out sometime ago and we hadn't seen her in a while. She's a beautiful person, warm and loving and loving to be loved. She's got one of those smiles that you remember and miss sometimes.

After several months of wondering what was happening in her life and not knowing how to get in touch, I saw her in the grocery store parking lot. I was on my way in and she was heading out. Surrounded by a group of friends, laughing and smiling. They belong to a group called "Helping Hands" who make gifts to share with community groups. One time the group made cupcakes for our Dinner, without our knowing L. was a member.

But what mattered is that she's not alone. Not isolated. She's got, if not necessarily friends, at least friendly people to go to the grocery store with. Which is wonderful.

r

Shiver

2009-02-21T09:56:00.002-05:00

It's still cold here. February is the month everybody loves to hate. March at least gives unkept promises of spring, but February doesn't care enough to even do that. February laughs at you and gives you another helping of slush.

There's often a bit of a thaw at the end of January that reveals the new and enlarged cracks and potholes in the road, previously filled with ice and snow. You spend February driving through them. Bleh.

The other night was a typical cold night. The daytime high was -5, windchill around -12. At night the base temperature went down to -9. The rooms at the Motel are built of simple woodframing. The insulation was put in 30 years ago at least and has been wet several times since, which makes it largely useless. The windows are single panes of glass in old wooden frames. The heat is provided by electric baseboards. And the power went out.

It went out at 5:30 pm. It was restored at 2:00 the next afternoon.

About half of the rooms were affected. When I found out about it my mind went down the rows of rooms, filling in a map of names of people. Thinking about how most of them live alone, many have physical illnesses. One woman said it was too cold to sleep, even with somebody to snuggle with.

I wondered why they didn't phone us for help, but then I realized that the phone system, one of those "dial 9 for an outside line" deals, probably didn't work if there was no electricity. And at least one person I knew had a cell phone, but had run out of minutes on her phone card and couldn't afford to top it up until payday.

I thought about the fact that our town has an emergency plan that might have provided overnight stay in a hotel for some of them. About what we could have done to provide hot meals for people, with the network of friends we've built in the community. I felt badly about all of that.

I would have loved to help.

But - the awesome people at the Motel did what they always do. They coped. They did what they could and then waited.

Everybody seems to have come through alright.

The problem turned out to be a panel that had to be replaced, costing the management thousands of dollars. Don't know yet what the fallout from that will be...

r

Rumours

2009-02-15T16:38:00.007-05:00

This morning we had Breakfast. I was there for the first part, which was the meal and the beginning of a concert by Jonathan Maracle, a somewhat local guy who describes himself as having a calling to "sing as a Mohawk man." He came with a guitar, a flute, a drum, and a bit of technology to sing for us and talk about who he is and how that flows out of his heritage and his faith in Jesus.

He connected quickly with everybody, talking about the loss of native culture and family. Saying that before the white man came, aboriginals knew about God, by different names, and that what the missionaries should have done is "just give us Jesus and tell us to run with it". Instead, they failed to take the time to get to know who they were talking to, and told them instead "Be like us". Good intentions, good message, poorly communicated.

I'm not sure how many people who live at the Motel have native blood in their veins. When Jonathan spoke about the Miqma'aq people whose name for God was (if I remember correctly) "uncreated creator", one blonde, fair woman turned and elbowed her companion with a big smile on her face and whispered in his ear and nodded.

Seeing that, I started looking around at faces, at eyes, cheekbones, noses. Wondering who else there identified so closely with what he was saying. I started seeing things I hadn't before and wondering just how many came from families devastated by alcoholism, depression, alienation that resulted from the residential school debacle, loss of language, history and connection to the land and broken promises.

Just before I had to leave, Jonathan played a song on his flute. A beautiful instrument carved from cedar, and polished red and smooth. The song was called 'Tears', a tribute to mothers who have worked and worried and mourned for their families. As he played, a simple repetitive melody, the room was silent except for the airy notes wrapping around between the tables and the coffee cups, sliding into a lamenting fall at the end of each phrase. A lovely wordless thing that said so much more than you'd think possible to a room full of cynical, self-sufficient warriors.

When the song ended there was a collective sigh, and a collective inward breath. A moment of communion. A moment of beauty.

I wondered how often these people experience beauty.

After the concert, the doors would stay open for a while for euchre, chess and art, but I had to go. Today was the annual general meeting of the church that provides our financial umbrella and I thought I should be there.

I can't tell you what it means to me to see the community that exists at Breakfast and Dinner. The way everybody comes and smiles and makes way for each other and hangs around after. It's not perfect, of course, but it really is transcendent.

But at the same time, I'm bothered.

The other night I was driving home and took the route past the Motel. As I was approaching it from the east, I had an odd moment where I felt like (and I'm not prone to these things, believe me) I should pray and ask God to give me the property. OK. Fine. I did. I prayed, "God, please give it to me."

Not that I particularly want the thing, but we do worry about what will happen if it sells to some developer who thinks the tower would be just the centrepiece for an expensive condo complex. I said to somebody the other day, our town doesn't even have bridges for people to sleep under. So many of them are physically ill and the rest are mentally ill or addicted. So I'll take it (whatever that means), if it's what God has in mind.

Then this morning, we heard the newest round of rumours that "they're really close to selling the place to a guy who wants to put up apartments." If that happens, the best we can hope for is a few months to find new housing in a town that has none. None. And I mean, none.

So much for community. So much for the encouragement of shared experience and survival and lessons learned. So much for the commiseration of people who understand you.

This week I heard a woman talk about the time she went to the new local welfare office with a friend.

You enter the lobby and walk up to a wall of bullet proof glass, broken only by a slit at desk level to allow the exchange of pieces of paper and nothing else. If you have an appointment, you're escorted through a heavy reinforced door, down a hall and into one of several small rooms. You take a seat at the desk in the middle of the room which is also divided by a sheet of bullet proof glass. You wait there until your worker comes into the other half of the room through a different door. You conduct your business through the same little slit at desk level. The worker is 'protected' from you by the glass and a separate hallway that you can't get to that leads to the offices, and to an emergency door out of the building for when you become dangerous. They don't have to touch you, don't have to breathe the same air, don't have to smell you.

This is the way these people are seen. As, at best, icky, and at worst, a threat.

And all we've got to offer them is a few minutes each week of humanity, warmth and equality.

The thought of losing that makes me feel sick.

r

Notes from Sabbatical

2009-02-06T10:30:00.004-05:00

I've wavered once or twice. Considered 'just dropping in.' But I'm standing firm. Not going for a month. Or 3 weeks. Probably. Except for maybe the last one.

I got a note from a team member about Dinner this week, letting me know that things are ticking over quite nicely without me. Which is awesome.

She tells me, that night at Dinner, mixed into the usual cast of characters, we had in attendance:

A lawyer
A nurse
A reverend
An anglican lesbian grandma
A young pentecostal Dad and his baby
A handsome buddhist folk singer
A devout practicing baptist
A couple of ex-baptist hippies

She says, "One disappointment tho - no raccoons coming through the ceiling this year - my stories are so much better with raccoons!"

We rock.

r

101

2009-01-25T19:12:00.002-05:00

This is my 101st post. Wow. I must have a lot to say.

Which is funny, because I'm taking a break for the next month.

Breakfast this morning was wonderful. New faces again, old faces again. Good conversation. We took a minute to remember a man who used to live at the Motel. He died this week.

None of his family had been in touch with him for years and the ones DL could find were quite uninterested in changing that. After he died, DL tracked down the man's sister at the funeral of one of her in-laws and told her that her brother had died. She agreed to claim his body and look after him.

So this morning we all sang one of his favourite songs. Jesus Loves Me. What he was singing in the park the first time DL met him years ago. He didn't know all the words, but it was one of his favourites. Right after "I Still Miss Someone", which he'd sing to his daughter's tattered photo.

But that's going to be it for Dinners and Breakfast for me for a few weeks. Partly because this time of year is particularly busy for incompetent bookkeepers, of which I am one. Yearend deadlines come in 3 waves of which the worst are at the ends of January and February. It's probably backwards to stop doing something I love so I can get more of what I hate done. But such is life.

Partly also because I need to step back for a bit. One of our team members, who works for a para-church organization locally, says he likes coming to Dinner because it lets him just be himself. He can be "Bob, instead of 'Bob from xyz'."

I'm in danger of becoming 'Ruth from GTI'. A little while ago, someone who matters to me spoke against an aspect of what we do at the Motel. And I got angry, partly because they were wrong and unfair and partly because I took it personally. Taking it personally doesn't seem right.

So I'm making some space.

See you in February.

r

Dip, Dip and Swing

2009-01-24T18:20:00.011-05:00

Tomorrow morning will be our second Breakfast in January, the longest month.

For anyone dependent on any kind of social assistance, the cheque comes early in December which makes it a long, cold haul to the next one. The local St. Vincent de Paul group is providing the meal tomorrow. Which means we get to just show up.

What a wonderful phrase. Just show up. Aaaaahhh. Lovely. Except I'll be telling a story. I wasn't planning on it, but the guest hosts requested it. I'm very much in demand. Yes. I am.

After Dinner last week we went to the foodbank, 7 of us in 2 cars.

Aaaaand the Donation Of The Week award goes to..... 2 cans of Ackee fruit in salt water! How heartwarming to think of all those otherwise starving kids heading off to school on Monday morning, looking forward to their lunch of Ackee fruit sandwiches. Stay tuned for next week's winner.

On the way over, PT was a bit nervous. He was dreading running into a particular estranged family member who has no qualms about airing private grievances in public. He didn't get out of the car until we'd looked down the street to make sure she wasn't coming or going. Then he peeked through the glass in the food bank door to make sure she wasn't there. Small town life.

While PT was standing in line, M limped out with his groceries and we asked him to look out as he was heading for the car and let us know if she was coming. He laughed and said that would be funny. Then he opened the door, quickly closed it to a crack and whispered, "Oh, she is there! Over by the car! Look!" As soon as he'd checked to see that we looked sufficiently alarmed, he laughed, threw the door open and headed out. Ha.

On the way back to the Motel, the three of us got into a discussion of sailing and canoeing. One prefers sailing, two prefer canoeing, except for when motor boaters race by without slowing down. (You're on vacation! What are you late for?! I hope your motor falls off and sinks.) (At least I would if I weren't a good Christian.) We talked about wearing life jackets. Two of us said we always wear them, one said he never does. And he can't swim.

We said, what if you get knocked over and knocked out? He said, well, the preachers say it's better over there anyway, so why not?

Now, if I'd been a better evangelist, I would have known what to say to that. As it was I had to choose between, "No, you misunderstood." or "No, the preacher was wrong."

Or I could pretend to be focusing on the road and say nothing.

Guess.

I know the Bible says we're supposed to "do the work of an evangelist" but sometimes I think I'd probably just make things worse. The people at the Motel, on the whole, have heard the gospel message over and over. Some have been led in a prayer of salvation, of sorts. They all have an understanding of Jesus and his death and resurrection. They're all intelligent and shrewd and their beliefs are a combination of Christianity, reincarnation, spiritualism. Most started out in church-going families and grew up through Sunday School and then life started happening and what they heard on Sunday mornings didn't work with the everyday world.

So they started thinking about what else might be true and just kinda went from there. They read, they watched, they listened, they talked, they thought and they formed their own very individualized faiths. All quite different, but all something that works.

Something that gives them hope, that promises that things will get better and that in the end, everything will make sense. They believe that "Everything happens for a reason", which most think is in the Bible somewhere. They believe that "God will never give you more than you can handle", also in the Bible somewhere. Somebody who loves them is in Heaven and waiting for them there. Jesus, Mom, Dad, son or daughter. They don't really care whether Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene. So what if he was? He was still good and loving and strong. He's still looking out for them, like he looked out for Johnny Cash.

It's far easier to preach to strangers than it is to preach to friends and I just can't imagine that one more sermon (from me, anyway) on original sin and redemption is going to shake loose the extra layers that they've piled on top of Jesus. And I don't understand how someone can smoothly segue from a natural friendly conversation to 'preaching the gospel'. Anything I think of seems clumsy.

There is, I think, a language that I haven't learned yet. May never learn. Maybe my language is stories and songs that give people something to think about, that oil the hinges on things rusted shut and held tight. I just know that, even now, days later with lots of time to think back on it, I can't put something together in my head that's 'preaching the gospel' that sounds like my voice. When I try, it always seems forced.

There are a few of us on the team whose gifts lay more in that direction.

I don't seem to be one of them.

r

Slice of Life

2009-01-19T15:59:00.010-05:00

I am officially available for music and/or speaking engagements anyplace warm and sunny. Cheap. Write to this address. Will sleep on couch.

Sunday morning was another snowy one. Snow, snow, snow, snow. Another 10 or 15 cm. The kind of weather in which parking lots shrink because there's no place to put the white stuff but in huge piles. The kind of weather where your car develops a mind of its own and decides that forwards and backwards are boring and it's time for some sideways and that ditch looks like fun.

The plows had been by once, but they weren't keeping up.

CL phoned to make sure church was still on and I said yes.

She said she'd make the coffee but she might not be able to stay for the whole thing. She was hoping to go get her van, which she needs because she can't walk very far and which she uses to drive other Motelians to the food bank and appointments. She'd left the van in the grocery store parking lot at the opposite corner of town a couple of days before when the battery died.

Sounds simple enough, don't it? 5 minutes there, half an hour's work, home again.

HA!

Well, CL has no money to throw around, so TM told her he'd help her get a used one for fairly cheap and drive her up there. If, that is, the cold snap ended and the temperature came up to something less obscene than -20, -30 with the windchill.

And if he didn't have to visit OR. OR used to live at the Motel and he's dying. The nurses have been letting TM bring him a beer every now and then, even though it's against the rules. OR has family, but they won't have anything to do with him, even though he has so little time left.

TM's spouse is in hospital as well with a number of conditions that, even on their own, are life threatening. In combination, things get really nasty.

So... if TM has time to go get the battery, isn't needed at either of two hospitals and the weather co-operates, they can go install the battery in the grocery store parking lot.

However, the snow is so unrelenting today and the roads so greasy, CL won't drive. She needs to talk HR, who is in pain and can hardly walk, into coming with her to help install the battery. And if she can do that, then maybe she can convince N. to come as well. Because HR can install the battery and boost it from TM's car, but he can't drive the van back to the Motel because he's still working on getting his license back after losing it as collateral against some debts which he's working to pay off. Partly by shovelling snow which he can't do because he's hurt his back. By shovelling snow.

So, he can't drive the van, but maybe N. will. Except she might not be able to come if it conflicts with one of her recovery meetings which are really, really important and necessary.

So... if TM isn't needed at either of two hospitals, and if he's able to get the battery, and if the weather co-operates, and if HR is available and if he's able to walk and if N.'s meeting is Sunday afternoon, not in the morning, THEN CL will be able to go get her van.

It's a wonder anybody even gets out of bed in the morning.

r

Warmth

2009-01-14T22:58:00.007-05:00

Sometimes it's just too cold. Right now it's minus 25. With the windchill it's minus 30.

For those of you not familiar with the 'windchill factor', think of a hot summer day when a breeze hits your face. Only it's way below freezing and the breeze is a fast wind. It accelerates frostbite and makes your nose hurt and people walk around with their lips drawn back and their teeth bared, squinting. Grimacing. Not sure why. It doesn't help.

It's the kind of weather that makes all plans contingent on whether or not the car will start. Snow makes that grunchy noise and the salt you sprinkled on last night's flash freeze just sits there, not melting much of anything. Steam comes up through the sewer grates. There's ice on the inside of your windows. Not just frost. Ice.

Too cold to hitchhike, too cold to walk more than a few blocks without ducking in someplace to warm up. Somebody told me once that there's no such thing as bad weather. Just wrong clothing. Yeah, well. Right clothing is expensive.

Yesterday we went to the soup kitchen for the first lunch of '09. Not many people attended because of the weather but the car was fuller than usual. The back seat started singing "Swing Low" along with Mr. Cash on CD.

Had a nice chat over soup and sandwiches with E., and R., and G.J. Mostly we talked about food. Pastrami, pudding, coconut cream pie. "You know what's good?..." "Oh, yeah. This one time I had..." "That's the best, especially if..."

And potatoes. I don't know what it is with potatoes, but every one of these food-centred conversations I've been in on has come around to potatoes. Potato soup. Scalloped potatoes. Mashed potatoes. Baked potatoes. Stuffed potato skins. French fries. Home fries. Cheesy potatoes. Latkes. Roasted with garlic or onion soup mix. Spuds.

Comfort food, I guess. The stuff of home cooking.

Dinner tonight was courtesy St. Something's. Wonderful spread. I got there a little late because somebody needed a ride and I walked into a room that was full and friendly and warm and good. The food was tasty and varied and, guess what? There were potatoes! Great big scoops of buttery mashed.

Lots of laughing and teasing and a few new faces. I've been promised an advance peek at a book being written by a woman at the Motel. A story, which is perfect.

More smoking than usual. Too cold to stand outside. But most of the smokers wait until people have finished eating. Etiquette.

This Sunday, we're starting up church again. We'd put it on hiatus while we got Breakfast up and running. Breakfast is an anchor now, and church fits in on the Sundays between. I'm looking forward to seeing what happens. We'll sing a few songs, read something from the Bible and pray. That's all the planning we've done.

A few years ago I would think that was a sign of carelessness. But experience has made it look like comfortableness. With Dinner, and later with Breakfast, I've learned that you need to let things be what they want to be. You can't make Junior wear Grampa's suit.

So although we've had a history of church services being held in that room, we're starting over. Starting with a clean slate and seeing what happens.

Nothing I like better than just starting out.

r

The Adventure Continues

2009-01-07T10:11:00.004-05:00

Being on the fringes of 'respectable society', we're finding that we need to constantly re-assess what has been just a rule (and therefore conditional and negotiable) and what is a principle (non-negotiable).

What do we not do because we've been told not to or because somebody might see us and get the 'wrong impression', and what do we not do because it's actually wrong?

We've decided that it's ok if we swear occasionally, laugh at dirty jokes, don't report things we sometimes wish we didn't know or cheat at cards as long as everybody knows you're doing it. It's not ok to break a promise, lie, betray a confidence or belittle people.

But there are grey areas, mostly spilling out of how we were raised or taught in Sunday school. So recently, we were grateful to E. for sorting out one such dilemma on our behalf.

She decided on her own and told people at the Motel that we'd be glad to give them rides to the Food Bank, or the drugstore, the grocery store or whatever, but that we'd only take them to the beer store to return their empties, not to re-stock. Which is a cool thing. It's cool that she feels comfortable drawing boundaries for us. Thanks, mom.

Not that most of us are above tippling, but we know what drinking does to some of our friends and it's not something we're comfortable being implicit in. On principle, because many are hurt by their drinking - family and friendships, health and jobs - and then beat up on themselves.

We don't want to contribute to that, so we've adopted E.'s guideline as wise.

However, E. has since extrapolated from that original point on the page. The other day, she couldn't get out and asked one team member to return her empties for her. OK. And cash in her lottery ticket. O- kay. And since he'd be at the store anyway, pick her up a pack of smokes. Ooo-kaaaay.

He said that he'd never done any of those things. In one fell swoop, he'd stepped into a life of drinking, smoking and gambling. And that if she'd only given him "20 bucks for a hooker", he could have checked off the whole list.

Maybe we'll take up a collection at Dinner.

OK, probably not.

r