“The Necklace” by Debra P. McGill

 

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 25^th 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.

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