Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Woe to Those Who Hate the Rich

“But woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort” Luke 6:24



It may be accurate to say that I don’t feel any fluffy butterflies in my belly when I see someone driving their Corvette top-down, wearing off fancy sunglasses, and playing gangsta music pounding hard enough to inflict internal bleeding. And neither do I feel the fury Chuck Norris directs towards them. Honestly, I really just don’t fit in with the rich.

Let's start here with a bit of background. I grew up in an immigrant family. My mother, originally from the Philippines, came over from Singapore to be a nanny in Canada; and my Dad came over from Yugoslavia, the part now called Croatia. After my parents got hitched, they bought an acreage - perhaps in the hopes of reclaiming the family farm my father once had in his homeland. Now I wouldn’t call us poor; we were only on welfare for a couple months. However, I do remember that people thought we were poor. Sure we didn’t have any running water most of the time. I remember feeling only a little embarrassed when we arrived at church with empty jugs, which my Dad and I filled between Sunday School and the morning Service. And sure we didn’t have the nicest place. I still remember those bus rides where the veterans in the backseat took it upon themselves to give the new kids the exclusive tour of the route. On this tour, my house was referred to as the “dirty place”. The obligatory oohs and ahhs that followed made me feel special, but also sad for my mom: she can be a real clean-freak; she just loves to keep things clean. Despite all these things, we still lived pretty comfortably.

These experiences, however, served to create a gap between me and the rich; I just don’t understand them. Hopefully now you, my dear reader, can understand my skepticism when a fairly large design and architecture firm, decided to donate their time and money to the housing program at The Mustard Seed Edmonton by landscaping the grounds surrounding our first apartment building. As I helped to plant trees and spread a variety of different rocks and mulch on the ground, I couldn’t help wonder why they were there. The Jekyll in me said, “It is from the bottom of their good hearts”; while the Hyde in me said, “It is from the guilt; they have to do something good to make them feel better.”

Christ in me, who become poor for us, says, “Love your neighbour”. I am still learning to do this because I not have both poor and rich neighbours. Woe to me if I love one and not the other, if I do good to my friends and spite my enemy, if I am not thankful for the generosity of those who have much. And also because I don’t like woe all that much.

Love Lots,


Jeremiah

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Sunday, July 29, 2012

How One Old Wall Became a Piece of Art


Before


This summer at DemoCrew Edmonton, we have been thinking a lot about the word “Solidarity” - what it means and how it has the power to change the face of poverty.

Most people are familiar with the word charity; we have been socialized to believe that charity is the answer, but what we’re starting to see more and more, is that charity does the opposite of empower. Charity says, “I’m up here on a mountain because I have money, and you are down there in the valley because you don’t. That means that I have the answers to your problems and I can fix you with my money.” But solidarity says, “I have some money and you don’t, but I also think you have things you could teach me, and I have things I could teach you. We learn together.” Solidarity empowers. It levels the mountains and the valleys so that all are equal, like the verse in Isaiah 40:4 “Every valley shall be raised up, every mountain and hill made low; the rough ground shall become level, the rugged places a plain.”

The word “Solidarity” has many definitions, but the one I like best is this:

Solidarity is the degree and type of integration, shown by a society or group with people and their neighbors. It refers to the ties in a society that bind people to one another. – (thanks Wikipedia)

This week we had the opportunity at DemoCrew to voice our opinion of solidarity in a visible way. A neighbor invited us to paint a mural on his garage wall. Our visiting group, Sturgeon Valley Baptist Church offered to sponser the cost, and suddenly, an old wall in the back alley became a conversation topic -  an act of solidarity as community members and residents started to rally around us offering opinions, encouragement and music to listen to while we worked.

One man even said, “We don’t live in the best neighborhood you know, but this just makes it so much nicer to live here.”

Another came to us, “I just want to have my name on this. I want to paint one brush stroke, because I want to be a part of something like this. Thank you for doing this.”

And yet another man came to us and said, “I can understand this. We are all humans, you and me, we have that in common. I love you because you are a human too. I. Love. You.”

The quote we chose to put on this mural says this:

 “Solidarity does not assume that our struggles are the same struggles, or that our pain is the same pain, or that our hope is for the same future. Solidarity involves commitment, and work, as well as the recognition that even if we do not have the same feelings, or the same lives, or the same bodies, we do live on common ground.” – Sarah Ahmed

We are all Edmontonians.

But I think this mural also says something else. Beauty, although in the eye of the beholder, is something we can all connect to in some way regardless of our social standing. This mural says that even though we all come from different walks of life, we all deserve beauty. It says that solidarity is possible when we work together, even in a charity model driven world. We can be the change we want to see, and we are.

After

Want to learn more about DemoCrew? Click Here.

- Paula
Follow me on Twitter @PaulaCornell5

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Thursday, July 26, 2012

Hope in The Eyes of a Summer Student

Hello, my name is Walter. I'm the summer student in the Employment Centre here at the Mustard Seed.

Recently Desiree, my neighbor, and I had an interesting discussion about hope, the topic of which has been a recurring theme for me this summer.  She told me of her encounter on the previous day, on the streets of Calgary where she had witnessed humanity in its most savage, and depraved form.  Two men had, without reasonable prompting, proceeded to pummel another man in the face. The police eventually arrived to break up the crowd, but with tempers flaring, their arrival only seemed to make things worse.

These kinds of angry street scenes seem to be common occurrences during my stay.    From my open window downtown I regularly hear bouts of drunken rage, nicely garnished with horrific swear words and slurred threats.

Many of our guests have had traumatic life experiences, witnessed brutal and inhuman acts of injustice and lived in a violent world where alcohol is seen as the only logical form of escape.  After living in such overbearing circumstances, I wonder if there ever comes a point in which a person can no longer be helped with his or her burden.   When is that point reached in which they’ve almost lost their defining traits of humanity and simply become instinctive rage-induced beings?  Many would argue that there is always a glimmer of hope in every human.  Yet time and time again we seem to have visitors at our door who never change.  They keep coming back where they erupt into explosions of rage over minor things, inflict unnecessary physical and emotional pain on others, and they seem to have withdrawn completely from the consequences of their actions.  Can someone reach that point of no return?  Or will there always be a glimmer of hope?  I don’t claim to know the answer; I don’t think humans can know the answer.

What seems to matter though is the way we react.  I can’t judge the reactions of those on the scene that weekend.  Yet I strongly believe that harsh reactions go against everything the Mustard Seed believes in.  We convey hope in our actions:  if we are disrespectful to guests it may be interpreted that he or she is a hopeless cause, and when we show love then we project hope. 

Maybe the question of hope doesn’t lie in whether or not humans can reach a point of no return but, instead, whether or not the people around these “hopeless causes” will act in a way that cultivates hope in their souls. During my time here I’ve realized that The Mustard Seed is on the forefront of projecting hope to the hopeless, yet there is always room for improvement.  We should never stop wondering whether or not we’re growing hope or tearing it down with our actions. 

Ask yourself, in your daily interactions are you being hopeful and loving with the people who least deserve it? 


- Walter

Friday, July 20, 2012

Invisible


He seemed like he'd been sitting at that corner with his empty paper plate for years - like a scene from a time-lapse camera,  he remained locked with the landscape while the world briskly passed him by.

Begrudgingly, I stepped from the early-morning city bus and out into the concrete jungle once again. I angled my body into the wind and began the five-block walk to my office. As I approached the closest corner to work, there was a man sitting on the ground. He wasn't directly on the ground, but rather on the cement retaining wall running parallel to the sidewalk. As I approached, I glanced curiously at his long, discolored beard and weathered skin and guessed him to be in his late 60's.  He had the kind of look that could be intimidating - to business folk and small children alike; the kind of look that, like the old man in Home Alone, didn't welcome you in, but instead evoked feelings of uncertainty. "Good morning," I said, as I walked past and stepped off the curb to cross. "Good morning!," he replied, with a sparkle in his eye so honest and an enthusiasm so startlingly genuine that my heart stumbled and tripped over itself as I continued walking. "Interesting," I thought, as I continued my journey to work, "he actually meant that!"

I returned the following day, as I always do, and he was sitting there, as he always was. Not only did I say good morning to him, but this time I really meant it. There was something great about making his gentle heart smile - as I observed the population passing him by, I thought it might possibly be his only smile of the day. We continued this for weeks. Some mornings he wasn't there, but 3-4 times per week, my new friend and I would enthusiastically greet each other and smile. That man changed my mornings with his warm smile and welcome sparkle. Some days the first words I would utter were those two small words to my new friend.

One day I stopped and bought a muffin for him; it was a Wednesday. I wanted to buy him an apple pie, but they weren't available, so I settled on a cranberry muffin, paid, and left with my paper bag. Jovially, I continued down the street, turned the corner and stopped in my tracks when I saw that he wasn't there. As I approached, I slowed to a near-crawl to see if he actually was there and my eyes were just mistaken. I reached the end of the retaining wall and he was nowhere to be found. Dejected, I carried the muffin with me to work and set it on my desk. After an hour or so of wondering, I took it out of the bag and ate it, feeling as though I was stealing from my friend who needed it much more than I. He wasn't there at lunch that day either, and he wasn't there the next day, or the day after. My friend hasn't been there since. For a year, I looked for him every morning when I turn the corner and, every morning, his absence was deafening.

To most, he was invisible - but to me, he was my morning smile, and I was his. If you ever feel alone or invisible, please know that you are neither. Ever. People are always watching (not in a big brother conspiracy kind of way, although... that too), and you are impacting others' lives every day. I always wonder who I am impacting and how, but I am certain I will never be able to know.

Through our interactions I realized it was the uncaring, rushing, too-busy-for-you, nothing-but-business folk who were letting the world pass them by, and not my gentle new friend quietly observing from the sidewalk.

Have you ever felt invisible?

- Sarah

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

By His Stripes

She drifted in during our closing worship session on the final day of DemoCrew, as we met privately one last time with a group of teenagers who had spent the past four days with us at The Mustard Seed in Calgary, learning about root causes of homelessness and getting to know our guests. Somehow, she had wandered through the doors undetected, unnoticed, unseen, and now, this very intoxicated young woman appeared and dropped her bags on the table at the back, a few feet from where I was standing. She precariously lowered herself into a chair in the corner to observe the young students singing praise songs at the front of the room, all of whom were unaware that she was sitting behind them, swaying back and forth, not from the music, but from the effects of too much alcohol and too many drugs in too short a span of time.

I could have escorted Riley (not her real name) out, as we had experienced disruptions and incidents from intoxicated guests during worship before, but something – Someone – spoke into my heart and told me it was more important that she stay. So I casually crossed the room and silently took a seat next to her. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her turning her head to look at me, but I continued singing and looking ahead, wanting to give her as much space as she wanted or needed.

The music stopped for a few minutes as the group prepared for communion, and Riley seized the opportunity to ask me a question. If I hadn’t been listening for it, I probably would have missed it entirely; she spoke so softly that I had to lean in and strain with everything in me to catch what she was saying, ignoring the strong scent of alcohol on her breath.

“Are they talking about Jesus?”

I turned to respond to Riley, and studied the person in front of me. She did not look at me but instead stared straight ahead, into emptiness, her eyes registering no emotion. Her long, punk-styled black hair hung almost to her shoulders; she was clothed in a black t-shirt and sweatpants, not unlike what I wear when I’m putting together new dance choreography or teaching a dance class. In fact, there were several similarities between us, including the fact that she couldn’t have been far from my age of 21 (I found out later that day that she was, in fact, just 19). She had her arms crossed tightly in front of her chest, a tiny, frail figure who looked like she might actually break if you were to touch her.

I have worked at The Mustard Seed for over a year, and in that time, my heart has hurt many, many times for the guests whom I serve. But never before had I felt my heart completely shatter ­into what felt like a million tiny pieces as I registered the complete and total brokenness of the beautiful girl sitting before me.

“Yes, they are,” I replied quietly. “Do you know about Jesus?”

Riley slowly nodded her head, still staring at a point on the wall. Okay, I thought. That’s a good first step. I said a silent prayer that God would use the next moments to touch Riley’s life. The music started again, and I quietly asked her, “Would you like to listen to some more of the music?” She nodded again and the lyrics of this song in particular could not have been more perfect, as they spoke of grace, and mercy, and a new life in Jesus.

Worship ended and the DemoCrew participants said their goodbyes, but I did not leave with them. Instead, I continued sitting with Riley quietly, asking the occasional question which she would reply to after a delayed silence. As the hours passed and our conversation continued, I could see that the effects of the alcohol and drugs she had admitted consuming were wearing off, and she was becoming more articulate and comprehensible. In jagged sentences, she asked me first why such bad things had happened to her throughout her life, and then, how God could love her after all the times she had screwed up.

And then came the moment. Riley slowly laid her hands on the table and rotated her wrists, and I saw the scars.

So many scars.

“Are they recent?” I asked softly.

She nodded, fighting back the tears that were welling up in her eyes. “Older,” she said, pointing to one. “Newer,” she motioned to another. “Newest,” she whispered as she nodded to the cartoon bandage covering one spot.

In that instant, I suddenly realized the difference between "fixing" people and "helping" people. When you try to fix someone, you assume the ball is in your court, and that you get to call the shots in somebody else's life. But when you try to help someone, you put the ball back in their court, and simply put yourself in a position to walk alongside them should they choose to grant you that privilege. Everything in me was screaming to try to fix Riley's life for her, to somehow make the scars fade and the pain disappear. And then, just as quickly, God reminded me that fixing people isn't my job -- journeying with them, through their triumphs and their difficulties, is.

With her permission, I invited my co-worker, who works in chaplaincy, to join us so we could pray for Riley. He spoke words of God’s love over her, and we hugged her, and we watched the walls come down as she cried, and cried, and cried some more, shoulders shaking, as she finally realized and accepted the truth that we as Christians call “grace”: nothing she could ever do could make God ever love her more, and nothing she could ever do could make God ever love her less. He knows every hair on her head, and in His eyes, she’s not the screw-up she thinks she is. She is a beautiful child, and best of all, she is His – forever. She accepted God’s forgiveness, and finally, she forgave herself as well.

Several hours later, after I had made sure Riley would be safe for the night, I finally left work, drained, walking through the downtown streets, praying as my mind recalled the scene of those scars on her arms. As I prayed, the images in my head transformed in a stunning picture of Jesus, reaching out to wrap Riley in His arms…and as He did, I saw them.

The scars covering His body.

The holes in His palms where the nails had pierced Him the night He hung on the cross and died for us.

And suddenly, I remembered the promise given to us, in Isaiah 53:5 (NKJV), which says:

But He was wounded for our transgressions,
 He was bruised for our iniquities,
The chastisement for our peace was upon Him, 
And by His stripes we are healed.”

I continue to pray for Riley every single day, begging God for restoration of her life, but trusting that she has always been His child, and will always be His child. And I have promised God that for as long as He allows me to, I will do my best to walk alongside her, not with the goal of fixing her, but with the belief that He will work in her life in a way that I, a human being, never could.

By His stripes we are healed.



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Monday, July 16, 2012

The Chronicles of Westwood Manor: From the Tenants Interview 1


Whether you call it HousingFirst or HousingPlus or Housing-whatever, it can be said that the “Housing" program is a new and mysterious enigma here at The Mustard Seed Edmonton. The rumours about this fancy program must be spreading like gangrene: "Did you hear? They installed a pool with a diving board - on the roof no less!" and "Have you heard? They just bought an exact replica of the Taj Mahal made out of spaghetti!"

Well friends, let me assure you with comforting words: rainbow, cherry cake, unicorn, puppies. To dispel the myths even further, I have with me our very own expert, whom we will refer to as Mark, a tenant and handyman here at the house.


Jeremiah: So, Mark, what happens on a regular day at the apartment?
Mark: Sometimes I go to work, sometimes I go out and get groceries ...uh I mean, do cleaning and maintenance, talk in [the] Common Room, meet up with people at The Mustard Seed. We sit around, talk, and enjoy.
[To himself]:Can’t believe I said grocery shopping! *laughs*

J: Has this house had a positive influence on you?
M: Yeah it has! The programs here at The Mustard Seed have really improved my Christianity and has really helped to increase my sense of unity with the community I am a part of.

J: What is your favourite part of the Housing program?
M: My favourite part is the suite that they gave me: brand new cupboards and floor, exceptional acoustics for a stereo and [affords me] the ability to cook my own meals.

J: Where would you be if you had no house to live in?
M: YMCA, but I like this place 1000 times better. I’ve rented really expensive apartments before with problems. You look out the window and see greasy people and wonder if a shower curtain salesman lives across from you.*chuckles*. But it is a really safe place here.

J: If there was one thing you would like the rest of the Mustard Seed to know about its Housing program, what would it be?
M: Tough luck. *laughs*. Just kidding! The Mustard Seed is getting more places and is providing top-notch support. You can’t get it better than this. The Mustard Seed has exceeded the limit and has gone way out of their way to do better. Just when you think The Mustard Seed has done everything, they do more.

Well there you have it folks, wisdom from the expert. I pray this has given you a little taste of The Mustard Seed Housing Program at Westwood Manor.


Love Lots,
Jeremiah


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Friday, July 13, 2012

Our Daily Bread

It’s a summer evening and meal preparation is well under way at The Mustard Seed’s kitchen. One person sweats over a hot stove while two more hurriedly wash and chop veggies, a fourth and fifth roll up plastic utensils in a paper napkin with assembly line efficiency, and a sixth pushes trays of dishes through the dishwasher while joking about being the chief cook and bottle washer.

Who are these people? They are an unlikely team of professionals and social assistance recipients, of people with stories of traumas and trials so large that one wonders why they have not become immobilized, of people whose plenitude is seasoned with gratitude, of meal line recipients and people who have never gone without and of others knowing what it is like to both have and have not. These people, each with their own story, are part of the daily miracle of preparing and serving a meal to 200 to 400 of Edmonton’s homeless and low-income population.  They include everyone from the couple who just stopped by to see if help was needed to a community member who joyously shares their kitchen expertise from their life experiences.

Together, these people prepare a meal in The Mustard’s Seed kitchen. Noodles boil and pasta sauce simmers. A colourful salad is tossed. Bread is buttered and sprinkled with garlic.

Where did this food come from? It comes from various places - day-old bread from the bakery, mis-packaged salad from the food bank which is no longer good for retail sale, salad dressing that was donated that very day, and noodles and pasta sauce left over from previous meals. This food, used for something other than its original purpose, is part of the daily miracle of preparing and serving a meal to 200 to 400 of Edmonton’s homeless and low-income population.

This summer, please pray for these daily miracles as there are 18 days from June-September that currently do not have groups scheduled to provide, prepare or serve a meal. Pray that individuals from all walks of life will come together to serve a meal. Pray for food that is not being used for its original purpose but can be used in the evening meal program. Pray for sponsors and meals groups to provide, prepare and serve meals. Most importantly, pray that we trust God as our provider whether for our daily bread in our homes or for the daily bread of 200 to 400 hungry Edmontonians on a summer evening at The Mustard Seed.

Blessings,

Sacha D
Food Services Coordinator

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Thursday, July 12, 2012

Mustard Seed Journey

I started my journey at the Mustard Seed in January 2012. I began as a Social Work Practicum Student from Mount Royal University. I have always felt a connection with this population however, I recall walking up to the entrance on my first day somewhat fearful. I was unsure of what to expect.  Following some training I was ready to explore Transitional Housing where I would be a Practicum Housing Support Worker for the next four months of my life.  I was welcomed by the department with nothing but kindness, openness and compassion.

At first I would just sit in the common area and get to know some of the residents. I began truly hearing their stories and finding similarities with everyone. Every single person has felt pain, felt sadness, felt joy, felt love and felt hate. I began truly falling in love with each person that lived in Transitional Housing. It’s funny when I think of my life outside of the Seed and the people I interact with. I think to myself that I would probably not have been open to the opportunity of experiencing the beauty that each of these people brings to the world.
 

As each day of my practicum passed I could notice myself growing into the person I always knew I was. I found myself acknowledging the skills I have and being open to positive change. People in my life were telling me I had changed and it was an amazing feeling. I feel I owe part of who I am today to all the residents and staff I have worked with in the Seed.

I not only saw growth in myself but I witnessed Transitional Housing turn into Permanent Supportive Housing. I watched as residents became immersed in this community. I witnessed relationships build and a family dynamic be created between these people. For many of the members of this community family is something that is missing in their lives. Something they had once and lost or something they’ve never truly experienced. Being able to establish this form of support in their lives is a stepping stone on the road to recovery. 


- Michelle

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Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Blessed are the Zeros

I know a man.  Let’s call him George.  When I first encountered him I would have said he was irritable, rough, racist, angry, bitter, and lonely.   His hands were blackened from cigarette butts, his clothes stained with the remnants from beer cans he picked religiously, his back hunched from carrying around his few belongings, and his steel-toed boots were worn to the soles. When asked a question, George’s face would grimace in guarded expectation for some ill intent.  His foul language was used as a defense mechanism, protecting his already raw soul.  Regardless what the question was, George would regurgitate the countless times he was hurt, how he would love to get his revenge, and why he never lets anyone in. 

Though George appeared like a weathered, old stone, inside was an raging sea teeming with raw emotion.  His anger would often reach a boiling point to which tears would precipitate from his blackened eyes.  How much shame he felt for the things he had done; for the wasted years drowning his sorrows; how he wished he could go back and tell his mother he loves her, regretting the violent words he spoke just before she died. 

In the damp darkness of his previous make-shift apartment, surrounded by his few possessions, He would lie awake, re-imagining every moment he was found “on the other side of the tracks”, all the times he was told he had failed and was worthless, all the distorted faces that glared at him as walked through places he didn’t belong. Like a recurring nightmare, George’s past constantly flooded his mind, seeking to drown out any hope that remained buoyant within his soul.    But worse than all the wrongs he committed, all the ways he was unfit for society, all the words spoken against his character, worse than all of that, George felt unloved.

“Blessed are the Poor in Spirit, the zeros, those without a wisp of religion, the pathetic, those who haven’t kept the covenant, those who don’t believe all the right things, those who have really really really screwed it up in an endless litany of ways – to all those, God is on your side. To all of those who don’t deserve the blessing of God, the blessing of God is here and – it – is – on – your – side” (Rob Bell’s Commentary on The Sermon on the Mount)

I have contemplated what Jesus meant by “Blessed are the Poor in Spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven” for some time.  My time spent with George has offered further insight into what Jesus was saying.
George is keenly aware of his brokenness; he knows all the ways he falls short; he remembers every law he’s broken and every heart he’s wounded.  George feels his shame as one might feel the enveloping nature of their skin.  Such acceptance of one’s shame and brokenness produces a vulnerability that has unmatched strength and potential.  What do I mean by strength? Well, society tells us that vulnerability is weakness and progress has no room for the weak.  Jesus’ message speaks directly to this way of thinking.

After almost a year of walking alongside George, there is one word I would now use to describe him: courageous.  Day after day, George wakes up and looks at his reflection; he’s quickly reminded of all the ways he is “not”, all the ways he has failed and made poor decisions, he knows that the world he’s trying to re-enter is against him. Any less of a person would be crippled by the despair and shame, but George throws on his backpack, ties up his boots, and moves on.  Vulnerability is the source of his courage.  With nothing to cover up his brokenness, nothing to give the illusion of being put-together, nothing to give a sense of entitlement, George enters the world just as he is.  Vulnerable.  Real.  Resilient.

Today, George’s edginess is fading and I catch him smiling as he gazes over his new bachelor suite. He sits at the end of his new bed, sipping a cup of coffee he brewed in his own coffee-maker, and listens to his favorite Country radio station.    As I watch George’s hard visage begin to soften, I can’t help but think he is blessed.  Not because he has a new apartment to call home, or that he has more things to bring him comfort; George knows something I don’t.

George knows his true-self; he knows himself apart from possessions, affirmation, and achievements.  George knows how to receive a gift; he actually embraces each day as a true gift and takes nothing for granted.  He knows he is broken, yet knows he still has value and a purpose.  George is not foolish enough to think his value comes from what he does, what people say about him, or how he compares to his neighbor.  He wears his heart of his sleeve, open and vulnerable for all to see, and as much as his rawness hurts at times, he knows no other way worth living.

The kingdom of heaven is incredibly tangible whenever I am with George.  He may not use the religious words to describe it, but he knows God is on his side.

- Josh
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Wednesday, July 04, 2012

“I AM a POSITIVE Person, Jerkface!”

I look at him. He looks at me. He is definitely drunk, but I easily see past that; not a good skill to have, really. I work the door at The Mustard Seed in Edmonton during meals and do my best to prevent all drug and alcoholic users from entering our zero-tolerance force field. He starts swearing - not in a mean or threatening way, but with very honest indignation. Standing straight, his left knee is pulled unnaturally out to the side as if a muscle-head wrestler bent it the wrong way and forgot to put it back. He manages to hold this position as the rest of his body sways back and forth in his alcohol-induced state. He has waited a few years for knee surgery and, out of his hatred of prescription painkillers, he uses alcohol to survive the day and sleep at night. Good news: he just got an appointment with a clinic so that he can soon get the surgery. I try to be positive. “Be happy, friend! You will be getting the surgery soon”. Bad move Jeremiah. He swears again. This time directed at me with both honest frustration and sheer meanness. He is obviously not in a very positive mood.


People have said I'm a positive person. I have noticed, however, that it is very difficult to be positive to those who have witnessed, and been victim to, atrocious things. They see the world through the tainted lens of these traumatic experiences and comprehend my positive remarks as mere fiction and fantasy outside their own perspective. My positivity is not a valid part of their “real world”. It has been a goal of mine to ground my optimism in reality and in a way that they can understand. This has been difficult, although, I have made some progress.

One community member, who is a regular here at The Mustard Seed, was having some trouble with employment and getting his identification. I wanted to encourage him so I took something from his “world” – his regular attendance at The Mustard Seed – and relayed it back to him in a positive way. I simply said that he was a positive influence in the community of The Mustard Seed. This was also grounded in the real, in his world, because I had noticed his generosity to other community members. And I think he got the message.

Leave me a comment and let me know what the real world is through your lens.


Love Lots,

Jeremiah

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Tuesday, July 03, 2012

Eight by 8:00: freedom of choice

By 8:00 this morning, I had the opportunity to make eight simple decisions. Each one communicates an access to wealth - deflecting poverty away from my reality, however poor I feel. For the 330 men and women who slept in our emergency shelter last night, they represent a wealth beyond reach, for affluence in many ways is best understood by the quantity of choices one gets to make. For me, by the time I left home, I decided when to wake up, which washroom to use, what to wear and what to eat. Then, I had the chance to decide which format to receive the day’s news, which technology to use to check and respond to emails, which car to drive and what form today’s lunch hour workout would take. By 8:00 am, I had lived a life of abundance - one decision at a time.

For many of our homeless neighbours, their mornings are devoid of choice. They awake in a crowded shelter to the unsettled noises of their company. They wash up in an industrial public washroom, where dignity hides from the fluorescent lights. They typically wear yesterday’s outfit, worn well by a series of wash-less days, eating what is served – regardless of tastes – at the end of a long line. Their commute is out of an industrial park into the downtown core on a school bus. When they reach their destination, they borrow computer time to reconnect with friends, work opportunities and yesterday’s news. And for many, the hope of a noon hour run gives way to a day of endless walking as they pound the pavement in hopes that it will bring about illusive choice.

That these women and men show the courage to take on the day is in itself a sign of unmatched character and determination. As they reach forward for hope, dig into community and strain for change that will afford them choice, these people – our neighbours – enhance my understanding of strength. I admire them, as they make life from fewer choices. Our response is to work together to lower the barriers and level the path from poverty to possibility, from homelessness to home. Our role is to take the myriad of opportunities we have to choose each day and ensure we decide on a world that affords all the chance to decide.

If you woke up tomorrow in an emergency shelter, what would you most wish having the chance to choose?

- Jeff
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