Archives for category: Uncategorized

As of tomorrow, I will be on vacation for a month. This has been my rhythm for the last number of years, which is maybe why my body started anticipating the rest about a month ago. For a variety of reasons, I felt like I was hitting a wall in July. I think of Sunday as the start of my work week and for the last three in a row I found myself unusually anxious.

In those uneasy moments, most acute as I was travelling to The Dale, I prayed. In my weakness I asked for strength. In my fatigue I asked for energy. In my sadness I asked for joy. Sometimes I just sat there not knowing what to ask for at all. I cried. I listened to music. And then as I arrived at my destination, I took a deep breath and decidedly put one foot in front of the other.

Things didn’t slow down in July. But somehow, in a beautiful and spirit-led way I was sustained through it.

It’s never easy saying a long “see you later” to my beloved community at The Dale. Together we understand life to be fragile: a lot can change very quickly (something we know all too well from experience). Having said that, rest is important. In order to be in this for the long haul, I must retreat and replenish. My friends affirm this and keep telling me to go with their blessing. One person continually says, “I don’t like that you’re leaving, but I GET it. Go. Rest. Come back.”

Soon I will be picking Cate up at the camp she has been at since the beginning of the summer. Dion and I are looking forward to having her home and hearing all her stories. With the last bits of the house renovation nearly done, it will be nice to continue settling in. There will be a trip to visit friends, some time at a cabin, and many stay-cation activities, hopefully all punctuated with some serious sleep and a lot of reading.

Thank you to Joanna, Meagan and Pete who not only make time like this possible but do so in such a generous and caring way; to the Board, for always having my back; to our community who models what it means to both give and receive; and to Dion and Cate for supporting and loving me, spurring me on to live well into the tension of work and rest.

Happy August everyone. See you soon.

Advertisements

I am/we are witness to a whole lot of pain at The Dale. And yet, there is joy.

At The Dale we work hard to create a safe space for all of us to go below the surface and acknowledge what is really going on in our lives. Many of us can’t hide the hard stuff even if we tried. We are trying to work equally hard at practicing gratitude, celebrating things large and small, and unearthing joy.

Living in this tension is not easy. In an effort to honour that we are all broken, we can too easily dwell there, making it easy to then swing in the opposite extreme: expecting people to put on a happy face all the time.

I have been thinking about all of this a lot. How does joy spring out of trial? I don’t need to look far for inspiration. It comes when “Sarah’s” prayers share the anguish of not being able to grasp how grace might cover her AND the surprise gifts she just received; when “Jim” has to go to the food bank, but is given an abundance of one item and now has the opportunity to share the bounty with friends; when “Fred” grieves the loss of every single one of his blood relatives and beams when talking about his new chosen family.

In this sense, joy actually becomes a subversive act. It pushes against the things that threaten to push us down. Joy doesn’t require that we ignore brokenness: it can be strengthened by it.

At various points this year I have been burdened with sorrow. The weight of circumstances heavy upon my shoulders and heart. The thing that steadies my heart is slowing down, lifting my eyes to where my help comes from, and declaring my faith again and again. In those moments I am reminded that it is possible to not have joy stolen away.

This week I hope to live well into this mystery. I want to acknowledge those things that are hard, the places I am weak, the gratitude I feel, and allow myself to be surprised by joy.

I have long been convinced that when a group of people gathers around a table a unique form of community is built. Learning to be side-by-side, passing the platter, pouring one another a drink: it all helps.

Much of life at The Dale involves a table. On Mondays we have multiple long tables set up around the room. On Tuesdays we play Scrabble around one at the back of the Salvation Army Thrift Store. In the summer we find ourselves sitting at picnic tables in parks. On Thursdays we set three tables up like a huge T. On Sundays our focal point is a little wooden table, laden with the bread, wine and juice.

Oh, the stories we have about life at the table.

The Dale has its own version of Statler and Waldorf, the two grumpy guys from The Muppet Show. They like to sit across from each other even though they drive each other crazy. We sometimes try to (unsuccessfully) split them up, only to discover them reunited and carrying on with their banter.

Sometimes a person comes in so distraught that they collapse at a table. One day a friend stumbled in and placed her head down. I joined her, leaning as close to the tabletop as she was. We exchanged thoughts in whispers. Her hiccupy crying the only thing audible to the rest of the room. To this day we both reference this encounter as pivotal to our friendship.

At a drop-in by the lake, two unlikely friends sat at the picnic table. She invited him to lay down on the bench while gently stroking his hair. We wanted to freeze the moment in time: a sweet escape from their otherwise challenging realities.

Just after blessing the communion elements, a community member joined me at the table to begin the process of passing each around. This friend, battle-worn and vulnerable, looked me right in the eye and in reference to the bread said, “get it in you”.

As staff we sit around a kitchen table on Wednesday mornings. It’s where I sit while writing this. We bat around ideas, type in collective silence, laugh, and eat. It is an important part of team building.

All these moments remind me of how important it is to extend welcome to the tables we like to count as ours. We want to make space at The Dale. This increasingly means gathering even more closely together so that we can make space for another chair. At tables we can share our brokenness and offer blessing. Whether we are grumpy or cheerful, connected or lonely, weary or energetic, there is room at the table.

Lately, I have been feeling reflective about the journey that has been The Dale. It was nearly seven years ago that we gave up our leased space and became a nomadic community. At the time (and maybe still) many thought it a crazy decision on my part. I could feel the skepticism. I don’t think anyone wanted us to fail, I just think some wondered how it could possibly work.

I remember being scared for a variety of reasons, not least of which was the thought of messing things up. I couldn’t bear the thought of having to close down and yet I knew that to be a very real possibility. It seemed wise to set markers in the first year, ones that if not met would signal the plan wasn’t working. Looking back, I am struck by how often we were surprised by grace, again and again experiencing unexpected provision.

I know that God invited me to step in to a role that I would never have considered myself for. I felt inadequate and strangely determined. Fortunately, I was and continue to be surrounded and supported by my family, a Board, and our precious community. I continue to learn from Jesus’ example that to lead I must serve, a posture that is messy, challenging and necessary to choose repeatedly.

At my ordination examining council a community member said, “Erinn is no stranger to suffering, and so she can walk with us”. What a relief that I get to be a part of a community where that is valued. I don’t need to pretend that everything is easy, when everything is not. Together we are discovering what it means to lament well, to practice gratitude, to engage in prayer, to feast together, to admit our failures, to apologize and forgive, and to be transformed by God.

Last week The Dale led a workshop at Assembly, the annual gathering of our denomination. During the debrief time near the end, I sat at the front alongside our team: Joanna, Meagan, Pete, and our two interns, Jan and David. Six of us. Even as I type that I have to stop and take it in. Seven years ago, I was alone. I can’t help but weep tears of wonder.

It is a privilege to be a participant in the work of The Dale. Thank you to everyone, past and present, who has been a part of the journey. I have tucked our many stories in my heart and love knowing that there are countless more to come.

I got the news shortly after getting home from a brief retreat with Joanna and Meagan. I audibly gasped. My long-time friend Keith Pittman had succumbed to injuries sustained from a bike accident. I immediately thought about our most recent interaction, just weeks ago. He looked good. Happier than I’d seen him in a while. Hopeful.

I met Keith in my earliest Parkdale days. He was wearing a ball cap and sitting on some steps, surrounded by what we called the crew- many people we have already said farewell to. I quickly detected his Newfoundland accent and told him of my honorary Newfoundlander status (even though I’m a Mainlander from Toronto). We immediately connected about things like Jigg’s Dinner, bottles of moose meat, and the smell of salt-water air.

Once a track-and-field guy, Keith spoke often of his running days that came to a halt due to an injury. He even set what I believe were provincial records- ones that he was proud to show me on-line. Sharing about those days seemed to make him grin and wince at the same time.

Keith was very open about what he called his “demons”. We had long talks about them, and his regrets. Our time often ended with his prayers. If his children stumble upon this one day: I want you to know that he tearfully spoke of you frequently over many years. I’m so sorry that the journey was such a difficult one for him, and for you.

I will miss Keith: his striking eyes, the way he would inquire about my life (“how ARE you my’love?”), seeing him bike around the neighbourhood. I have already caught myself thinking I see his familiar gait in the distance. I’m sad, just as many people are about Keith’s death. I extend my condolences to his family.

I’m not sure that Keith realized his impact. I hope he did. I also hope he’s now running like the wind, finally out of pain.

Keith Pittman
May 16 1964 – June 4 2019

I am passionate about the work that we do at The Dale. Did you know that in order to make it all happen, we have to fundraise? The Dale is sustained by the contributions of many individuals, churches, businesses, and grants. We have no government funding.

Today we are launching an On-Line Auction. We held our first auction last year and had so much fun, that we decided to do one again! Please enjoy checking out all the wonderful items, each one donated to benefit The Dale. Do you keep getting out-bid? There is also a way to make a direct donation.

Thank you to everyone who believes in and supports The Dale in such a variety of ways. Our community members are at the core of it all, bringing their own unique gifts to keep this place going. We are grateful.

http://www.givergy.ca/thedale

On behalf of The Dale, I am very pleased to announce that we are expanding! As of the beginning of June, Pete Nojd will be joining our staff team as a Community Worker. We are thrilled that Pete, his wife Frances, and their four children will now be a part of our community.

Along with the Nojd family, we have the pleasure of enfolding the congregation that Pete has been pastoring over the last year and a half: Rendezvous Church. Rendezvous was started by Scott Rourk about ten years ago and has been tended to by many over that time. I know that the decision to close has not been made lightly. I want to honour the long, good work of Rendezvous, and give space for its community to both grieve and adjust to this new reality. Change, however good, is hard. I am grateful for and affirm that, as Pete wrote in a recent announcement of his own, we have “come to the conclusion that God has been at work to bring us together”.

Rendezvous had its last service yesterday and will be joining The Dale on June 2nd. Our folks are already planning ways to make everyone feel welcome- rumour has it there will be a banner and a cake! We invite you to pray that each person who joins us, including Pete, Frances and their children, quickly feel a sense of belonging.

Pete’s role will include supporting our existing programming, mentoring individuals, sometimes teaching on Sundays, and taking up the task of fundraising (something every member of our staff team must do and is admittedly a step of faith). We have identified that as our relationships deepen in the community, so does our need to be present. Having a fourth staff member only grows our capacity to do this beloved work. It also creates space for us to imagine and establish additional programs. There will be room, just as there is for Joanna, Meagan and I, for Pete to carve out jobs that are unique to him.

There will soon be a bio of Pete up on our website. Until then, a little about him: Pete grew up in Brampton, is passionate about and called to Parkdale, loves being a husband and father, has a MDiv from Tyndale University College & Seminary, and is an avid fan of all sports. When Pete first arrived in Parkdale, he contacted us about building a partnership and very quickly began steadily volunteering at our Monday Drop-In. He has already developed many relationships at The Dale and is a very kind and humble presence.

Please join me, Joanna, Meagan, our Board of Directors, and the entire Dale community in saying, “welcome!” We are excited for this next leg of the journey.

Frances and Pete Nojd

I miss my Mom. I still catch myself wanting to tell her something and for a split second, forgetting that she’s gone. Some days this doesn’t happen and if I’m being honest, it scares me more than the disbelief at her absence. I’m adjusting to her death. And that, though probably healthy, is a hard reality.

I remember so much: the way she greeted me when I walked in a room, her laugh, the smell of her hair, the way she could listen. I can still picture her peeling too many potatoes for our family gatherings because she always worried there wouldn’t be enough (there were leftovers every time). Whenever stacks of mail or artwork or important papers accumulate, I call it a “meaningful pile” in my Mom’s honour.

Sometimes what I most miss are the seemingly mundane moments that were actually very intimate: cutting her bangs, folding her laundry, re-arranging the treasures on her windowsill. I recently stumbled upon an email she sent reminding me to check the red file she kept at her bedside. I could immediately picture it and found myself longing to check it one more time.

My Mom’s grandchildren are growing up. I hate that she isn’t here to be a part of it all. After her death, I went through Mom’s photo stream on her I-Pad. The majority of it was Cate, Oliver, Harrison and Teagan. She loved being Gran to them.

I have faith that my Mom is not really gone and now whole in a way I can’t even comprehend. She worked to live her life well, and near the end, was justifiably weary. I even got to join with our family in journeying alongside her right to the end. All of that matters, and…death sucks. I would like to get up right now, walk down the street, around the corner and into my Mom’s room to be greeted with, “hi sweetie, it’s so good to see you”.

May brings with it my birthday, Mother’s Day, and the anniversary of my Mom’s death. It’s a complicated time. I am thrilled that spring has arrived, I feel fortunate to have lived another year, I love that I get to mother Cate, I celebrate having a step-mother in Susan and a mother-in-law in Beatrice, and I relish in the gift of my mother, Elaine. I also grieve passionately.

My Mom used to acknowledge that while she had experienced much suffering, her identity wasn’t “sufferer”. I found her ability to persevere astonishing. She found so much joy in her faith, friendships, and family. I would like to talk with her more about all of that: how did she do it? She would probably say, “oh Erinn, I don’t know how except for grace”. This Mother’s Day, no every day, I choose to remember that.

Grace upon grace upon grace.

Here is a reminder of my Mom’s gratitude, in her own words.

A few weeks ago, I was encouraged by a member of The Dale to share what happened at our Palm Sunday service. Palm Sunday is the day in the Christian church calendar when we take our place in the triumphal entry, sing our hosannas, and carry our palms. It marks the beginning of Holy Week.

On this particular Sunday we read Luke’s account of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem. It turns out that Luke doesn’t mention how the people following Jesus carry or throw down palms along the way. They do spread their cloaks on the road, but there is no mention of palms. He also doesn’t use the term “hosanna”, instead describing the people praising God with a loud voice. One more unique thing about Luke’s account of this day is found in verse 41: “As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it”.

I invited us to consider the tearful aspects of Jesus’ entry; how Jesus wept not just for a city, but a condition: ignorance of things that make for peace, prejudice we hold against one another, and the destructiveness of fear. We also talked about how Peter “went out and wept bitterly” (Luke 22:62) after denying Jesus three times. How are his tears familiar to us? What does it feel like to confess that our life is not what we want it to be?

A tearful entry into Holy Week means we must acknowledge the state of the world, and our own lives. Not all of us cry in the same way: some (like me) well up easily, others can’t muster a tear but are internally filled with sorrow. Wet or dry, they are both real. Either way, it is difficult work. Jesus’ heart was pierced when he saw the city, as was Peter’s when the cock crowed. When we recognize the reality of our own situation, our hearts are pierced as well.

I don’t know how to describe what happened next. It began as a wail. A person, one who knows the street intimately, whose mind is rarely at rest and had come in looking for help, cried without reserve. The space we use on Sundays is beautiful and large and has very good acoustics. And so, as I cautiously continued, the sound of weeping reverberated off the walls.

Sometimes our heart knows grief and death; guilt or disappointment. Other times it is burdened by the pain of the world and the suffering of another human being; dreams that didn’t come true or broken promises. Life can be hard. It can be marked with poverty, or illness, or loneliness. In whatever way your heart has been broken: you are not alone.

The wailing continued.

We all have stories of sadness. To deny our tears is to deny a part of ourselves the power of Holy Week and the joy of Easter life: life that is marked by forgiveness, healing, and rebirth into new life. On this Palm Sunday our friend who knows what it is to be misunderstood, shunned and poor, led the tearful entry. It was powerful, painful to listen to, and…sacred.

“As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it.”

Sometimes writing an update is hard. I know that many people have been wondering about what has happened since Dion’s hospital admission. In truth, I just haven’t had the oomph to try and figure out what to say. To hear Dion’s perspective, I encourage you to read a post he recently wrote here: https://www.dionoxford.com/finally-home-again-ms-homecoming-spring-feeling-old-lent-and-swearing-part-3-of-3/

For me, Dion’s nine days at St. Michael’s Hospital included many emotions, the hard work of advocacy, trips to the Eaton Centre food court for non-hospital food and working on getting the last bits of hardware for the renovation. It was tiring.

Dion was diagnosed with a Urinary Tract Infection (my mom’s nemesis) and Pneumonia (what led to her death). Needless to say, I felt triggered. At one point I was in the hall trying to find a quiet spot to make some phone calls, and all I could think was, “how am I here doing this again?” I was scared and weepy. I also felt mad.

I have been angry about Multiple Sclerosis and what it has taken from Dion, and by extension, me and Cate. I have been angry at the system that sent Dion back into a house still under renovation and without a fully formed care plan. I have been angry at the silencing of my concerns. I have been angry at God.

Lent is the period of forty days before Easter, a time of reflection and preparation before the celebration. It struck me the other day that every Lenten season for the last number of years has been particularly challenging. This year has been no exception. Some moments have been profoundly dark, not because I doubted God’s presence, but because it felt very far away.

Somehow every year, no matter how difficult Lent and life are, Easter comes. I have caught glimpses of it already: when I began to stomp my feet and raise my voice at the hospital, I felt heard; a more robust care plan is now in place; broad spectrum antibiotics helped quash Dion’s infections; and the bathroom in the basement is complete (the shower was used for the first time this morning). I also realize that wrestling with God would be impossible if the distance between us was too great. I am confident that God can handle hearing my questions and works to soften my anger.

This journey is not an easy one. I am aware that there are many safe and soft places for us as a family to land. Thank you to the wonderful community that surrounds us: to those who came to the hospital, let me show up on their doorstep, made or bought us food, left kind messages and texts (I’m still catching up), and offered prayer and/or good thoughts. To everyone at The Dale: thank you for consistently teaching me about perseverance and how to keep it real. You all remind me that Easter is coming.