Portrait

This is a portrait of my friend. I'll call him Skip.

The picture is in storage at my office. He's had it for years and doesn't want anything to happen to it now that he's back living in a tent.

His story is a common one. A drift away from security, one disappointment, one broken relationship, one illness at a time.

Like many of my unsheltered friends, Skip worked all his life at decent jobs. Figured his pension would see him right in the silver years. 

Not so much.

His marriage ended. She got the house. His kids aren't in touch. His pension isn't enough to pay the rent. His health isn't good enough to hold down a job.

He'd been staying in a motel room, and then had a falling out with the manager. So on a muddy April morning last year, the population of the Encampment grew by one.

Skip was not happy to be there. Every conversation we had was carried on an undercurrent of anger and grief. Grief that he was where he was, and anger that he didn't deserve it. 

His tent was set up as far from the centre of the Camp as possible. Right by the end of the driveway. His determination was that he was going to get out of there, like, tomorrow. He wanted nothing to do with people who used drugs. He'd had things stolen from his motel room and he wasn't taking chances, so he didn't like leaving his 'home' unattended. He wouldn't even walk through the tents to come to the table and get breakfast, so I brought it to him. Muffin, fruit, coffee (IIRC) black w 3 sugars. Every conversation was about how fast he was going to get out of there.

Until Pal.

Pal had been living at the Camp with his human, but when his human left, Pal was left behind. He's a big old buffalo of a dog. Strong and heavy. But gentle. One of those loving hearts we are sometimes blessed to know.

Pal had no one. Skip had no one. And no matter how badly Skip wanted out, he wasn't going to leave Pal alone. A pair of lonely senior citizens became a family.

Skip started coming to the table to get a treat for Pal (a sandwich or some cheese. Pal was diabetic). Whenever Skip had to go out, he made sure Pal was looked after until he got back. Last winter, the two shared a motel room. Skip would bundle up against the cold and drive around town on his bicycle, towing big old Pal in a trailer behind him.

After a while, Skip got a space in the shelter - a room on the second floor. Pal moved in, too.

But Pal was aging. His health was fading. His mobility was going. He started having accidents, and the logistics of getting this great big, partly blind, arthritic pooch down the stairs and out onto the grass became too much for Skip. He was told by the shelter that Pal couldn't stay any longer. Fair enough. 

So Skip moved out. Back into a tent. Back to the damp and the bugs and sleeping on the ground. Because he wasn't going to abandon Pal.

They lived there for a while, until they just really couldn't anymore.

A little while ago Skip, with the help of good friends, lifted Pal into a van and transported him to the local animal shelter for some "respite" care. But I think we all knew Pal wouldn't be coming back.

Earlier this week, Skip made the tough call that Pal's time was up. He gave permission for Pal to be put to sleep. 

I don't know whether Skip was present for Pal's goodbye, or whether he had anyone able to go with him. But our hearts break for this irascible, faithful man.

I said the picture at the top of this post was a portrait of Skip. He's said as much. He says the picture represents strength. Resilience. He says it's how he feels. Struck by lightning, but still standing.

I see something else. I see beauty that's taken some hits. I see a few cracks and scrapes. A frame that's held together with hockey tape. A dark outer shell wrapped around a core of light and colour.

The last time I ran into him it was at the community breakfast at the store-front Hub downtown. Hadn't seen him for a while, but he gave me a hug. Said thanks for storing the picture, showed me that he was still wearing the cross he'd received in the Christmas stockings my church distributed last year. 

He said, "Someday I need to get down to the church to get it blessed."

I said, "I can bless it for you right now, if that's ok."

"Really? That's ok? Sure!"

I laid my hand on his chest, covering the little wooden cross. I prayed something along these lines:

In the name of Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit,

We bless this cross.

Thank you for what it means - a promise that we are not alone or forgotten.

Thank you that it represents sacrifice and faithful love.

May it ever remind us of Jesus' life and death for us.

May it ever challenge us to give what we are able to give.

In the name...  (Skip's voice joined mine...) of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.

Amen.

He took my hand and whispered, "Thank you."

My heart breaks for him, having had to say goodbye to Pal - someone who lifted him out of his isolation, and who received the love he has to give. Maybe now Skip will return to the shelter. I don't know. 

All I can say is, 

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit,

Thank you for Pal.

Thank you for his gentleness and his warmth.

Thank you for the snuffly 'woof' and the head-butt with which he greeted friends. 

Thank you for his faithfulness and the love he gave and received.

May his memory ever challenge us to be a friend to someone who needs us.

Amen.

Woof.