A Bit More Time

I stopped at the Nurse's Station to ask for his room. "Ah yes, J.," the nurse behind the counter said. "Just follow the corridor to the right as it wends its way around. On your right you'll see a door marked, "Over Capacity. That's his room."

What an odd name for a room, I thought as I followed her directions and came to the room with the promised signage. He was inside. Sitting on his bed. The blue hospital gown over his t-shirt and jeans. Long blond hair streaming out from beneath the ever present baseball cap he always wore.

He greeted me with a smile. Shy. "Thanks for coming," he said. "It's nice to see a familiar face."

The room was cramped. No window. No cupboard. No washroom. No visitor's chair. There just wasn't room in the storage area turned into a hospital room for anything other than the bed and a sink. I wondered if along with the label "Patient", his other label, "Homeless" had followed him into this dark space. I didn't want to ask if there was a connection between his lack of economic status and the position of the bed he'd been provided. I didn't want to embarrass him or to cause him to question his position on the ward. But still I wondered. He must have seen the question in my eyes. "The nurses are nice. They treat me real good."

He had been there since the first day of the month. Fourteen days of tests and trying to stabilize him enough to keep food down. Since May, he's lost sixty pounds. Ten alone over the fourteen days he's been there.

"Look at this," he said, showing me the menu from his dinner. "Everything's pureed. Ugh. Pureed pork." He smiled. "The popsicles aren't bad. And I like Jello. But I just can't get enough to eat." Shrug. "At least I'm keeping this food down."

We chatted for a bit about people and happenings at the shelter. He told me about his family. Two sisters. Two brothers.

I asked if he wanted me to contact them. "Not yet," he replied. "I'd rather get the details on what they're going to do before I worry them needlessly. My one sister won't care anyway. She never responds to my emails. But the others. They'll just worry about me. They don't need that."

I'd brought with me some of the photographs he'd taken and had mounted for an art show coming up at the shelter. When he'd called earlier he'd told me about his conversations with the doctors. "It'd be nice to show them some of my work," he said. "I might even be able to sell some. I'm not doing any bottle picking these days," he added with a laugh.

"I can bring some with me," I said.

"Would you? That'd be great." He set the photos up on the floor, leaning against the wall. The light wasn't great, but even in that dim space, the beauty of his photography leaped at you. The city scape through the porthole of a bridge. A flower, its delicate pink petals glistening with dew. A duck floating on the river, its ripple trailing behind it.

He has an eye for composition and light. An uncanny ability to see beyond what the human eye discerns to the negative spaces between shapes and shadows. He'd only started taking 'pictures', as he calls them, a year and a half ago. He'd been given a disposable camera. He filled the film. Had it processed and fell in love with the medium.

"I'm getting kind of old to keep doing manual labour," he'd told me. "Maybe picture taking could become my retirement plan." He'd laughed when he said the words, "retirement". Laughed and kept on taking pictures.

He doesn't know now how long of a retirement period he's going to get. "They say it's probably cancer," he said. "I figured they might find something in my lungs. Never thought it would be my stomach." He's waiting for surgery. Waiting to find out if he's got a couple of months, a year, maybe more.

"Let's focus on many more," I said.

"More would be good," he agreed. "But I'm pretty happy with what I've had." He paused. "But a bit more would be nice."

I hope he gets the bit more. Hope he gets a chance to take more pictures. To capture on film the world as he sees it. A world of beauty frozen in the angles of glass and concrete girders with sun glinting off the corner where they meet and touch the sky. A world of wonder where dew drops glisten on a purple flower in the early dawn. Where river ice floats upon a sea of mist and dusty pink dawn bruises the azure sky.

I hope he gets a bit more time to experience more of the wonder he's found behind the camera. Time to share his gifts. Time to be alive.

How the DI has helped me. -- by Phil G.

It was many years ago that I was homeless and in some ways it seems like a lifetime ago. I had grown up in poverty and addiction and, at the time, was lacking the life skills to apply myself to anything more than temp work, drug dealing or theft to make money.

From birth, the odds were already stacked against me -- my father was a drug addict, my mother drank the whole pregnancy with me and I was born high and lethargic due to the amount of valium she had taken before she gave birth to me. Within months she had given me up to an uncle and aunt (they became my step parents).

Whether it was my stepfather telling me I was worthless and would never amount to anything, or an older cousin touching me in a manner deemed inappropriate, abuse, in many forms, was significant in my life. I remember a time when I was nine and my mother sent me to the store. I ended up spending 25 cents of the change on candy and when I confessed this to her, I received a beating across the back of my neck while I was eating. When I stopped eating due to fear of choking, she got even angrier and threatened me with further retaliation if I did not eat. Then she hit me again between bites. I was very fearful of her. Later that night she got drunk and beat me across the back of my legs with her cane. It was not too many days after this that I ended up in foster care for a short spell.

As a child, I slowly became angrier and angrier. At seven, I was already starting to drink alcohol; and smoke marijuana. This was life growing up, a life that I quickly got accustomed to. It’s funny, in a very sad way, how at such a young age, some of my family members were so accepting of my drug abuse and disruptive behavior. Some members even condoned it. Sexual, mental, emotional and physical abuse was the norm in my surroundings and I learned that some things were not to be spoken. The effects of this lifestyle were taking a toll on people I loved and I could see it in their eyes. It was almost like they didn’t even like what they were doing but they lacked the skills to do anything else. I eventually became addicted to crack cocaine yet still used other drugs and drank recreationally.

On the surface, as an adult, I kept coping by doing the things that fit the life I knew. But, I began to ask questions to myself, as I knew deep down that this lifestyle could not be normal. Why couldn’t I be normal? Why were others becoming successful while I was still battling my personal demons? Why was I so angry? What caused my abusers to become abusive and to pass these traits on to me? How could I break the cycle?

My questions lead me to realize, I had to change, but it still took about five to seven years after my decision to change my life to finally achieve sobriety. During those years I was doing lots of things right. I took life skills training, anger management, and I latched onto positive people. And still I kept relapsing over and over. But I kept trying.

During this time I was in and out of the homeless shelters and hotels. I even managed to get a place to live a few times. But, no matter what I did, I always ended up homeless again as I was often careless and irresponsible. In fact, in my early twenties my then partner became pregnant and I lived with the fear that my lifestyle would have an effect on my soon to be born daughter.

I did a lot of other things during this period to try to make sense of my life. I attempted a few confrontations with family members who had abused me, including my mother. Although I was not able to get the response I wanted, I gained understanding that aided me in my healing. I found out that my mother had been sexually abused by my grandfather. She had started drinking at a young age to cope and that this cycle of abuse had probably gone on for generations. It was even possible that two of my older siblings might have been the by-products of such abuse. Another story that could very well write a book itself.

And then, I decided it was time to face my past. I phoned the father of my ex girlfriend and told him I was coming back to Calgary, clean and sober. He asked me to walk away and I told him I had worked too hard and that I couldn’t abandon my responsibilities as a father. They took me to court to deny me access and I came back to Calgary to fight. I had no money or a place to stay and most importantly I had no lawyer.

I ended up at the old Drop In Centre one day, a place I had stayed at many times when too high or intoxicated to go anywhere else. I was sitting at a table when Debbie Newman confronted me and stated that I looked clean-cut and might be suitable for a job cleaning a house for a lady. I went over to the lady’s house, received my instructions and she left for the day while I cleaned. I remember a rolled up wad of $100 dollar bills she left on her dresser. I was tempted to take it, it would probably cover rent and groceries for a month. I fought the urge and continued on with my job.

The lady came back later. She noticed the money wasn’t gone and she asked me about my story and inquired about why I was homeless. I explained to her about becoming clean and fighting for access to my daughter in court. It turned out she was a family court lawyer. I got my first big break. She ended up taking on my case and I won access to my daughter.

Since then I have relapsed and ended up in treatment. I got married to another woman and have had two other daughters. I went to college, received my Human Services Diploma and with my new education I applied for a job at the DI. “I want to give back to the people who helped me in my time of need,” I told them on my application. Imagine my joy when Debbie Newman, the same woman who had lead me to my first big break, interviewed and hired me. It was almost eight years to the month since she’d first stopped by my table and declared I look clean cut enough to take on the job. I’ve been employed at the DI ever since.

Since those days of living on the dark side of the street, my life has turned one hundred and eighty degrees. Today, I get to enjoy helping others. I have accomplished all the goals I’ve set for myself thus far and have the skills and willingness to set more goals for myself. Life is a journey of continuing to achieve personal success.

I have thanks and appreciation for Debbie Newman and the DI for helping me to start on my new journey. It is with a grateful heart that I continue this journey of bettering myself and helping those who deserve the same help that I received.

Written by: Staff Phil G.

The Ripple Effect

He walked into my office, a tall, lanky man of 50-something. He's been a client at the DI for several years. Well liked, he keeps to himself, seldom sharing much about his 'story' or what brought him here. Over the course of the three years I've been working at the DI, and running the art program, he's gradually opened up, sharing stories over a shared passion for the creative process in its many forms.

On this day, he had a new story to tell. "I met a couple of your friends," he said. Pause. "Police officers."

I was concerned. Run-ins with the law do not always result in favourable outcomes when you're homeless.

"It's okay," he quickly interjected. "I've had a couple of warrants outstanding for the past few years. They've played at the back of my mind, causing unease, but I was scared to deal with them."

When the officers approached him they were respectful which engendered his respect in return.
"I figured what better time than now to deal with my warrants?"

The officers informed him they would have to take him to jail. "You'll probably have to spend a night," they said.

He laughed. "Like it could be worse than a night on a mat in Intox with two hundred drunks?"

The two officers were part of the new Beat team walking the streets of the inner city. "We're going to have to ask you to walk to jail," they told him with a laugh before setting out for police headquarters several blocks away.

As they walked they talked about homelessness from both sides of the street. They shared stories and experiences, getting to know and understand each other a little bit better.

At one point, one of the officers asked, "Do you know Louise Gallagher?"

He laughed when he told me their question. "Yup," he replied.

"Well," said one of the officers. "She's been giving these talks about homelessness to all the members of the Beat team. There's a guy at the shelter she speaks really highly about. An artist. That wouldn't be you would it?"

I'd asked his permission long ago to talk about him in my presentations. I had not expected it to come full circle back to him on the street.

The officers went on to tell him how in my talks I encourage them to shift their perceptions and their attitudes towards individuals experiencing homelessness. "She gets us to look at homelessness as the problem, not the people," they told him. "It's all part of the Police Chief's mandate to change how we deal with social issues on the street. It's sure made a difference in how we interact with people who are visibly homeless."

For this homeless gentleman, the difference was a pleasant walk with two police officers, an experience he never imagined possible. And, rather than spend a night in jail, he received a Notice to Appear and was on his way in fifteen minutes. The next morning, he appeared in front of a Justice of the Peace and dealt with an issue that's been bothering him for years.

He finished his story and smiled. "I want you to know the ripple you've had. I had an experience with two police officers that resulted in a positive outcome all because in their attitude towards me, I felt respected. Because they were respectful to me, I was respectful to them and in the end, took care of something I had been afraid to do."

I've been giving talks about homelessness to members of the Calgary Police Service for the past two years. It was recognized by senior management that to change how officers deal with homelessness at street level, they needed to dispel some of the myths surrounding homelessness and the people suffering its ill effects. Sometimes, after one of my presentations, I wonder if I've affected anyone. Now, I had proof.

People are served. Problems are solved. An officer on the street cannot solve the problem of homelessness. He or she can serve the person suffering from it in a way that recognizes their humanity and provides them an opportunity to reclaim what they lost when they fell on the road of life. Dignity and respect.

"I know how hard you've worked to change perceptions, to shift attitudes," he said. "It's working. Don't give up. You're making a difference."

We can all make a difference. Those two officers made a difference that day by seeing an opportunity to be of service to someone in need. For the man telling me his story, their care and consideration shifted his perceptions and attitudes towards police and gave him the opportunity to take care of an issue that needed to be dealt with if he was to change his life. In the end, everyone came out a winner.

We must always remember, in everything we do and say, there is a ripple.

Our ripple can be a hammer of fear pounding someone into the ground on the wrong side of the street, or it can be a wave of possibility opening them up to finding a better life on the other side of the road.

Stand by the DI -- wicked talent!

Nothing builds self-esteem and self-confidence like accomplishment. Thomas Carlyle

Thomas Carlyle must have been prescient when he wrote that statement sometime in the 1700s. He must have known what would happen last night at the Stand by the DI concert when client musicians stood on stage and sang and played their hearts out. He must have known the glow on their faces and pride in their step would keep them awake throughout the night reliving their moment when they shone brighter than the 1,000 watt spotlights beaming down on them.

It was a night to shine. A night to feel proud. A night to remember.

Over 500 people gathered in the beautiful space of Knox United Church to celebrate the excellence of the performers who gave so graciously and generously to this project. They sang and played and enchanted the audience with talent that, as one audience member said, "blew me away. It is absolutely incredible to think that there is such wicked talent in this city and what a treasure to be able to experience it all in one night."

Such wicked talent all in one night.

From set-up to tear down, there was not a moment of the evening not worth re-living. Every thing seemed effortless. So smooth. So sincere.

And then, at 9pm Mr. Ben E. King walked on stage to join the musicians who had recorded our cover of his iconic treasure, Stand by Me. Microphone in hand, he walked into their midst, his bluesy voice joined with theirs as magic descended.

It was sublime.

Over fifteen performers on stage. Professionals and client musicians standing together with a legend of R&B. Standing together to honour a song that has touched millions of people around the world and a man who has left a lasting imprint on our hearts. Standing side by side in support of those who give so much to so many, day in, day out, with grace and ease here at the DI.

As one, the audience stood and clapped and screamed and cheered as smiles lit up the faces of the performers as the realization of the import of the moment sank into their souls and lifted their spirits. Voices soared high into the lofty rafters arching above and pride and joy abounded throughout the church. Its magnificent stained glass windows glowed with the rays of the late evening sun and the entire sanctuary glowed with the awe that befell everyone who had the privilege of being part of the moment.

It was a night that inspired each and everyone of us to stand tall and stand together. Together we are strong.

Last night, every heart found its home in the beauty and spirit that permeated the evening and left us sated. Last night, every heart was safe as dreams awakened and spirits were set free to become all that we are meant to be.

Thank you to the volunteers, staff and clients who came out to lend a hand setting up and tearing down, lugging equipment, moving speakers and microphones.

Thank you to Lewis Levin who played such a vital role in creating the event and our cover of Stand by Me.

Thank you:

Lanny Williamson, Steve Dodd, Tracey Conn, Natalie Gregory and all the team at the Beach Advanced Audio Advantage.

Linda Nash in organizing Mr. King's appearance at the concert and to Mr. Ben E. King for his gracious sharing of his gifts.

Doug McKeag for stepping in to MC the concert when Beesley was delayed due to flight rescheduling. Your humour, grace and flexibility -- not to mention your ability to play host and move microphones while never letting dead air fill the room -- was a gift we all enjoyed!

And thank you to the performers at the concert:

Toby Mathis
Bloody Town Project
Cort Delano
Amy Thiessen
Kronic Groove Band
Greg Cockerill
Sam Masterton
Amy Bishop
Makesshift Innocence
The DI Band
Onalea Gilbertson and the DI Singers

And to those who came by the studio to lend a hand in recording Stand by Me or dropped by the DI to take part in the filming or to make last night so special:

Kyle Savage
Barry Reicker
Bambalamb
Johnathon Love
Mike Malkin
Hoyee Wong
Adrian Montes
Nick May
Terry Donovan
Crystal Palmer
Tracey Conn
Sheri-D Wilson
Steve Dodd
Josh Whitley
Murdoch MacLeod
Tim Gorman
John Harris
Brenan Poliuan
William Dutton
Paul Du Toit Schreve
Derek S.
Megan Gerbrandt
Liseanne McDonald
Jorge Campusano
Chris Prefontaine
Larry Levin
Rudy Raduloff
And all the staff who came out to lend a hand and stand with us

The evening would not have unfolded so effortlessly without the amazing work of Donnell Blonjeaux-Willis, Jessica MacDonald, Jessica Andrews and Owen Day who was greatly assisted by Don Kletke. Thank you.

And thank you to those who supported us through donations of product, time and energy:

Long & McQuade
The NEW 97.7
Mike Shields and Jet Music Inc.
Air Canada
Delta Bow Valley Downtown
Knox United Church
Mother Mary Greene School

And to all the media who helped us get the word out about this project and the concert, in particular:

CJAY 92
XL 103
CBC Radtio & TV
Global Television
City TV
CTV

And thank you everyone who came out and stood with us. We are stronger with you standing with us.

Leaving the DI. Written by Emily Sharpe

I arrived here as many do, living in the in-betweens of friends and family, trying to find a home beyond the car, somewhere to lay my head down two nights in a row. No, I wasn’t a client but it got close sometimes. I worked at the DI trying to listen, to teach and help a group of people, mainly men, move on with their lives, lift a few of the barriers that keep them here. As for me, I was a student, working on an eight month internship, returning to school in September to finish off a degree or two. It took me a few weeks to settle in here-to adjust myself to the climate, to acquire the skills that were really needed. It wasn’t the office setting (my first) that I need to learn new skills for, but rather I had to learn to be compassionate, flexible, and determined every day.

I also had to learn that many of the other staff here had a story, that they had as diverse backgrounds as the clients. It made it easier to understand what had gone on in my own life, to see strong men and women who had lived and worked through much worse. They helped me make sense of my own story, to see the abuse I had just escaped as something survivable, something to rebuild from. It helped me feel as though I belonged here, which brought me back here every day with a smile.

Now, everyday that I spend with these impossible people, these men and women who I come to be frustrated by and admire and mourn, I feel a little more able. Some of these men are doing impossible things, coming off 20 year-long bouts of depression and drinking-yet still finding the willpower and motivation to pick it up and put themselves back together. It can be tragic seeing the ones who don't make it, but all you need it the memory of that one, coming back with a rumpled first pay check in his back pocket, a smile across his ruddy face and eyes that light up when he tells you about the northern lights he has seen. He keeps me coming back, keeps the hope alive in me too.

I'm done with the DI for now-but I doubt I will ever be able to forget my time here. I hope I will get to work at another such rewarding a job-and if I can't, then watch for me in a staff vest a few years from now.

Written by: Emily Sharpe

If People Were Rain By Tim Gorman.

Written By: Tim Gorman.

Over the years the DI has been criticized for many things. The irony is in being criticized for the very problems we are responding to. It's one of those which-came-first-the-chicken-or-the-egg things. We built a large homeless shelter some years ago in response to a need we saw coming. Other systems were failing. People were falling through the cracks. A storm was brewing. And as it turns out, we were right. Our large homeless shelter is now full. Overfull, actually. We're the largest one in Canada. But somehow, through all of this, and after responding to so many problems, many people have come to believe that we've actually created the problems. There's a prevalent attitude out there that believes that because we built a large homeless shelter, more people became homeless. The thinking is archaic. Many years ago, because they didn't know any better, people believed that rats were spontaneously created by leaving piles of rags in barns. They were wrong then, too.

Homelessness is a symptom of a problem, not the actual problem. The myriad of problems that cause people to become homeless are vast.

If people were rain it might look something like this: As they fall – and we all fall – most are caught in the caring hands of family. Some are caught by friends. Others continue to fall. It's a lot of rain. For many, their fall is broken by safety nets – buckets, if you will – created by social systems. There's a lot of buckets out there. The welfare bucket. The justice bucket. The health care bucket. Faith communities. Treatment centres. Group homes. Shelters. And so on. And so most of the rain is caught before it drains down the gutter. It's not always the best, but it does work for most.

There are, however, a lot of gaps between buckets. More buckets would help, to be sure, but there's so much rain! These gaps in the system – the cracks – are often created by rules and criteria that limit admission to the buckets. You need to be between 24 and 30 years of age for this one. This other one is only for women. No addictions in this one. This one is for immigrants only. No criminal convictions. Only for seniors. No mental health issues. Sober only. No hygiene problems. Only for youth. And so on...

The DI's philosophy of care arose out of this. Because it's not rain. It's people. And we were sick of watching them fall through the cracks.

So, what do you do?

Well, first off, you need a really big bucket. You hold your bucket above the gutter to catch whoever falls through the cracks. You try to catch as many as you can because you know that no one else will. You loosen your policies to allow people with chronic addictions to stay. You allow people with extreme behavioral problems because no one else will. You allow people with raging schizophrenia because if you don't, you know they will die outside in the storm. You flex and you bend and you do the best you can because it's a bad storm and you can't bear to watch any more people go down the drain.

Of course, like everyone else, we have rules and criteria, but our philosophy is that our people are more important than our rules. It may not sound like much, but it's a big deal. It means that to the best of our ability, no one falls through the cracks. We do our best to accommodate whoever comes our way. Mind you, our big bucket, overflowing as it is, has become very heavy. Often it's all we can do just to hold it up. We don't always have the resources to give people the help they truly need. We try so hard, but we do fall short. It was a big storm.

And so we get criticized. That's okay. Holding up this heavy bucket all these years has given us broad shoulders. We get criticized for enabling people. Sure, that happens with us as it does elsewhere. We get criticized for caring for people that no one else will. The police don't want them. The hospitals don't want them. The other shelters don't want them. The 10 Year Plan doesn't even want them. But we do. And if you believe that all people are of value and that suffering from things like mental illness and addictions should not be a death sentence, then you should understand why we do what we do. Imagine if we didn't. More than twelve-thousand different people stayed at the DI last year.

Granted, it's not the best situation. We know that. The fact that we take all comers creates all kinds of challenges. We wish things were different and that we didn't need to do what we do. We wish more rain would be caught by the buckets that precede us. But until people stop falling through the cracks, we'll keep catching them.

And you know what? It's really not so bad. We like these people.

Written By Tim G. Building Supervisor

Forgiveness and old times Written by John R.

Written by John R.

There he was, the old man with the wire rim glasses and the walker. His thin, hunched frame shuffling along. I recognized that face. It was etched on my mind.

It was 12 years ago and I was a new employee at the DI. I had been told that he was barred but I had never met him before. I had been told to watch for since he always had a knife but I had never seen it. Then there he standing tall, wearing new cowboy boots & hat that gleamed in the morning sun silhouetted against the open doors behind him. I asked him his name, and he would not tell me. Something twigged in my mind and I asked him if he was Fred (not his real name) and he did not deny it. I asked him to leave, and he refused and watching me with his legs planted firmly in a confident stance. He held something behind his back and I asked him what it was not approaching him. He laughed and refused to tell me any thing. I asked him if it was a knife and he suggested that I come and find out. My co-worker went to call the police as Fred and myself continued to face off in the front entry of our old building. When my co-worker came back he said the police were on their way, at which point Fred showed me the knife he had been holding behind his back. He then left before the police could come.

That was the first time I met Fred, the second time was a few weeks later at the end of the laneway where he had been selling drugs behind the dumpster. It played out almost the same way except that he showed me his knife as he was leaving but did not wait for the police to be called.

That was 12 years ago, and today when I saw him, I saw a 52 year old man who looked to be in his 90’s. I know that the streets are hard on a person but I was shocked at how the last 10 years have taken their toll on Fred. I wondered if I should go and talk to him about old times, and decided not to, at least not yet. I hope to be able to do this someday, but for now I am glad that he is safe and out of the cold.

His bar has been lifted and he is now coming back to us time for food, shelter and a safe place from the harsh reality of life on the streets. I do not know his story, only the small part that I played in it. But the history doesn't matter. Today he is a human in need of compassion, forgiveness and help and that is what we at the DI are here to do.

Written by: John R

The greatness of a man. In memory of Russel Orum

He was a quiet man. Stern. Gruff. Piercing eyes. He didn’t often smile. He kept his lips pressed tight together but even that couldn’t extinguish a glint of humour, or perhaps it was mischief, that shone in his eyes. I always thought he knew some secret about life I didn’t know. The reality is, in his sixty-three years, he had learned lessons about living true to who you are that I still struggle to understand.

No matter his gruffness, however, everyone knew that beneath Russ Orum’s tough exterior there beat a heart of gold. A heart that would do anything to help his fellow man. A heart that drove him to quickly jump into any situation where he could lend a hand, make a difference.

He’d been a client of the DI for quite some time. It was the 90s. A time when labour jobs were bountiful. He’d work and lead his quiet life, coming back to the shelter at night to crawl onto a mat and grab some sleep. He didn’t ask for much. Always had a lot to give. He’d share his last cigarette if someone asked. A beer. His blanket if he thought someone needed it more than him. And always he’d volunteer.

As time moved on, his body grew weary, the harsh reality of work suited for a younger man mixed with the life of being homeless took a toll on his ability to sustain hard labour. At night, when he would drag his tired body into the shelter, he would move more slowly, with less confidence in his step. Eventually, he couldn’t do the work anymore, but he always volunteered. Always asked if there was something he could do to give back, to make a difference.

I knew him mostly from our kitchen, a place where his heartfelt giving kept the place humming. He would volunteer for eight to ten hours a day, seven days a week.

“It keeps me out of trouble,” he told me when I’d asked him about the long hours he put in. He paused and added, ‘And I like it here. They’re nice folk to work with.”

He was always there when I needed something. Always willing to pitch in to put together a food hamper, or a tray of meals for a workshop on the sixth floor. He didn’t care about requisitions or paperwork or even if the kitchen was swamped and staff and volunteers were running off their feet.

He always had time to help. “What d’ya need?” he’d ask whenever I appeared in the kitchen.

“I’ve got a course upstairs in the board room. Would it be possible to get a tray of snacks? Please.”

He’d stand with one hand on his hip, the other on the door to the walk-in cooler. He wouldn’t smile. Just look at me with those piercing eyes. “How many people?”

“Eight.”

He’d nod his head. Up and down. Up and down. “Hmmm.” And he’d open the fridge and pull out a tray of donuts or muffins or cookies. “Do you need coffee too?”

“No thanks. I made some upstairs.”

He’d hand me the tray. I’d give him a big smile and thank you and he would nod his head in response. But, before I could turn and walk away he’d say, “Wait.” And he’d step into the pantry, pull down a box of chocolates or some other tasty tidbit and say, “Here. The guys will like these.”

He wasn’t much on acknowledgement. Pushed away thank-yous and words of appreciation and gratitude just as he pushed away touch. I gave him a hug. Once. He stood still. His arms by his sides.

“Thanks for all you do Russ,” I told him. “I really appreciate your support.”

Slowly he reached up with one arm and touched my back. For just a second. “Harrumph,” he murmured before quickly stepping back. “I’ll get you those snacks.”

I like to think he stayed a bit longer in the cooler that time before coming out laden with sweets the guys would like. I like to think my gratitude touched him as much as his helping hands touched my heart.

He was a man who made a difference. Determined. Proud. He didn’t gossip. Didn’t grumble. He simply went about his work. Quietly. Efficiently. Without any fuss.

He loved being in that kitchen. He loved the certitude of his role within it. He loved having a place to make a difference, to be of service. He loved having a placed that counted on him to turn up.

In his consistency of always being there, he taught the younger clients and staff the meaning of commitment. Of the importance of doing a good job, no matter what your circumstances, no matter how you felt. “You gotta always do your best,” he told me. “Always give your all. Never give up. Never give in.

Russ Orum never gave up. Never gave in. Until April 18th when the cancer that was eating him up from the inside took him from this earthly realm. Some say to a better place. Some don’t know. No matter where he’s gone, in his passing, Russ has left behind a better world and a legacy of caring in the thousands of lives he touched with his ‘how can I be of service’ attitude. He has left behind the commitment he brought to turning up every day and the memory of a man who when asked, always reached out to help.

In his passing, Russ leaves behind the truth about what it means to be a great man. Commitment. Passion. Generosity. Caring. He leaves behind the realization that greatness is not determined by status or title or wealth, it is determined by acts of service that make a difference.

You made a difference Russ. In my life. In the lives of everyone here at the DI. In the lives of all those you touched on your journey. You will be missed. You will always be remembered.

One man's passing.

We sat in a circle. Twelve people gathered together to debrief an 'incident' that had happened earlier in the day.

A client had died. His body found lying on the sidewalk just off the main entrance to the shelter. He'd lain there for awhile. Had been lying there when I drove in earlier that day around noon to organize the filming of a commercial for the shelter. I hadn't seen him.

No one had realized he was gone. Short staffed, no one had tried to wake him, or the several other people lying on the stretch of sidewalk just off our front doors. It was a beautiful day. Busy coping with the demands of managing a thousand people who were in the building throughout the morning and over the lunch hour, staff left people to enjoy the spring sunshine. It wouldn't have made any difference if they had tried to awaken him. The ME said there was nothing anyone could have done. He had died in his sleep, under the heat of the sun warming his body as it grew cold. He had passed from sleep into death without stirring.

Realizing something was amiss when I'd heard radio chatter and the call for the ME and not an ambulance, I'd come down from the sixth floor where we'd been filming, to see if I could be of any assistance. "Anything else I can do?" I'd asked when I'd caught up to him outside the building.

Before he could reply, a client came up to me and asked, her voice shaky, tears streaming from her eyes. "What am I supposed to do?" She queried me. "I feel so unsafe here now. If this could happen to him, it could happen to any of us."

"He died of natural causes," I told her, putting my arms around her and giving her a hug. I pulled back and looked into her eyes. "Your safety is no different now than it was before. No one did this to him." I paused and hugged her again. "Perhaps your fear is more that you realize this," and I swept my hand out to encompass the building and the parking lot where we stood and so much more, "This could kill you too."

She'd told me two days before that, after having found an apartment of her own three months earlier, she had had to move back to the shelter because she'd started using crack again. "I don't want to do it," she said. "But I just can't help myself."

She glanced behind me to where his body lay on the sidewalk covered with a blanket. A bevy of police officers stood around him. "I didn't know him well, but I have talked to him. It just scares me though. His going like that. Who will care that he's gone?" She paused. "Who will care if something happens to me?"

He will be missed I told her and reminded her of what Mother Teresa once said, "We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean. But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop."

"You are a vital drop in the ocean of his life. You will miss him. You will mourn him. You are here to note his passing and to say good-bye."

We sat in a circle in the fifth floor staff room and talked about how we each felt. The front line staff, who do so much day in and day out to care for those who cannot or will not care for themselves, were shaken. I'd spoken with one young staff member earlier, just after the police and ME had arrived. He'd had to retreat to an office on the first floor to collect himself.

"I feel really anxious," he'd told me. "I feel like I want to run and run around the block as fast as I can."

"Breathe," I told him. "Long slow breaths through your nose, out through your mouth."

"I've never seen a dead body before." The words poured out like tears. "We didn't even know he was dead when we went to wake him up. Some guy had parked his van and come in and said, 'there's a guy lying on the sidewalk, really still.' I went out with another staff member, bent down and shook him on the shoulder. He didn't move. We realized something was wrong and rolled him over." His voice caught. Tears glistened in his eyes. "It's that image of his face. I keep seeing it. I want to erase it. But it just keeps coming back."

"It's natural," I told him. "You've had a really big shock. You want to believe there was something you could have done. Should have done. But there isn't. You did the best you could. Think about the hundreds of people you served today. You did good work today. You touched many lives and that touch could be the difference that awakens their courage to find their way back home. You could not change the course of this man's destiny."

He took a deep breath. "But I wish I could have," he whispered. "I wish I had."

For some of the staff gathered in the room it was not the first time they had encountered a client's death. One young woman had worked with another staff member delivering CPR on another man for forty-five minutes some weeks before. "They pronounced him dead in the ambulance," she said. "I couldn't change what happened to him but I'm grateful to work with such an amazing team. You make me proud."

I felt proud to be sitting amongst them too. Committed. Caring. Concerned human beings serving those for whom the shelter is often just the stopping point between drinks or hits of some concoction that will take them away from the pain and sorrow of their lives.

For the staff members sitting in that circle, the man who had passed away was not a statistic. He was not a label called homeless.

He has a name. A family. A history. A story. He was, as one client had described himself weeks before, "A father. A brother. An uncle. A son. A friend. I am an artist a musician, a carpenter," he'd said. "I laugh. I cry. I feel pain. Which of these are diminished because I am homeless?"

A life was extinguished on the sidewalk outside the shelter today. A life ended, but the man who was a father and brother, a son, and a friend, he will live on in the memories of those who knew him.

In his passing, his light has been extinguished and hope died. Hope died of his ever finding himself again. Of his ever finding his way back home.

But hope lives on in the lives of every other person at the shelter. Hope lives on in the hearts and minds and spirits of those who care so deeply for one man's passing and who work so hard to ensure no man's passing goes unnoticed. Hope lives on in the caring attitudes and willing hands each staff member extends to those who pass through our doors.

We cannot save anyone. We can only give our best and pray they will find the best within them one day, soon, to take steps that will make a difference in their lives.

And when they don't, when they pass away never having found themselves or their way back home, we can only note their passing and know, we gave our best. Our best is good enough. It is all we have to give. It is not ours to determine when someone goes. We can only determine the care we give.

I looked around the circle, saw the tears and the sadness and felt honoured to be in their midst. I am proud of the people I work with. They give their best at every moment and care when others would walk away and say, "He won't be missed. He was just a drunk. A bum."

He was none of those. He was a human being.

Standing together

Life is a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint on it you can. Danny Kaye

On Saturday, we filmed the video portion of the Stand by Me (words and lyrics by King/Leiber/Stoller) production we are producing for the DI. The video will be used as a stand alone piece, as well as for 60 and 30 second commercials.

About 75 people turned up to be part of the excitement -- what a blast.

The objective was to use the multi-purpose room to paint a scene that resembled our second floor 'day area'; a large open space with tables and chairs where clients can sit, read, eat, chat, play cards, etc. About 45 clients and a handful of external volunteers turned up to play the role of 'clients'. Their job was to look enthusiastic, to be excited, to be engaged by the music -- to look like they were having the best of times.

About 15 musicians turned up to stand together to perform the song. Their job was to 'lip sync' the music bed we'd previously recorded at The Beach and to look like they were having the best of times.

Reality was, everyone was having the best of times.

Donnell, PR assistant and Jorge, Client Volunteer Coordinator, had spent the previous week convincing clients to participate in the event. As two younger clients told Donnell at the end of the day, "We only came because you promised there'd be good food. We stayed because we were having so much fun."

And fun was had by all. There wasn't a face without a smile. A body that didn't stand just a little bit taller. A spirit that wasn't lifted.

For me, my objective was to ensure that every single person there had a good time. Liseanne, my youngest daughter, came out to help choreograph the event and to be a cheerleader with me. Our job -- to raise the energy in the room.

Our clients are often cynical and depressed. They see the world through the skewed perspective of the despair that settles upon them every day. When we first started playing the music, they were shy and tentative in looking enthusiastic. Attitude is everything in a homeless shelter. For most people, the belief that they have to keep the barriers up to protect themselves from being hurt, ridiculed, ostracised or shunned, limits their ability to experience joy in the moment of living in the rapture of now.

There was a whole lot of 'rapture' going on Saturday. Even those clients who habitually see the negative in everything, were smiling and clapping, singing along and having a good time.

One gentleman told me that he noticed something while 'performing' for the camera. "Acting like I was having a good time, moved me into feeling like I really was having a good time," he said. "In the end, I quit acting and just had a great time."

Act your way into a feeling. If your feelings are getting you down, liven them up with acting happy. If your mood is sagging, lift it up with action.

As I went around the room thanking people for their active and enthusiastic participation, I stopped by one man who had been particularly enthusiastic, to thank him for his help in keeping the energy up. "You know," he said, his body still swaying to the beat even though the music had stopped. "It was really cool to just do it and not care what anyone thought about me. At one point, when the music was playing and there was no singing, I sort of let my arms down and quit moving. The energy dropped. When I put lots of energy into it, the energy in the room rose."

"Your energy created more energy around you," I told him. "You 'changed the state' of the room by upping the energy you put into the room."

At one point, I watched one of the client musicians. His face was set in a scowl. A dark cloud seemed to be descending around him. He looked out of sorts. I searched for something to say to lighten his mood, as, in having worked with him often, I know who stressed he gets when things appear to be falling into chaos or not going the way he thinks they should.

"Don't you just love chaos!" I said, walking up beside him where he sat at the edge of the stage, holding his guitar.

"No," he quickly responded. "Something's gotta change. Fast. I'm ready to blow."

"Then change your state," I told him. "Stand up. Punch the air. Yell. Make a power move with your arm. Get the energy flowing in a positive direction."

He didn't want to do it. He hunkered over his guitar, clinging to his bad temper.

It didn't matter.

In the end, the fun and laughter, the energy of the room invaded his spirit and he too was lifted up to join in the joy.

It was a day of standing together. Of making a difference in each other's lives by being the change we want to see in the world.

For the musicians, the volunteers, the film crew, it was a chance to give back -- and to have fun while doing it.

For the clients and staff who came out to support the event, it was a day to be part of something bigger than homelessness, bigger than the tension of being part of a community that is often marginalized by the city around them. It was a day to build bridges, to create understanding and, to stand together and celebrate what makes the DI such an amazing place.

For everyone, it was a day to remember. An event to relive in stories told around dinner tables, no matter which floor they're on; the second floor of the shelter or the dining room of a home somewhere in a suburb of the city.

It was a day to splash paint upon a canvas so large that the hope that lives at the shelter every day will spill out into the city and inspire others to stand with us in making a difference.

It was a day to paint in bright and vibrant colour, to sing and dance and cheer and laugh and share in creating something remarkable.

It was a wonderful day thanks to everyone who came out and made it happen!

One Enchanted Evening

If you can dream it, you can do it. Walt Disney

Last night, Mikaela and another Grade 12 classmate put on a benefit show on behalf of the DI. The evening included artworks by Mikaela and her co-organizer, Amelia, as well as guest artists and performers.

When Mikaela, a Grade 12 student at Ernest Manning High School, first approached me with her idea to hold an evening of music, art and poetry on behalf of the DI, I suggested using the multi-purpose room at the shelter, a large airy and bright room on our sixth floor. The view is inspiring, the space lofty. The windows over-look the valley where the Bow River serpentines through the city. Houses step up the hillside on the other side of the river and trees promenade along the skyline amidst lush and verdant parkland.

When Mikaela first suggested the show, I thought, "What a lovely idea."

What I didn't have was an idea of how beautiful an evening she would create.

At 1pm, when Mikaela and her friends arrived to set-up, the room was open and bare. By the time they finished mounting their artworks, along with pieces from the artists of the Wild Rose Studio at the DI, the room was filled with spirit, with imagination, with dreams spilling out into the hallway where the client artists filled the space with vibrant paintings and photos, pen and ink drawings and soapstone sculptures.

It was One enchanted evening.

There is something heartfelt and touching about a young woman who has a vision and then sets out to make it happen without any muss or fuss. Without long, drawn out committee meetings where agendas are set and Visio charts constructed to ensure fiscal and corporate accountability are measured against clearly defined outcomes and expectations.

There is something refreshing in having no expectations other than to open a space for someone to create one enchanted evening.

For Mikaela and her co-host, the evening was an adjudicated event they needed to create to complete their Fine and Performing Arts Certification before graduating high school. They could have simply put on a show at school and called it done.

Instead, Mikaela wanted to make a difference. She wanted to be the change she wants to see in the world.

And she was.

The guests mostly included friends and families of the students involved as well as some staff and volunteers.

For many, when they arrived at the shelter, most of them were surprised to find themselves in a place they never imagined they would be.

"Our clients are the same," I told one woman who mentioned she was taken aback when she walked through our front doors. "Being in a homeless shelter is never something they dreamed would ever happen to them."

"My daughters got a different perspective on life this evening," she said.

"It's the same for our clients," I replied. "The first time they come here, they are in shock. Frightened. Confused. Their lives are crumbling around them. Their hopes are dashed. They don't want to be in a shelter, yet, here they are."

Here they are. Struggling to find themselves. Searching for answers. Hungering for a way out of despair back to hope, to possibility, to dreams unfolding.

Last night, Mikaela brought hope alive with her heartfelt desire to make change happen. She raised some money, brought in some clothing and food donations. At one point, the musicians who are part of our recording of Stand by Me, performed and one of Mikaela's friends, a saxophone player, joined them on stage. They'd never rehearsed together, and yet, with the fluidness of water flowing in the river below, they joined together to create beauty in the notes they played. There was no us and them. No my side of the street is different than yours. There was simply the joining together to create something of value, of worth. Something different.

Some of the client artists sold art pieces, some made connections, chatted and talked about their lives and dreams and hopes. Some simply stood back and enjoyed the happenings going on. No matter where they were in the room, where they stood or watched and listened, no one was unchanged by what was going on. No one was untouched by the enchantment of the evening.

It doesn't take much to start change happening in the world. In Mikaela's open and honest sharing of her talents, her gifts and beauty, the world became a better place last night.

As Mahatma Gandhi implored many years ago, may we all become the change we want to see in the world.

Thank you Mikaela, Amelia, all the guest artists, the performers and guests who came out to support In Chorus. You created a changed world at the DI.

Reg's Trees

The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see Nature all ridicule and deformity, and some scarce see Nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, Nature is Imagination itself. William Blake, 1799, The Letters

Today is a big day at the DI, especially for Reg, one of the client artists who frequents the art studio. Today, his book, Reg's Trees, will be launched.

Reg's Trees is, in Reg's words, "a book of magic called Art." It's not just the content that's magical, it's the concept and the path the book took to become 'real' that is magical.

Reg loves to paint trees. Well, actually, Reg loves to paint, trees are one of his favourite subjects. Trees have roots. Trees have arms that reach to the sky. Trees have history, a story, a life. Trees tell their stories in the leaves they drop, the blossoms they bloom, the shelter they offer to whomever stops beneath their leafy embrace. Trees are a story.

Reg's Trees tells the story about what can happen when men of imagination give into their nature to create.

Reg's Trees was created from 'found' objects -- one of Reg's favourite art forms. Another client rescued ten wooden tablets from a certain death in a garbage pile when he saw a yard sale owner about to chuck the tablets away at the end of his sale. Knowing of Reg's yen for found objects, he asked if he could have the tablets. The yard sale owner agreed quickly. He carried the 8" x 5" blocks of wood back to the studio at the shelter and presented them to Reg. Reg, delighted to have new found objects, painted over the old photographs laminated to the blocks of wood. Trees appeared.

One day, a poet, David van Belle, was at the shelter working on a play he was producing on homelessness. David admired Reg's trees. Reg, never shy, asked David if he'd be willing to write a poem for each tree. David quickly agreed.

A woman named Dawn came from the City of Calgary, Arts and Culture, Recreation to visit. "Can you help us connect with homeless artists so that we can build stronger community?" she asked.

"Absolutely," we replied.

We opened our doors to the This is My City project and magic happened.

In appreciation, Dawn, along with the This is My City project gifted the publication of Reg's Trees.

Today, Reg will see his work in print. David, the poet, will have his first book of poetry published. And for all the artists, and everyone else at the DI, we will have a chance to celebrate the magic that happens when we let go of disbelief and fall into the certitude and aclchemy of magic all around.

We won't forget you. Written by Diana E.

It’s Monday morning and I’m feeling tired and ‘blah’. Usually on Mondays I find it more difficult to make eye contact and wish people a GOOD morning. Surprisingly today, everyone is cheerful and funny and I laugh often over the breakfast hour.

I have a new senior who has been coming to the Senior Centre for a few weeks now. He tells me a story about how he hasn’t seen his brother in 30+ years -- since they both left the other side of the country.

"I heard my brother might stay at the D.I…," he says hopefully.

I ask him if he has a brother named __________.

He says yes and I ask him if he would like to talk to him…he's sitting just 3 tables away I tell him.
They have both been coming up here for weeks without a clue!

He is stunned and searches vainly for a glimpse of his long lost older bro and I point him out.

He walks slowly over to him and they shake hands and sit and talk and catch up on so many years. I watch one brother quickly wipe a tear away.

What a beautiful moment I am allowed to witness! I’m floating on air and I can’t wipe the smile from my face.

Then I receive a general e-mail about two more of our clients passing away. One of whom I have known for years struck down suddenly by cancer. I am so terribly sad as I tape up the memorial announcements for everyone to see. That makes five that we know of who have died in March.

Sometimes it feels like too much and I can’t deal with the sadness but there are still those who count on us to turn up for them, no matter what. I gather 'my guys', try to keep them safe and hope they are all still here when I come in to work.

I am sad but I am grateful that I have not become so jaded that I don’t feel at all. Up down happy sad. What an emotional rollercoaster this day has been.

I hope ‘my guys’ know how much I care about them.

Rest in peace Bill, Peter, James, Harold, Ed and Travis. We won't forget you.

Written by Dianna E. Coordinator, Senior's Activity Centre

Stand By Us -- Written by John Leslie Rumboldt

John recently graduated from our CTI (Career Training Initiative) and is also part of the group performing Stand By Me which is the foundation for a new series of Advertisement the DI is releasing as well as part of a video we are creating. He wrote the following poem based on his experiences here at the DI.

Stand by Us
Written by: John Leslie Rumboldt

Each of us on a path
Which leads us to one.
We must walk this path
Together
but still walk together for different reasons.
not knowing where it leads us,
not afraid of where it goes.

For we, individually, are strong.

Each of us on a path
which varies from time to time.
One takes the low path,
one takes a winding road.
one crosses that mighty ocean,
or one caresses that highest mountain.

Together, we are a towering mountain.

Each of us on a path
Which bonds us together.
We are together, even though our paths vary.
Never alone, but with the strengths of our choice
to walk together.

Togther, we are as immense as the mighty ocean.

Each of us on a path, we are not afraid
of opening doors.
No more afraid
of what’s on the other side.
Know it’s only the truth
and honesty
that awaits
for the path we have chosen together.

We are as powerful as the heaven above.

For we, individually, are strong.
Together, we are a towering mountain.
As immense as the mighty ocean.
As powerful as the heaven above.

No Longer Homeless --- Written by Richard B.

My name is Richard B. I am 47 years old. At age 33 I was diagnosed with late onset paranoid schizophrenia. I am doing well these days. I am currently on A.I.S.H. and work two part time jobs. I also make art. I am an artist. My landlord for the past 10 years has been the Canadian Mental Health Association. My rent is subsidized. Everyone in my apartment building has a mental illness. I enjoy the company of a few close friends and the love and support of my family. I have a psychiatrist I trust. For medication I take an anti-psychotic, and anti-depressant and an anti-anxiety. I have 14 years clean without drugs and 3 ½ years clean without alcohol. I am trying to quit smoking and loose weight with a sensible Canada Food Guide diet.

My first major psychotic break was in Winnipeg when I was 30. The police took me to the hospital. I was at risk for suicide. I was admitted to the psychiatric ward of the hospital under a Governor General’s Warrant. I was not diagnosed with schizophrenia at that time because my psychosis came on so quickly and I had been smoking a great deal of marijuana. I was stabilized and released without follow up care after a two week admission. It is important to note that drug use does not cause schizophrenia but drugs can be a major stressor that brings the schizophrenia to the surface. Two other major stressors in my life at that time were a high stress job and a highly stressful personal matter.

I bounced back from this first psychotic break quite quickly. After a while working again I moved from Winnipeg to Vancouver. I moved for two reasons; a better employment opportunity and a certain amount of shame as to what happened to me in Winnipeg. I wanted a new start in a new city.

Life in Vancouver was going well for about a year. Then the schizophrenia came back, this time much stronger and for a much longer duration. I was unable to work and I was evicted from my apartment for non-payment of rent and unstable behavior. I ended up living in various homeless shelters for about a week or two. I was then able to calm down enough to get through a welfare interview and find lodging in one of the rooming house hotels in the East Hastings neighborhood. I was not seeking mental health support and I was drinking my money away. The psychosis I was going through was of such a nature that I felt threatened in Vancouver so I made my way to Calgary.

When I arrived in Calgary I had enough money for one month’s rent in a rooming house. I was quickly evicted from the rooming house for aggressive behavior. I ended up living at the old Calgary Drop In Centre for about two weeks. I was able to find a labor job and with my first paycheck I rented a room at the Salvation Army. My job did not last long as my behavior was quite unstable. I then moved to Regina, again under the psychotic understanding that I was under threat.

I was able to get on welfare immediately in Regina and find accommodation in a rooming house. Any money I received went to drinking. My mother finally convinced me I to admit myself to the hospital. This time I received a diagnosis of schizophrenia. When I was released from the hospital I was moved into a mental health group home that had 24 hour supervision. I lived there for a year and started to make good progress on the early stages of mental health recovery. When my time was up at the group home I moved to Edmonton to be closer to my mother. I also knew I would feel at home in Edmonton as I grew up in Alberta. My mother found a mental health group home for me in Edmonton where I lived for seven months. Then I moved into my current C.M.H.A. apartment. This whole journey from Winnipeg to living on my own again in stable housing with mental health support took about 5 years.

While I was in the Edmonton group home I attended a mental health day program. I then took a life skills course through Alberta Mental Health. The course was 5 days a week for 16 weeks. I was very proud of my self when I finished the life skills course as I then knew I could handle a certain amount of consistent dedication to a routine. This success gave me the courage to start volunteering here and there. Eventually one of my volunteer jobs turned into a paid job that was art related. I have held that part time job for 10 years. I was very proud when I was able to maintain a paid job in my chosen field again. Eventually I mustered the courage to go back to school with the goal of finding another part time job that was also art related. That gamble of going back to school paid off. I am happily employed with two part time art jobs that I can handle and I have an active art studio in my apartment.

I had the pleasure of visiting Calgary recently. The visit occurred because I had an art exhibition in town. During my visit I was asked to put on a watercolor workshop at the new Calgary Drop In Centre as a visiting artist. This visit had the side effect of helping me put to rest some of the pain of my past. I enjoyed the workshop a great deal and I suspect the people who attended the workshop enjoyed their art making. I met a number of artists who work in the D.I. Centre Wild Rose Studio. I was quite impressed. It was empowering to return to the new D.I. Centre mentally stable so many years since my experience of living in the old drop in centre while I was mentally ill.

My Aunt Margaret told me once that what does not kill you makes you stronger. My psychiatrist has told me that the reason I am doing so well these days is that I have been persistent in working on my recovery and I set manageable goals. I will always have to take medication and be under the care of a psychiatrist and other mental health support people. I accept that. I may never be able to work more than part time. I will, however, always find time to make art.

Written by: Richard B.

What Would My Mom Think? Written by Jim K. CTI Volunteer Instructor

Written by Jim K. CTI Volunteer Instructor

This article was written by Jim when he first started volunteering in CTI.

Simon, [former supervisor in the Computer Learning Centre (CTI)], gives me my first briefing on computer training at the Drop-In. He warns me that the backgrounds of the clients will be all over the map. We’ll have folks finding their way around the keyboard for the first time sitting next to one-time programmers dusting off partly forgotten skills. Some will be young and some old enough that they completed school without ever seeing a computer. We’ll talk to men and to women. Attitudes to computers will range from cyberphobia to my own like-hate dichotomy.

During the Depression my Mom taught in a one-room school at an out-of-the-way spot on the prairie a hundred kilometres from here. Her clients were farm kids of all ages from the surrounding district. Some of their families weren’t able to send them off with much of a meal for lunch or clothes that provided real protection from the winter cold spells.

The teacher’s job was to pass on some book learning the kids could make use of in their daily lives. She also provided a lot of what they learned about the world beyond their horizon and their places in it.

I’ve just parachuted into a one-room school in the eye of the economic storm that’s boomtime Alberta.

My first placement is in the Career Training Initiative. The CTI program is three intensive weeks of life skills workshops, computer training and earning industry certifications. Two afternoons each week are devoted to computer skills.

The 3 Rs of our computer curriculum are the Internet, word processing and spreadsheets. Twenty years of corporate cubicle time have given me enough exposure to these that I should be able to help out. I’ll work with Erika, [former CTI instructor].

The Internet is important because it’s the place to search for jobs and because email is vital for timely communication with prospective employers. On the first afternoon Erika walks through getting Yahoo [now gmail] mail accounts for those of us who don’t have them. After that, we compose some emails and send a blizzard of them to each other. I head home to practice my new skills.

The next afternoon I tell Shen-wei (former program manager) and Erika that I’ve been practicing and I think I can do some of the presentation myself. They think that’s a fine idea. Very encouraging! Which part of the show will I get to do? Erika sets up the laptop for me, wishes me well and leaves.

I’m soloing!

Today is the day we receive email. We log in and look at what Yahoo has done with the mail we sent. We start with the folders for different kinds of mail. One folder is the resting place for mail Yahoo considers to be spam.

Ryan speaks up. “What’s spam?” Ryan is the canary in the CTI cyber coal mine. He follows every word and instantly signals his puzzlement when something new to him comes up.

“It’s email people receive promoting things they usually don’t want.”

“Where does it come from?”

“Some people send out millions of emails to people they don’t know.”

“Why?”

If you send out enough emails trying to sell things or scam people, you get enough replies to make a lot of money.”

“Will we learn how to do that in this class?” Ryan asks hopefully.

Erika’s back in time to hear the last part of my lesson. Then we give some one-on-one attention as the clients work on the exercises. I’m pleased with the way things went and I fish for a compliment as Erika and I retreat down the hall. “How did I do?” “Very well!” she gushes. I continue on toward the elevator with some extra spring in my step. Note to self – don’t miss the next opportunity to give the same kind of boost to a client.

Once I’m in the swing of it, the course goes quickly. Erika and I each do one of the Microsoft Word sessions and one Excel. Before I realize it, all that’s left is the graduation ceremony. I’ve earned the chance to give my flock a handshake and congratulate them on a job well done. A couple of hints are enough to land me an invitation.

I join the small but enthusiastic group of well-wishers. As the valedictorian, Greg provides a quiet and dignified voice for himself and his classmates. His message is one of gratitude and optimism. Greg, you’re more than welcome. Let me take this opportunity to thank you and your fellow graduates and wish you all the best in the future.

The View From My Window -- Written By: Keri V.

Today I am at my desk watching a slice of life play out below me in one of downtown's busy back alleys. This particular alley that I have a bird's eye view of, is just a half a block from a Ministry that serves the homeless population, and directly behind a very large apartment building. Every day, from my quiet, peaceful and orderly place of work, I see many one act plays performed in the street arena below.

A couple of regulars arrive at the dumpsters across the way to dig for bottles, cans and any other useful items hidden among the trash. One man climbs into the big blue bin and finds a few cans that he will later redeem at the bottle depot. A homeless couple is rousted from a parking place by a couple of police officers; they have spent the night in the open air parking lot of the apartment building and now gather their belongings and head out for another day on the street. Some words are exchanged with the bottle collectors and an argument and much posturing and threatening body language ensues. The couple heads off down the alley, hurling rough words over their shoulders at the bottle collectors as they go. Another man comes up the alley and joins his two friends, they all share a cigarette produced from a hidden pocket, then they continue on their way.

From my window I can also see a brand new high rise condo under construction. The sun glinting off the shiny glass windows blinds me some days as floor by floor I watch the building rise to completion; homes that, even in our slightly depressed economy will still cost their owners hundreds of thousands of dollars. People park their vehicles in the lot below me and hurry off to important appointments, mostly oblivious to the lives being lived out right around them. The only time they pay attention is when they are accosted or inconvenienced by someone looking for a handout. Some customers tell us they feel unsafe if they have to walk too far to get to our store; the parking is less plentiful than usual in front because of construction and more expensive than ever. Some flee to the perceived safety and ease of suburbia with its stores and malls and "plenty of free parking."

I attended The Invisible Project the other night, a drama production that was part of One Yellow Rabbit's High Performance Rodeo and the beginning of a yearlong project called "This Is My City". "This Is My City" is aimed at providing artistic activities for and by the homeless.

The Invisible Project brought home to all of us who attended that evening; that each homeless person is a human being with their own story and reasons for being where they are at this particular moment in time.

The homeless problem in our city is large and the solutions are not easy, sometimes it seems overwhelming. It's tempting to put the responsibility for the challenges onto the agencies working with the homeless, and the city, provincial and federal governments, after all, they are the experts. Sometimes we throw a little spare change in a hat or donate some items to a charity and continue to look away from the problem.

I'm grateful for the view from my alley window, it reminds me daily of how lucky I am and keeps me aware of a human problem that we all need to be part of the solution for.

Written by Keri V. Keri is a volunteer and donor at the DI.

Imagine -- Written by Cort Delano

Written by: Cort Delano

On Wednesday, December 24, Calgary musician and performer, Cort Delano performed for clients at dinner. The following is an account of his experience that evening.
Thank you Cort for sharing your talent and gifts. Thank you for touching hearts and lifting spirits.

Cort’s Blog, for Wednesday Dec 24, 2008 -- www.sonicbids.com/cortdelano

Downtown was empty. We passed maybe 3 cars on the way through sleeping towers. This may have been the only Wednesday out of a year of Wednesdays where 5 pm rush hour traffic didn’t exist in this city, in any city for that matter: Wednesday, Dec 24 2008. People must have followed that bright star way out of the city somewhere, each to their own little stable. Well, that bright star for me this night shone right above 4th and Riverfront, The DI.

We wrestled the equipment out of the car, on to the loading dock, through rooms, doors, hallways and up the elevator like the employees do this with their eyes closed.
The set up was quick and easy, the chairs filled, folks with “Santa” hats walked by, the volunteers were arriving, there was an excitement in the place, flashing smiles, “let’s here ya sing!” shouts from the wave like chatter from the growing crowd… and just as the first plate was handed out, I strummed my first note. Bah rum pa puhm puhm!

It could have been just my own “good Christmas vibes” that I was feeling, but people began to pull up a chair, sit on the stairs, smile and bounce as I belted out “Grandma got run over by a reindeer”, “Jughound” and “Little Sister”.

Looking around at the people I began to wonder how far away they could be from family, friends, half way across the country? Maybe they don’t have family? Is this just another day for them? But here they are in Calgary. The temperature may have been -30 outside, but all those chilling thoughts were cast away as a couple began to dance, clap their hands, stamping out the gravy they just ate. People coming up the stairs were curious about all of the fuss as the volunteers greeted them with Turkey and cheer. People sang along, we had a party on our hands.

As things winded down and the volunteers were set to go, they received a standing ovation. I sang out an old sea shanty that Stan Rogers would end his live performances with, “Leave Her Johnny” and everyone all joined in as best they could, but not nearly as jovial as the Maritimers. All seemed to end on a Jolly track of Joy, at least in my corner of the DI. People were happy, shaking hands, thumbs up, patting backs, I received a card.

Leaving, we passed through a large room with beds, side by side, by side. We gingerly wheeled the speakers through the quiet hall. Some were sleeping curled up, others sprawled out from a long day or a hard day. A few gathered in the corner around a light, surrounded by snowshoe insoles, layers of clothing, talking into the evening. As we loaded the equipment back in the car, guitar n all, that star was shining brighter than before above the DI, as it shone in each one of us that evening, and still shines on, brilliant as it did so long ago. And the words of a song requested that evening came flooding back to me “Imagine”.

Please visit Cort's blog at www.sonicbids.com/cortdelano -- to find out more about his amazing talent.

A Miracle on Christmas Eve

In September he had a serious accident that left him with a broken leg, a broken pelvis and little expectation of surviving. Miraculously, he survived and moved from ICU to a regular ward a few weeks later. But, he couldn’t walk and needed extensive rehabilitation. Staff regularly went to visit him, even though at the time of his accident he was barred from the DI due to violent behaviour and continuous disregard for the no-alcohol policy on the premises.

He was doing well, and then he disappeared. He was released from the hospital where he’d arrived after his accident, but no amount of querying found him at any of the other health care facilities. “We thought he was back on the streets,” said Rob S., who along with Pat M., had regularly visited Al* during his hospital stay.

It was hard for Rob who, over the years of interacting with Al, had formed a relationship of sorts with the man. “When the accident happened, the hospital phoned asking for information on his next of kin. They didn’t think he’d make it. I knew he had an uncle back east, but that was it. The uncle didn’t want anything to do with him so we became his family. We are the DI,” he smiles, “a place where people matter. Looking out for those others don’t want to look out for is what we do.”

Concerned for Al’s welfare, but unable to make headway on locating the man, Rob had to let it go to continue on with his day-to-day work. “I was worried. What if he was out on the streets? In the cold temperatures we’ve had, there’s no way he could have survived, especially given his weakened condition.”

And then a miracle happened. On Christmas Eve,Rob was visiting with clients in a care facility in the city. He had gifts for all of them, and an extra gift, just in case. “Through the Christmas WishList, we had had received extra gift cards. When I asked Mark and Natalie, who were coordinating the gift distribution if they had anything I could take for our clients in hospital, they gave me gift cards for each individual. I was about to leave for the hospital when I realized, I had one extra card more than clients to visit. I was going to leave it here at the DI but my co-worker, Pat, told me to take it with me. 'Who knew when the Universe would bring the right person along for the gift,' he said.”

And the Universe delivered. “We’re having dinner together in the cafeteria and who should walk past, shuffle actually, but Al. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He was alive and he was walking.”

He hadn’t had any visitors since leaving the hospital. Hadn’t had any contact with anyone outside the care facility for several weeks. Delighted to see Rob, Al sat down to chat. “Is there anything I can get you?” Rob asked him.

“Anything would be a great help,” said Al. “I don’t have anything left since the accident. It was all thrown out.”

Rob handed him the gift card. “Here, this should help.”

“I didn’t need anything else that Christmas,” said Rob afterwards. “Knowing Al was safe was enough to fill my heart for the year. It really was a Miracle on Christmas Eve to see him.”

And the miracle doesn’t end with Christmas. Al is soon to be released from the care facility. “He has nowhere to go except back here,” says Rob. “He’s a changed man. He’s had to come clean from his addictions. He’s doing really well. So, all I need to do now is lobby on his behalf to have his bar lifted so that he can have a second chance. And that won’t require a miracle. The DI is a place for second chances.”

And third and fourth chances too. It’s a place where no matter how far you’ve fallen, there is always hope of finding a place to rest, a place to find yourself again; in spite of your past, in spite of where you've been or never want to go again. It’s a place where people matter and miracles happen every day. It’s a place where all you have to do is wait and one will walk right past you.

*Not his real name.

The First Annual Musician's Carol

Happiness depends more on how life strikes you than on what happens. Andy Rooney

On Thursday, December 18, a group of Calgary musicians got together to hold the First Annual Musician's Carol on behalf of the DI. It started with a guy named Lester Howe. He came into my office one day and said, "I want to make a difference. Can I pull some musicians together and put on a concert for you guys?"

And he did. While the weather outside was frightful, the sounds and spirit inside Dicken's Pub, where the event was held, were delightful! Even though weather was an inhibitor, the roads were treacherous and holiday spirits were wearing out on the last few shopping days 'til Christmas there was a good crowd throughout the evening to partake of the amazing music. Through the generosity of the performers and those who attended, the First Annual Musician's Carol raised $675.

During the evening, Lester kept coming up to me and saying, "Next year will be even bigger. I've already booked the venue and the night." I'm sure he's right. The evening was big enough that night to open hearts and minds to the possibilities of doing even more for those who need our help.

On the night of December 18, I felt like I was part of something that transcended the every day. It was a community spirit of giving. A sense of belonging to something filled with possibility, filled with giving to receive the gift of music, of talent, of connecting to something bigger than just ourselves.

During the evening, the musicians came up to thank me for making it possible for them to support the shelter. What awesome spirits! They had all volunteered their time and were grateful for the chance to give back. When I invited them to contact me if they wanted to come into the shelter to put on a show, they all jumped at the opportunity.

"Hey!" one guy said after hearing he was welcome to come in and play for clients. "I've been there. Down and out. Without my music, I'd still be down. It's the least I can do if it might help someone else get out of that place of feeling like the only place you got to go is down."

The gift of empathy. The gift of caring. The gift of giving. It was an evening filled with the joy of being human.

It was also an evening to witness the human condition struggling to find itself somewhere in the chaos of a bar. A place to see the parallels of life on the street played out on the bar room floor.

Late in the evening a tall, skinny man, clad head to toe in black walked into the pub. Black hair. No hat. No scarf. His face had a tight, pinched look. I smiled at him from behind the podium where I was seated at the door. A stack of DI newsletters sat on the counter top beside me. A grey tin cash box, lid closed, rested in front of me.

"What's this?" he asked pointing at the cash box. A confused look on his face at the realization that I was there for a reason.

"It's a benefit concert for the DI." I told him.

"You mean I have to pay to get in?" He hesitated. Eyed the stairs towards the exit. Glanced at the bar. "I..." He stopped. His shoulders lowered, his head dropped forward, his chin touched the collar of his black leather coat. He shook his head. He let out a big sigh. "Great. I shoulda known. It's my birthday. I just want a drink. I'm not here to listen to music. I'm fighting with my boss. He wants to cut my pay. He keeps saying I'm lucky to have a job and with the economy..." He took a breath as if to continue on with his tale of woe.

"Happy Birthday! Please feel welcome to come in." I smiled and said quickly. "Giving is an option. Have a nice evening."

He stood in front of me for a moment. Confused. Someone else entered and I turned to greet them. He slid away to the bar and ordered a drink. He turned his back to the musicians on the stage, hunched his shoulders over a beer and stood by himself, a solitary figure in black. Lonely. Sad. Lost.

He reminded me of many of our clients. A well worn path to the bar, their minds filled with the stories of why they're where they're at and will never get to where they want to go, if only they knew where that was. They can't see the story on the other side of opening up to possibility and lose their sense of direction. Stuck in where they're at, they cannot find a way out.

For that man, finding a reason not to give is all he can give. Perhaps one day he'll give himself the gift of a new story of his life, but for now, he's where he's at. All I could give him was a smile and an invitation to come in from the cold.

Later, a young man stumbled across the floor, his body weaving from side to side. He wasn't with anyone. He didn't have a drink anywhere that I could see. And still he stumbled. Another patron brushed past him. The young man stopped. Scowled. Stared after the other man who was oblivious to their brief encounter. His face scrunched up in thought. Did he want to fight? Duke it out. Call out, "Hey man. You pushed me." I hesitated. Not sure if I should approach him. Not sure if I should get him a chair.

As quickly as the encounter happened, the young man turned around as if he'd forgotten something. Perhaps where he was. He stumbled up the stairs and disappeared into the cold night, buttoning his coat as he left.

An older man sat at the lottery machine behind me. Sixties. Perhaps seventy. He plugged the machine with coins and sipped on a drink. He sauntered over to me, one finger pointing and shaking in front him. "Hey! Wanna dance?" he slurred. His grin was toothy. His eyes watery. He reminded me of some of our older clients at the shelter. The only difference was, this man has a home to go to. His clothes were clean. He obviously had cash. But the behaviours were the same. The loneliness that pervaded his being, the need to belong, the desire to connect, I see those things every day at the shelter.

We are all connected by the human condition of our lives. We all have a story to tell, a reason for where we're at, an excuse for why we cannot give and receive, a reason why we give and receive.

It was an evening of magic. Of life unfolding. Of giving and receiving. It was a night of human beings celebrating creativity, no matter the condition of our spirit; no matter where we laid our heads down to rest after the celebrations were over.

Thank you to Lester Howe for his gift of creativity, his willingness to give so that we could receive.

Thank you to Todd Stewart and the team at Dicken's Pub. You made the world a better place by giving us a place to stage the event, a place to come in from the cold on that bitter night.

Thank you to the musicians.
Troy and Joni
Raw Boswin
Kenneth Locke
Bryan Bayley and the circus
Jonathan Ferguson
Chakobsa
Black Dog
Ralph Boyd Johnson
Molotov Smile

Your music creates a world of difference. Your generosity of spirit, the sharing of your talents and your gifts creates a different sound in the world, a song of faith, hope and love. Thank you for sharing your music and song, your talents, time and energy.

Merry Christmas

And so it is Christmas. A season of peace. A time when the Christian world takes a collective breath and offers up a prayer of hope, love and joy.

It is a time for new beginnings, renewed spirits, refreshed souls. It is the time to celebrate all that is miraculous in being human, all that is wondrous in our world.

It is the time to heal wounds, to bridge gaps, to reach across divides that separate us from those we love. It is the time for human beings to stop and take a breath. To let go of what is keeping us apart and connect to what holds us together, as family, as friends, as fellow human beings on the journey of our lifetime. It is the time to connect through our human condition to all that makes us magnificent, to all that makes a better world possible.

And so it is Christmas. Twinkling lights and festive bows. Crinkly paper and mysterious boxes shimmering in the lights of a fragrant fir festooned with decorations. Tires scrunching on snow. Jingle bells ringing. Carollers singing.

A time when the spirit of Christmas lifts up humankind. A time for camaraderie. Fellowship. Good cheer filled with warm greetings as shopkeepers call out Merry Christmas, or Happy Holidays depending upon their political correctness, as they wrap parcels in brightly coloured paper. A time for cards that arrive in the mailbox, unexpected emails from friends afar wishing you and yours a blessed holiday season. And phone calls, and smiles, and gifts exchanged over laughter and a tender look.

A time to soak up the smells of Christmas. Fir trees and spruce boughs. Cinnamon and apples. Cookies baking. Turkeys roasting. Fragrant aromas that awaken our senses and stir memories of Christmases past where we sat around the family table, arms linked, hearts joined in a circle of love that can never be broken no matter how far we roam from the family tree.

It is the time to wrap ourselves up in the warm, toasty, velvet blanket of feelings that embrace us and nurture us through the long winter nights. That raise spirits and open eyes to the wonderment of a world awakened to love, peace, and joy.

It is Christmas. A time to rejoice in a child's birth over two thousand years ago. A child who gave birth to this wondrous time of year. A time when peace on earth reigns as a real possibility and goodwill amongst men beckons to families across the globe as they gather together to celebrate love enduring.

This is the time to connect. To reach out. To pull in and gather round a blazing hearth and surround ourselves with friends and family. A time to open hands and minds, to still quarrels and soothe aching hearts with kind gestures, a gentle touch and loving words. A time to cherish those we love and to extend a welcoming hand to those who need to find peace with where their journeys have taken them. And, for those who cannot go back home this Christmas, it is a time to find a place to belong so that they too can share in the joy and fellowship of this special time of year.

Throughout the year at the DI, we provide a place for people to belong. A place to still the longing for the hearts and homes they've lost. And, throughout the year, our load is lightened by many hands reaching out to support us, to lift us, to help carry the load.

At the DI, we rejoice in the lives we've touched throughout the year and give thanks to those who have touched our hearts with their support, their time, their smiles and their helping hands.
May you and yours know the joy of sitting around a dinner table, connected through bonds of good tidings and joy and a love that can never be broken. May you know that the difference you make is in the smiles on the faces of our clients this Christmas as they too share in the fellowship of the meals you’ve helped sponsor and prepare, the gifts you’ve so generously donated, the stockings you’ve helped stuff, the time you've spent lifting our spirits.

This Christmas, may we all know peace in a world of good tidings and joy. May our hearts be opened in love and may everyone find a place to call home, a place filled with love and family, a place where we all belong.

Christmas at the DI

Christmas is a time for family. For gathering round a laden table and sharing in the family bonds that tie us to our past with the present of our future generations.

At the DI, the family table is shared by over 1,200 people linked together through the bonds of adversity and the homelessness in which they all share. Amidst the lack of a home a community spirit arises, a fellowship of caring for each other in a world of good tidings and joy in this season of goodwill amongst men.

The DI is a busy place, every day of the year. But at Christmas, extra volunteers are needed to help sort, stuff, and distribute gifts and stocking stuffers so that Christmas morning is special for every one of our clients. We are grateful for the volunteers who turned up to support our many initiatives, and sponsors who phoned in to ensure the holiday meals were replete with all the fixings.

At the DI, we are grateful for the support of our hundreds of volunteers who turn up day in and day out to help us make a difference in someone’s life. We are grateful for the corporations, the families and the individuals who sponsor meals and donate valuable time, energy and financial resources so that we can continue to do the work we do to end homelessness, one person at a time.

This Christmas week will be busy. On Christmas morning, every client will awaken to a sock stuffed with goodies by their pillow. The socks will be filled with toiletries, chocolates and candies and other goodies donated by generous Calgarians, as well as schools such as Father Doucette Elementary and Ernest Manning High School.

In total, over 1250 stockings will be stuffed, and 653 gifts donated by caring Calgarians who responded to the call of the Christmas WishList will be distributed. Over the course of the three days, 80 fifteen pound turkeys, 60 fifteen pound hams and roasts will be consumed. The chefs and volunteers will prepare over 1,000 pounds of stuffing, 1200 pounds of vegetables and 200 litres of gravy to accompany these meals.

The following is a list of special meals and events, here at the DI this week:

Christmas Eve -- Wednesday, December 24

1:30 pm – 4:30 pm

Volunteers will be stuffing Christmas socks and sorting gifts

6pm – 7pm

Dinner – Employees and family from Stampede Lexus Toyota will be helping to serve the turkey dinner they sponsored.

Special Entertainment
Calgary folk singer, Cort Delano will be performing during dinner. ww.sonicbids.com/cortdelano

Christmas Day -- Thursday, December 25

8am – 5pm

Volunteers will be distributing gifts to recipients from the Christmas WishList

Noon – 1pm

Sponsored meal by an Anonymous Donor – Ham dinner with all the fixin’s

6pm – 7pm

Staff and family of the DI have joined together to sponsor the Christmas Day meal. Roast Beef dinner

Boxing Day – Friday, December 26

9am – 2pm

Volunteers will be distributing gifts to recipients from the Christmas WishList

6pm – 7 pm

Members and family of Humanity Unites Brilliance (HUB) will be preparing and serving a sponsored Turkey dinner.

Thank you to all our supporters.

You make a significant difference in how we go about our work. You keep our spirits lifted and provide the essential resources that keep us going. Thank you for all you do, and all you give.

Have a blessed and joyous holiday season from the staff and clients of the DI.

Small Gestures Make A Difference

Written by Tait H. Age 8. His report on his visit to the DI for his Grade 3 class.

We are studying the topic of 'homelessness' in English language arts, and 'global citizenship' in social studies. We have realized that small gestures can make a difference in another person's life. We did extra chores around the house to earn money for the homeless.

I had a goal of raising $20 for the Drop In Centre. They said that they needed mitts and socks the most, so I thought I could help with that a little bit. My dad really liked the idea, so he said he would match every dollar I made. I thought that was a good idea, so I asked my Grandmother if she would match it too. She said ‘no’, but if I got to my goal, she would give me $100 for the Drop In Centre!

We bought 6 pairs of mitts and 8 pairs of socks and a whole bunch of hand and foot warmers, which the store didn’t make us pay very much for, because they also thought helping other people was a good idea. We also donated $103.25, so they can buy more of whatever they needed.

After school on Tuesday, my mom took me and my little sisters down to the Drop In Centre. There were a lot of people sleeping on the floor because they had nowhere else to go. They can go here to get warm and have something to eat. The Drop In Centre helps them find a job, too.
Even though it seemed that we were different, and they didn’t know why we were there, the homeless people held the door open for us, and everybody wished us happy holidays. The people that worked there were very nice, too. They said I must go to a good school if they taught us to do things for other people. They said it inspired them, which means it made them feel like they wanted to do more. They showed us a room where they teach classes, and they were making really cool art when we were there.

I have learned that when people need help, even if I can't do very much, I should do what I can, because it does make a difference. Just like the people who had no home that talked to me at the Drop In Centre, they made a difference by giving to me what they had, a smile and good wishes. That is how it feels when people are good to other people. It is nice to help others, but sometimes all I might be able to give is a smile, but I have learned that even that is a good gift, because it made me feel good when it was given to me.

A little bit of a difference

It was a simple email sent to our general mailbox. A simple request from a young boy. Eight years old. Grade 3 at a local school.

Subject: grade 3 student wants to help

Hi.

We are studying the topic of 'homelessness' in English language arts, and 'global citizenship' in social studies. I have realized that small gestures can make a difference in another person's life.

I am doing extra chores around the house to earn extra money for the homeless right now. What can I do with this money? Should I get blankets, mits or hats? or something else?

Is there anything that I can do that will make a difference?

Please let me know as soon as you have a chance.

Thank you. Tait

I responded and thanked him for his kindness. You make a difference by caring enough to want to make a difference, I told him. Mitts and socks are most welcome, I added.

He wrote back and said he'd be buying socks and mitts, since that is what is needed. He also wrote, I am working hard, and my Dad said he would match every dollar I earned! So now I need to work even harder. My mom said my gramma would probably do the same thing. That a pretty good idea because sometimes people dont know what they can do to help but they can by doing even little things.

He came in Tuesday afternoon with his mom, two little sisters and a stuffed dog named Ethan which one of his sisters clutched firmly in her mitten covered hands. I brought the family up to the 6th floor to meet Debbie N. and to take a picture of Tait presenting his donation.

Proudly, he pulled his backpack off his back and opened the zipper. His face beaming with a toothy grin, he displayed its contents. Socks. Warm winter gloves. Hotshots and a bag of chocolate Hershey kisses. He'd spent $37 on socks and gloves from the money he'd earned and his father had matched. His gramma had donated an additional $100. He proudly presented me with the cheque tucked inside his backpack along with the change from the $40. "You can't keep the backpack," he said. "I need it for school."

As he emptied the goodies into a box he pulled out a large sheet of card stock paper. The top half had tiny round perforations. Shyly, he passed the card to his mom, his chin tucked into the puffy collar of his blue ski jacket. She passed the card over to me. "Tait is legally blind," she said. "I translated the Braille on the bottom half of the card he wrote."

Debbie N and I swallowed hard. I ran my fingertips along the perforations. Slowly, I read his words which his mother had printed beneath the Braille.

Dear Louise

Thank you for helping me make a little bit of a difference. Thank you for all you do to make a difference, too. From Tait

Inspiration comes in many forms, shapes and colours. On Tuesday afternoon, inspiration came in the form of a small eight year old boy with a backpack full of winter essentials. With his limited sight, he saw into the heart of the matter. He knew that anything he did would make a difference. No matter how small, he knew every bit counts.

What Tait did is no small matter. In his determination to do his chores and raise the money to buy things we needed, he taught each of us the difference that comes when we each do something, no matter how small, to help carry the burden.

His backpack was filled with more than just gloves and socks, a cheque and some change. His backpack was filled with the possibilities that open up when we look at what we can do when do not limit ourselves to doing nothing because all we see is what little difference we make.

Thank you to Tait, his mother Char, father and sisters and his gramma. You have touched many lives and made a difference in the hearts of all of us.

First Annual Musicians Carol

Join Lester Howe and a host of talented musician's this Thursday, December 18, 6pm until the wee hours.

Dicken's Pub
905 8th St. S.W.

Enjoy an incredible night of music for only $10 admission.

All proceeds wil be donated to the DI.

For more info: call Louise at 403-699-8227

Goodwill amongst men.

Written by: Alexis M. Volunteer, Christmas WishList

Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat. Mother Theresa

I am working in retail for the first time this Christmas. At a store whose contents are on many a wish list. I am witnessing a side of this season of giving that I’d rather not see. Holiday shopping is in full swing now, there is a level of pandemonium as moms and dads desperately try to find that size six pink hoodie that thier little angel will just die if she doesnt find under the tree. Boyfriends awkwardly attempt to pick the most inoffensive size for thier beloved and people drop piles of cash so that their recievers will know just how much they’re loved.

Yesterday I asked a woman if she wished for me to put a sticker over the price on the pants she was buying for her daughter. “No” she said between pressed lips, “I want her to know exactly how much I’m spending on her”.

This is the lesson she’s teaching her child about Christmas? And yet, I know that there is a part of me that has the same feelings of entitlement that this woman's daughter might also share. I have been blessed to always have had a luscious evergreen pregnant with a mountain of gifts. In fact, since I was seven I’ve had two. And while I spend a great deal of Christmas day plagued with western middle class guilt, I think I might have a very violent vendetta against the man in the red suit if ever my stocking were ever filled with coal instead of gift certificates and socks!

Last week, after a day of Christmas chaos and gross overspending, I met up with my sister and a few close friends at a place of a very different kind of chaos. A place where people argue over beds instead of the last size 12. We had been asked by another friend to come down to the DI to help out with The Christmas Wish List. A website that shares the stories of homeless Calgarians in the hopes of connecting them with a personalized gift made possible by the generosity of more fortunate Calgarians. Our job was to interview the clients so that thier stories and wishes could be posted to the site.

As we gathered in the little office awaiting our instructions, I was unsure of what to expect. I wasnt sure how some people might react to some of the questions and if I would be able to connect with the interviewees. I was handed a stack of forms and given a place at a table. On each form were a series of questions. Name? birthdate? How long have you been homeless? What are the reasons you are on the street? What are the biggest stresses of being homeless? What are your interests? What gives you hope? What would lift your spirits? What would you like for Christmas? And then a list of acceptable items: Work boots, phone card, transit passes, jackets, etc.

A long line of clients waited at the door as staff guided the first in line to an available volunteer. My first interview was with Donna* (not her real name). A blond woman in her forties. Beautiful, in a hardened way. She spoke of the relationship that ended, leaving her with nothing five years ago. About her 18 year old daughter. Her angel. She doesnt like her coming down to this corner of the city. Its too dangerous for her here. They arrange for times to meet. Her daughter will call and leave a message. Sometimes Donna doesn't get them. It hurts that she can't be there for the girl whose name she has tattoed across her shoulders. A permanent reminder of the gift she is in her life. What gives Donna hope? The dream that someday she will be able to have her daughter over anytime in a place all of her own.

A young man sits down next. He's 21. Born a year after me. We are both Gemini. Unlike my friends and I, the light is missing from his eyes. He has lost contact with his family. Made some poor decisions. “What would lift your spirits this christmas?” I ask him. “A gift from somebody…Anybody.” is his reply.

More men sit down. One with a black eye and a quiet smile who wants nothing more than to see his kids this Christmas. They are in New Brunswick. It's a long way home. I get no requests for gift cards or fancy electronics. The requests are simple. Boots, overalls, a back pack-if possible a new one that doesnt have holes.

An older gentleman sits down. I ask his birthdate. 1955. He looks nearly 70, his face weathered and cracked by the years slipping by. He was attacked 12 years ago and made legally blind. He made his living driving machines. He can't have a licence now. He is thankful everyday for the eye doctor who gives him hope pro bono. I ask what would lift his spirits. His voice cracks and tears well up in his eyes as he manages a quiet “peace on earth and goodwill amongst men”. He shrugs as he concedes to the fact that that won't happen anytime soon. He marks down an am/fm radio. The music takes him away from this place.

As he gets up to leave I ask him if I can give him a hug. He is speechless. His hand goes to his heart. He nods a silent yes. Mother Theresa said once, that if there is no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to eachother. As we stood in an embrace in the midst of the chaos on the second floor, we belonged to eachother and if only for a second, I hope that that man felt some of the peace and goodwill he so desired.

The interviews gathered to a close and my friends and I made our way out of the shelter to a restaurant where we were able to share our stories over a meal that we got to choose from a menu. We recounted the jokes we had swapped, the moments we had witnessed, the things in our lives that we are grateful for.

It doesn't need to be said that I am grateful for a roof and for food. That goes without saying. On that night as I looked around at my sister and my friends and the memories we have shared together I felt more thankful than I’ve ever been. For being wanted. For being loved and cared for. For not being forgotten.

Written by: Alexis M. Volunteer, Christmas WishList

Baby! It's cold outside!

I've always believed society is defined by how we deal with our weakest links. The best of America is when we take care of the less fortunate. Peter Samuelson

Winter has blown in with a howl of frigid Arctic air swooping down from the north. Traffic crawls along snow covered roadways, inch by inch. Crunching tires. Spinning wheels. Baby, it's cold outside.

Tucked inside my office, peering out at the snow-laden trees and covered sidewalks, I don't care what the weather's doing outside! I'm cosy in my office. If it weren't for the fact I have a meeting later this afternoon outside the office, I might not venture forth at all today! I have the option to stay put, hunker down and take care of business in my office. I have the choice of what to do with my day.

The option of what to do is not filled with appealing alternatives for the 1200+ people who crowd into the building, seeking respite from the biting winds of a prairie winter. Their options are limited. They can wander the streets to get a break from the crowds huddled into the shelter and risk freezing a finger, a toe, their nose or ears, or they can sit amidst the sea of humanity trying to ignore the constant ebb and flow of conversation, the noise and hum of over a thousand people trying to get by in the depths of winter.

On Friday night we had our annual Christmas staff party. Lots of people didn't make it. The weather blew in and blew out any hope of some people finding their way through the blowing snow to the hall where the party was held. Others had to work. We're 24/7. Some people had to heed the call of duty and could not put in an appearance.

For those who did make it, the festivities were a welcome respite to an arduous year of ending homelessness, one person at a time. At one point, the President of our Board of Directors got up to give a speech. "Until I got the stats this week, I didn't realize we were in line with McDonald's," he said. "We served over one million meals this year."

That's a lot of meals. A lot of people looking for a link back to the homes they lost. A lot of bellies to fill with hope of getting a next meal and a next.

See, that's the thing about homelessness. We must care for 'our weakest links' if we are to keep hope alive in a land of plenty for those who have lost everything, including hope. We must hold out hope to those who have lost their way so that they can find their way back to where they belong.

It's cold outside. Inside, I am warm. And I am filled with hope. Winter's chill will ease into warmer climes. Spring blossoms will appear with the promise of spring. In the meantime, we might even enjoy a white Christmas. A welcome respite from the normal brown and grey tones of the past few years.

No matter the weather, no matter the times, here at the DI, hope lives on. It lives in the minds and hearts of all who care for the weakest links in their families. Who shore up the crumbling walls of someone they love. Who deliver a steaming bowl of soup to someone who has nothing but the clothes on their back and a dream of someday finding their way back home.

Hope lives on as long as we care enough to reach out for those who have reached the end of the road and don't know where to turn to next. Hope endures when we link our arms and stand together to protect and serve those who cannot stand alone any longer.

We See You

Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark. George Illes

They arrived in the dark of night. Their yellow school bus twinkling with Christmas lights. A big two ton truck following them into the drive. Amidst a flurry of colour, twenty-five yellow caped angels disembarked and swarmed into the loading dock area of the DI. Some wore Santa hats upon their heads while others wore glow-in-the-dark halos that bobbed and weaved as they unloaded Christmas gifts and carried them into the building. All of the yellow caped angels were wearing big, wide smiles. All of them were laughing. All of them cared that they spread joy and hope where ever they went.

They are, Angels in the Night. A team of mortgage and insurance brokers from Invis Financial who for the past several months have been raising funds to purchase much needed winter essentials for homeless citizens across Canada. It was their sixth year coming to the shelter. The sixth year of sharing the wonder and the joy of Christmas with people in need of their support.

In their wake, they left behind over $5,000 worth of winter apparel and footwear, underwear, towels, blankets and other cold weather essentials at the DI. And they left hope and joy, and the realization that we are not forgotten, and neither are our clients.

Sometimes, all we can do is let people know, "You are not forgotten. I see you." Theordore Roosevelt once implored a nation to remember, 'the forgotten man' and last night, Angels in the Night reminded everyone at the shelter that even those living on the fringes of our society, those whose lives are beaten down, will be remembered. No one will be forgotten. They reminded all of us that as long as they are taking a step, where ever it leads them, no one need be left behind. Because as long as they breathe, there is always hope.

It was a magical evening. And it was busy here at the DI.

Amidst the laughter and the singing, the pranks and the high fives, the serious business of caring for those who cannot or will not care for themselves was taking place. A floor above the loading dock where Angels in the Night had formed a conga line to the clothing centre so that they could transport their gifts with ease, clients were moving up to the sleeping floors, settling into their beds, claiming their little corner of the world for the night. In the first floor lobby area, clients lined up waiting for the opening of our Intox sleeping area. By the time the doors opened, over 200 people would stumble in and claim a mat on the floor, a safe shelter away from the bitter cold and biting wind that accompanies every step of homelessness.

These are the lost souls. The ones who have forgotten they deserve more than this life of homelessness. Numbed by the addictions that cloud their thinking and clog their veins, they have forgotten who they once were, who they were meant to be. All they remember today is the disappointment of who they think they have become wandering the streets in a fog of alcohol or drugs.

We cannot forget them. We must remember for them.

Last night, Angels in the Night arrived and I remembered why I do what I do. Because I can. This morning, my memory is strong. I have the capacity and the ability to remember hope for those who believe there is none. I can carry hope with me where ever I go throughout my day, and I can carry laughter and share a smile. I can share the magic and the wonder of what I saw last night, of what I witness every day and hear throughout the shelter. Because, throughout the shelter, hope lives.

Hope is in the caring words of a staff member who, upon examining the jacket of 'Joe' and finding the zipper broken said, "You can't stay warm like that Joe. Wait here. I'll get you a better jacket." The staff member is 30 something. Muscular. Burly. A giant of a man. Tattooed arms and buzz cut hair. The client, an old man of 60+, missing teeth, dirty hair sprayed out around his weathered face, scarred and leathered hands, broken nails and broken dreams. Yet in the words of that staff member, in his caring for a man who has nothing, dignity is restored. Hope is renewed.

Yes Virginnia, there is a Santa Claus. And his name is Hope.

Hope is in the difference we make when we remember those who have forgotten how precious they are. Hope is in a gentle touch, a caring word, a kind gesture. Hope is in the Angels in the Night who share so generously their abundance so that others may remember, "We see you."

Thank you Lyn and Jim Webber and all the team at Invis Calgary. You make the magic of Christmas come true.

The Christmas Wish List

Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful. Norman Vincent Peale

Last night volunteers came in to interview clients for the Christmas WishList. One of the volunteers is a businessman, an executive from an oil company. It's the second year in a row he's come in to interview. The second year he's left feeling humbled. Blessed. Calm.

I watched him as clients approached the table where he sat. He'd stand up. Put out his right hand. Grasp the clients hand in both of his and say, "Hi. I'm George. How ya’ doing?"

He was warm. Welcoming. Open. He'd sit back down and invite the client to take the chair on the other side of the table. To complete the interview, George had a sheet with a set of questions on it. The objective was to invite the client to tell a bit of their story, about how long they'd been at the shelter. How long they'd been homeless. What caused their homelessness. What stresses them, what gives them hope and then to invite the client to list off one thing he/she wanted for Christmas.

I watched the clients as they talked to George. They'd lean forward. The tension in their shoulders would ease. They'd relax their bodies and talk. And talk. And talk. For some people, this could be the first time in a long time that someone simply listened to them. Heard them. It could be the first time in a long time that a 'regular' guy asked their name and used it in a sentence in a friendly way, no expletive attached.

When clients got up to leave George's table, he shook their hand in farewell. They always left with a smile on their faces. Their step was lighter. They stood taller.

The night before, both my daughters had come in to volunteer with a couple of their friends. At one point, I watched Alexis talking with an older man. Grandfatherly. When he got up to leave, she stood up, walked around the table and gave him a hug. The smile that appeared on his face could have lit up the room. "That's what I really wanted for Christmas but didn't say," he said. "A hug."

It was a beautiful moment. Small. Quiet. Hearfelt. A small moment in an otherwise busy world. A moment to cherish for having witnessed its beauty.

Earlier, one of the staff had come to me with a request for a client who has lived at the shelter for two years. "He's a good guy," the staff member told me. "He's really struggling to get his life back in order. Hasn't seen his kids in two years. Desperately wants to get back to the east coast to see them for Christmas. Is there any way we can help him? I'd be willing to put some money towards his ticket. Is there any way his WishList could ask for contributions?"

As I was collecting the volunteers at the end of the evening, I stopped on one of the sleeping floors to let the volunteer know we were finishing up. She was in the office with a client and one of the staff. The client saw me and called me in. "I'm filling out the form for someone else," he told me. "He'd never do it himself. He's always doing for others but would never ask for anything for himself. Is that okay?"

"What a beautiful gesture," I replied.

The magic of Christmas.

Hearts opening up to strangers. Stories told that connect us in the human condition. People comforted by the attention of a stranger. By a handshake, a hug, a concerned friend. Staff wanting to help out a client. Clients wanting to help out eachother.

This is the real Christmas.

art.works show a grand event

Believe you can and you're halfway there.” Theordore Roosevelt

Sunday, November 30th was the third annual Christmas art show and sale for art.works.

It was a day of celebration. Of spirits flying freely and of hope living joyously in the hearts of the artists and all who attended.

Two and a half years ago when I started the program, it was a dream. An idea. A possibility.

Sunday, I looked around the room, crowded with artists and patrons and realized, I had believed it was possible and now my dream is no longer my dream. It is a community spirit. A reality for all who attended. A truth for each artist and that truth is: I have value. I am worth more than the label 'homeless'. I am an artist. A human being. Creative soul. Expressive spirit. I am a man/woman of possibilities.

Seven artists had their works on display. Another played guitar. Tamara, a young fourteen year old girl who created a charitable organization, Heartprints, Kids for a Cause, so she could sell her handmade jewelry and donate the money to charity, was also there. She raised $500 for the DI.

Wild Rose United Church sponsored the show and had a cafe complete with Nanaimo bars and scrumptious cookies. Nan and Gordon the hosts, welcomed everyone and made everyone feel at home.There was never a lull in the flow of people entering the hall. Never a period where I worried about whether or not the show would be a success.

Success is the artists turning up. Success is the pride on their faces as people drop into their booth and admire a piece of work they created with their hands. Success is the media dropping by to do a story for the newspaper, complete with photographs of the artists and their work. Success is knowing, lives are being changed. Dreams are being crafted. Hopes are being awoken. Possibilities are being created.

Success is written on the hearts of everyone who was there.

Everyone who entered was in awe of the talent of the artists. Their commitment to turn up and express themselves. Their desire to support each other, and their dreams.

And with every piece that was sold, a bit of the artist went home with them. Home. To a place where they belonged, to a family, a couple, a single woman adorning her apartment with a piece of beauty.

The artists may be homeless, but their art found homes yesterday. And if that can happen, finding a way home is possible too.

All they have to do is believe they can get there. They're half way there.

Thank you to everyone who participated. The artists. Staff who helped out. Linda Hunter and Wild Rose United Church. Tamara and her mother Bev, Tom and the crew from the Woodwork Shop. The staff who ensured the art and artists arrived safely and all the people who came out to support the artists and their work.

You light up our lives.

The lives we mess with -- Written by Roger G.

Growing into the fullness of our humanity means that we become co-authors of the rules by which we will agree to have our lives judged. Sam Keen

In recent weeks, a long overdue development has been percolating at the DI, a client advisory group. Because of the well placed, and timed, and spoken, rantings and musings and complaints of one particular battle-hardened veteran of the school of hard knocks, we're getting there. I'll get to that, but first, a story. It's one I heard from Utah Phillips, an American folksinger and storyteller, about his having to grow up when he came back to the U.S. after fighting as a soldier in the Korean War.

He relates:

"When I got back from Korea, I was so mad at what I'd seen and done, I wasn't sure I could ever live in the country again. I got on the freight trains up in Everett, north of Seattle, and kind of cruised the country for two years; making up songs, but I was drunk most of the time and forgot most of those... I'd heard that there was a house in Salt Lake City by the Roper Yards where there was a clothing barrel and free food. So I got off the train there, I was headed for Salt Lake anyway, and I found that house, right where they said it was, but most of all I found this wiry old man, 69 years old, tougher than nails, heart of gold, fellow by the name of Ammon Hennacy. Anyone know that name, Ammon Hennacy?

He was one of Dorothy Day's people, the Catholic Workers; during the '30s, they started Houses of Hospitality all over the country, there's about 80 of them now. Ammon Hennacy was one of those, he'd come west to start the Joe Hill House of Hospitality. Ammon was a Catholic, anarchist, pacifist, draft dodger of two World Wars, tax refuser, vegetarian, one-man revolution in America; I think that about covers it. He had to reach out and grapple with the violence, but he did that with all the people around him... Second World War vets, you know, on medical disabilities and all drunked up... the house was filled with violence which Ammon, this pacifist, dealt with every moment of every day of his life.

He said, 'You've gotta be a pacifist.' I said 'Why?' He said 'It'll save your life.' My behaviour was very violent then... So I'd say 'What is it?' He said, 'Well, I can't give you a book by Gandhi, you wouldn't understand it; I can't give you a list of rules that, if you sign it, you're a pacifist. You look at it like booze. You know, alcohol will kill somebody, until they finally get the courage to sit in a circle of people like that and put their hand up in the air and say "Hi, my name is Utah, and I'm an alcoholic," and then you can begin to deal with the behaviour, see, and have the people define it for you whose lives you've destroyed. He said it's the same with violence, you know... You've gotta be able to put your hand in the air and acknowledge your capacity for violence, and then deal with the behaviour, and have the people whose lives you've messed with, define that behaviour for you, see... And it's not going to go away, you're going to be dealing with it every moment, in every situation, for the rest of your life.' And I said 'Okay, I'll try that,' but Ammon said, 'That's not enough.' And I said, 'Oh.'

He said 'You were born a white man in mid-20th century industrial America, you came into the world armed to the teeth with an arsenal of weapons, the weapons of privilege; racial privilege, sexual privilege, economic privilege. You want to be a pacifist, it's not just giving up guns and knives and clubs and fists and angry words, but giving up the weapons of privilege, and going into the world completely naked. Try that.'

That old man has been gone now 20 years, and I'm still at it. But I figure that if there's a worthwhile struggle in my own life, that'd be the one..."

Born and raised Catholic myself, I began in my late 20s to rebel against the rules and assumptions that had been handed to me, believing instead that I have my own conscience and my own relationship with God, and I can live my own truth. During upwards of 11 years attending a couple of 12 Step groups, I held to and was supported in this same idea of choosing my own beliefs, my own definitions, of myself and the world. So when I heard Utah's tale for the first time it fairly rattled my cage; what of this business of allowing my behaviour to be defined by others; by those people whose lives I've messed with? As Utah said so poignantly, "Oh."

Here at the DI, we the staff run the show, at least visibly. We have much control and influence over the lives of our clients; where they'll sleep, for instance, or whether they can come here at all. We try to be fair and reasonable, and for many years under the remarkable and rare leadership of Dermot Baldwin, we have done a pretty good job. But other than complaint forms or else ad hoc one-on-one conversations and confrontations, usually in response to a particular incident, there has never been a formal invitation, or avenue of access, for the insight and perspective of "those whose lives we mess with."

What would they say is the impact when we bar them from services? What would they say is the impact when we don't bar someone whose behaviour may deserve it? Never having been a client at the DI, never having been homeless at all, I can't imagine some of the things they might say to us. But if we give them a forum to think patiently and speak confidently, knowing their insight is respected, I believe we will all be the better for it. Doing our work with more open-mindedness, and open-heartedness, can only make us more compassionate, and probably more effective.


Written by: Roger G. Night Supervisor

In memory of a courageous man

Dum spiro, spero. While I breathe, I hope.

He was a native man. Early fifties. Proud. Quiet. Once broken, he was fitting the pieces of his life back together. He wanted to be a leader. A good father. A friend. A decent human being. A role model.

When we met, he was in a self-esteem class I teach at the DI. It's part of a three week Career Training Initiative program that provides individuals the chance to get job certificates, computer training and life skills coaching so that they can rejoin the mainstream of their lives; get a job, clean up the debris of the past, save money, get a home, move on, get going with their lives away from homelessness.

In the class, I ask what kind of ‘man’ each person wants to be. My criteria word is ‘magnificent human being’. Les told me that being a 'magnificent human being' was too big for him. His criteria word was 'role model'. He wanted to be a role model for the friends he made here at the DI, for those who crowded round his table on the second floor in our day area, searching for answers. He wanted to be a role model for the young men on his Reserve who danced with the devil of addictions, abuse and anger. He wanted to be a role model for his two sons with whom he was not in contact because of his dance with addictions, abuse and anger.

He talked about his struggle to claim his right to a drug and alcohol free life. His need to make sense of what had happened; to him, his family, his community, his life. His desire to make amends.

When we met just one month ago, there was hope. Hope that one day he would step free. One day he would leave this lifestyle that was bringing him down and leap into a life far from homelessness, as he moved back to his people to be the role model he dreamt of being.

Yesterday, hope died. Yesterday, Les' heart quit beating. Gave up the fight and set Les free of his earthly struggles. Yesterday, Les died.His friends at the shelter are in shock. Angry. Confused. Afraid. Those who worked with him, admired him, supported him, grieve.

Les wanted to change his life. He wanted to reconnect with his two sons, to show them through his example the spirit of a man. He was a courageous man. He had given up alcohol. Drugs. And though he slipped sometimes, he brought himself back to the place where he could be proud of his courage to let go of the substances that were destroying him.

Today, we mourn for Les. We mourn for the man who dreamt of stepping back into his community a proud and courageous man, a role model for all to follow. And we celebrate the man who taught us through his example, the meaning of courage, of fortitude, of integrity.

Let us learn from Les' journey in this life. Let us pray for his spirit's journey into the next life, however we believe it will unfold.Les' life on this plain has ended. There is no more hope for a different life. But hope lives on for his sons. They can learn from their father's journey. They can learn from his mistakes, from his fall and courageous struggle to climb back up.

And hope lives on for each of us. There is hope for all of us left behind who have been touched by Les’ courage to live in this moment and dance. There is hope that we will revel in the joy of being alive in this very moment, fill it with all the wonder in the world and set ourselves free to soar above the sad stories of our past into the joy of telling stories of our lives in freedom.