Three more
weeks until my retirement, not just from St. Stephen’s on-the-Hill United
Church, in Mississauga, but from ministry in all its many and varied forms. I
have heard it said that our identity is not our occupation, our vocation, but
being a “reverend”, a “minister” has been so intimately woven into the very
fibre of who I am, I’m not certain if I will be able to separate the threads
without leaving a large tear in the fabric.
Three more weeks until my
retirement and I’m standing in the sanctuary of my church looking over tables
of handcrafted cards and home brewed Kombucha, wheel thrown pottery and
woodworking, artisan jewelry and other works of art.
The annual church garage
sale has, since COVID, become a vendors’ sale, and I’m determined to spend my
last couple of paycheques supporting as many of the vendors as I can, knowing
that in a month’s time, there won’t be any more salary to spend.
I stood for a few minutes
at the jewelry table gently fingering the long slender piece of amber entwined
in thin, silver wire, dangling from a silver chain. All my other purchases were
thankyou gifts for other people, family and folk at my church, but this
necklace, it was to be for me. Sharon, a parishioner, came up beside me.
“That’s pretty.” She said.
“Do you like it better than the others?”
The artist had made many
different styles of amber necklaces, one of which I bought at last year’s sale,
but this particular one caught my eye.
“I do like this one.” I
said. “But I have to think about it.”
“Don’t think too long,”
Sharon said. “Someone else is bound to like it too!”
We chatted for another
minute, and then I left to check out some pottery on a table at the other end
of the room. By the time I made my way back to the jewelry, Sharon had been
right. Someone else liked that same necklace. It was gone.
My last Sunday was filled
with laughter and tears, lots of cards and kind words, small and large gift
bags and after the service was over . . . fellowship time and an abundance of
food . . . more than enough for all.
Later, after most people
had left, my family helped me pack everything into my car and turning left at
the end of the long church driveway, I made my way to the highway, pointed my
car towards Sarnia and headed to my new home.
Except for an air
mattress, a cooking pot, a few dishes, church clothes and my laptop, I had
moved all of my furniture, clothes, books, office paraphernalia and sundry
household goods from my small condo apartment three weeks before. So when I
opened the door to my new home, I was greeted by furniture not yet arranged, a
bed and a treadmill not yet assembled, piles of boxes not yet unpacked and
pictures not yet hung on walls.
It was almost a week
before I got around to opening the cards and gifts from the people from my
church I had come to love. And there, nested in a piece of tissue paper and
carefully slipped inside a card, was a long slender piece of amber, entwined in
thin, silver wire, dangling from a silver chain.
I am addicted to black
turtlenecks, but given the sultry, humid +300C Sarnia summer, I knew
I wouldn’t be able to wear a black turtleneck to show off my new necklace just
yet, and so it hung in my closet, anxiously waiting for cooler weather.
Sarnia is not a big city.
I’m a five-minute walk to a beach and five minutes in the car takes me
downtown. The beautiful St. Clair River
runs parallel to Front Street and its old, historic store fronts. As I drove, I
noticed a tent pitched in a park on the river’s edge and then two tents, then
three. Having lost count, I realized this was a tent city, “home” to a small
village of homeless men and women.
I have long been a
believer in God-incidences, not so much coincidences of happenstance, but
God-incidences, those things I need to take notice of. In the four-page Sarnia
and Lambton County “This Week” newspaper (with its 20lbs of flyers stuffed
inside) were articles about Rainbow Park and the unhoused people living there
in tents and tarps.
“Everyone is invited to
the homelessness forum being held at the Dante Club” the article said.
“September 25th at 7:00 p.m.”
I marked it in my
calendar, and I went. The evening had cooled off and so I wore my “summer”
black turtleneck and my new necklace, the amber and silver looking refined . .
. classy . . . against the black top.
Though I arrived fifteen
minutes early the first and second parking lots were full and we were directed
to overflow parking two lots away. As I got out of my car a young woman and a middle-aged
woman were walking up the grade and so I joined them.
Reta had driven down from
Sioux St. Marie, a five-hour drive! She ran a shelter up in the Sioux and was
looking for new ideas and perhaps solutions to the ever-growing homeless
situation. I introduced myself and then the young woman, early twenties,
smiling and enthusiastic said, “I’m Justine. I really like your necklace!”
“Thank you,” I answered as
we got to the doors of the Dante Club. I held the door for Reta and Justine and
we walked into a room that was already almost filled to capacity. I had assumed
that Justine and Reta were together, but they and I separated as we went inside,
each of us sitting in a different place.
The forum was well
organized with guest speakers from social services, the police, food banks,
Indwell and other charitable organizations, and a couple of local municipal
leaders. The audience listened respectfully, heads nodding in support, and if
not in support there were no raised fists or yelling of abuses.
Then came the Q & A.
Ninety seconds per person at the microphone and though there were many who
spoke, wanting to find solutions, there were some who needed to vent, who
wanted the tent city torn down and the men and women taken somewhere else where
they would no longer be “visible,” no longer be a nuisance.
“They are peeing and shitting
on the ground, even on the sidewalks.” One woman said, her voice raised.
“My son has to walk by
them on his way to school. They’re just a bunch of addicts and drunks. They
shouldn’t be allowed to be there. Get rid of them!” a man said loudly into the
microphone.
And as each person spoke
against the tent city and those who lived there, some in the crowd clapped in
support.
My chair was two from the
aisle where those who went up to the mike to speak stood waiting. When a new
person joined the line, I glanced over to see Justine standing quietly, waiting
her turn.
“My name is Justine and I
live in Rainbow Park,” she said, her voice, gentle and calm.
“I’m one of those people who has peed on the grass. Believe me, I don’t want to. None of us do. But there aren’t any portable toilets. And none of the restaurants, not even Tim Horton’s, will let us use their washrooms. There isn’t any place where I can shower. If there were toilets and showers at the park for us, we wouldn’t be forced to act like animals. I’m not an animal.”
Just as gently and calmly Justine handed the mike to the moderator and walked
back across the room. I tried to see where she sat but she had disappeared into
the rows of people.
The event ended a few
minutes later after thankyou’s were extended. On my way out, I stopped in the
foyer to look at headshots of some of the unhoused that were on display,
memories of those at The Compass I had come to know.
I was still trying to find
Justine as I made my way to the door, thinking that she had probably left after
she spoke and so I was startled to see her just outside the door, talking and
lighting a cigarette.
She recognized me and
smiled and I went up to her, embraced her and thanked her. Reaching to the back
of my neck, I unclasped my necklace and holding it out to her I asked, “Is it
okay if I give this to you?”
“Yes! It’s beautiful! Yes,
thank you!” she said as I put it around her neck. “God bless you.”
“She already has,” I said,
and we embraced.
Nine o’clock and it was
already dark. As I walked back to my car, I looked up to see a beautiful Van
Gogh starry, starry night sky. An
artistic genius, whose severe mental unwellness made him a social outcast and
if it weren’t for the sacrificial love of his brother Theo, Vincent would have
often been homeless.
Washrooms and showers in
Rainbow Park would be a human kindness, but they are not the solution. Neither
is giving my necklace to a young, homeless woman. But she told me her name.
Justine! And I pray that she felt valued and worthy.
Later, as I prepared for
bed, I turned the light on in my bedroom closet to see my Alb and
multi-coloured, hand-woven, Nicaraguan preaching stole hanging inside, the
attire of my occupation, my vocation.
The Alb is yellowed at the
neck and some of the embroidery on the sleeves has worn away, but the fabric of
the gown itself has not thinned and still has many years of life left in it.
The stole, its colourful,
tightly woven threads, remain strong and unbroken, its patterns of biblical
story symbols still distinct and vibrant and beautiful. And I realize, this is
who I am. The threads are strong and the fabric is intact. And the necklace . .
. the necklace is gone from the hook where it hung in my closet, but it is
where it belongs.
Debra P. McGill is a recently retired
United Church minister who served both rural and urban churches for twenty-five
years, spending nine months of those years in Botswana. While in ministry,
Debra served as a part time Chaplain in long term care home in Hespeler and was
the volunteer Chaplain at The Compass, which served many unhoused, unemployed,
underemployed, newcomers and those with mental health issues in Mississauga.
Debra dabbles in
photography and hopes to use her writing to share the many happy surprises,
anxious moments and life-shaping learnings with others through story telling.
See upcoming weekly writing classes,
one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.
Read more
short stories, essays,
and reviews by your fellow writers here (and
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