Broken Dreams and Hope

He's in his thirties. Spent a vast majority of his adult life in 'the lock-up'. Four years out he knows where he never wants to go again. "But I don't know where I want to go now," he told me yesterday during a course I teach on Self-esteem that is part of the Career Training Initiative (CTI) here at the DI.

"Anywhere but here," piped up a good-looking younger man who was part of the course. "All I want is to get my tickets, get a job and get out of here."

The older man responded quickly. "But I like it here. I've been institutionalized most of my life. This place makes me feel safe. I've got a community here. People who understand me. I ain't got nothing out there." And he motioned with his left arm to the verdant green river valley and tree-covered hillside beyond the windows of the sixth floor CTI training room where we were meeting.

The man beside me joined in the conversation. In his twenties, he's been 'in and out' since 'juvie'. He's on parole, out since March. He too knows where he never, ever wants to go back.

"I need this place," he said. "I need to do something different 'cause getting angry, going to jail is not working for me anymore. And 'out there', I risk getting angry." In front of him sat a worn and tattered copy of Don Miguel Ruiz', The Four Agreements. Slid between the pages were his hand-written notes, proof of his laborious efforts to transcribe the agreements and their definitions. "No one ever taught me this stuff," he told the class, after reading his notes out loud. "My mom said she knew I was gonna be bad right from the moment I was born. I don't wanna be bad."

Stories of the street. Of lives in disarray. Lives on the mend. Stories of men for whom the only break they ever had was with the law. Bustin' it. Breakin' it. They end up broken down. Broken up. Living lives of broken promises. Broken families. Broken dreams. No where else to go. They end up here. At a homeless shelter. Struggling to put back together something they'd never had before. Their lives free of the past.

The perspectives were vast. Cultural differences diverse. Ethiopia, South Africa. The former Czech Republic. Belarus. 'Hardened criminals'. Youth.

Vast differences. Similar stories. Gotta get going. Gotta get real. Gotta quit what I'm doing and find something better. Gotta find a way out of this place to somewhere else.

"I don't dream," said one man. "Dreamers are fools. God doesn't like dreamers."

"I gotta dream," said another. "If I don't got dreams, I may as well just pack it in right here."

"Yeah," chimed in another. "Dreams are free. No one ever put you in jail for dreaming."

Sometimes the dream is as simple as never having to panhandle again.

"I've done it a few times," said the man who'd spent a lot of time doing time. "I hate it. It's embarrassing."

He looked at me. Smiled. His face lit up. Boyish. A child with no front teeth, the gap where once his used to be was wide.

"It would have been easier to hold someone at knife point and tell them to give me the money. But I don't wanna do that. That way's a ticket back to jail."

The exigencies of the street. Pan-handling to stay out of jail. Pan-handling for bus fare because the employer refused you the job. Worn out shoes. Worn down spirit.

At the end of the class I asked each participant to write themselves a letter. "Make it a love letter," I told them. "Make it something that will support you. Give you strength when you're down. Write what you'd like to hear from your mom, or dad, grandmother that maybe you've never ever heard."

They hesitated. Joked. Laughed. Love letter? To myself? Never wrote one to no girl. Why would I write one to myself?

"Because you deserve it," I said. "Because you need to put on paper the words you need to hear about how amazing you are, not the ones your mind keeps repeating about what a loser you've become."

Still they hesitated. Slowly, one by one, they began to write.

The quiet in the room was profound. Concentration. Fear. Hope.

"Can I read my letter to the group?" asked the man who was on parole.

"That is your choice," I told him. "Do you want to?"

"Yes," he replied.

I asked the group, "Are you willing to listen with open hearts and minds?"

Everyone nodded their heads.

The man smiled. Haltingly he began to read. I felt tears pricking at the back of my eyes. My heart soften.

I watched his face as he read. Focused. His brow furrowed. One finger following the words he'd written on the page.

I could see him swallow. Clench his teeth and keep on reading.

Words he needs to hear. A story he wants to tell. A dream he wants to live.

We were silent when he finished. Silent. And in awe.

Real lives finding themselves in a place where no one ever wants to end up. Homeless. Lost. Frightened. Alone.

Real lives coming together to find a common goal of moving on. Moving forward. Moving out in spite of the fear. Out from a place where courage is born. Where dreams unfold.

At Street Level

Last night I was part of Voices from the Street 2008. A group of social service agencies and volunteers conducting a homeless street count in Calgary on the night of May 14th. Over the course of two to three hours, one hundred volunteers wandered the city streets identifying how many people were without shelter, sleeping rough. Each group had a specific geographic area to walk, a clipboard with census sheet to mark off how many people were 'visibly homeless' and a shopping bag full of 'goodies' to give away to those willing to engage in conversation.

The purpose of the count is to identify trends -- the count has been conducted by the City every second year since 1992. Homelessness has risen by 32% every two years since the first count. Is that continuing? Are more people sleeping out? Are more people drifting into homelessness? The count helps project forward what facilities will be needed. And, helps identify what's working. What's not? Where are the gaps?

Moments from last night stand out in my memory like dewdrops in morning sunlight. Crystal clear. A perfect prism encapsulating the moment, magnifying all that is wrong, all that is sad about homelessness.

It took awhile for my group of four to find our feet on the street. We weren't sure how to approach someone. How to engage in conversation. The first man we enumerated walked past us. "Do you think he's homeless?" a team member asked. "Hmmmm. Not sure." We backtracked and called out to him. "Excuse me. We're doing a street count. Would you be willing to answer a few questions?"

The man replied, his demeanor open, the tone of his voice pleasant. "Sure." He swayed slightly on his feet. A tattered black leather jacket hung off one arm. A backpack swung from one shoulder.

"Do you have a place to sleep tonight?"

"Me? Hell no." He laughed. "I like to rough it. Expose myself to the stars."

"Do you ever use the shelters?"

"Not any more," he said. "I'm barred." He paused. Looked at us. Looked down at the ground. "I'm not a bad person," he pushed a rock away with the toe of his workboot. "I drink. That doesn't make me a bad person."

We gave him a couple of cigarettes. A bag of cheesies. A bottle of water. "Thanks for taking the time to chat with us," we said as we parted and walked in opposite directions.

We didn't ask everyone. Two guys walked by, their open necked shirts clean and crisp, a cell phone in one hand. No cigarette. No can of beer tucked into a pocket. We didn't stop them. Another man walked towards us, backpack, weary posture, unshaven face. We stopped and spoke to him.

We were making judgments with every step we took. Every person we met.

Some of the folks were easy to identify. Sleeping in the park. Sitting on a park bench, shopping cart parked beside them. A bottle of booze tucked into their bag but still visible. Shaggy hair. Shaggy beard. Scruffy clothes. Dirty hands. Torn pants. Scuffed up shoes. Those people were easy to identify. When we approached them they were always friendly. Always open about talking about their lives -- albeit determining fact from fiction was not so simple. Alcohol was generally the common ingredient in the mix of their perspectives.

At one point, we walked across a darkened parking lot and found three men sitting on the ground in a far corner. A case of beer sat beside them. Two boxes of donuts were open on the ground. In front of them, plugged into a block heater outlet, a small colour TV blared the news. We walked up, said hi. They welcomed us graciously. "Want a donut? The guy at the donut shop always gives them to us at 10pm. He's great."

We told them why we were there. I recognized two of them from the Drop-In. They didn't recognize me.

They willingly answered our questions. Age. How long in the city? How long on the street? Where did they come from before here? Did they have a job? Did they ever use the shelter system? If not, why not?

They laughed and joked amongst each other. They regaled us with stories of their adventures (and misadventures). Stories of sneaking into boarded up buildings to stay out of the cold winter winds. Of hide-aways with cable TV because the building management forgot to turn it off when they'd turned everyone out in anticipation of tearing the building down. Of cops swarming them in another parking lot where they'd set up their nightly camp because the building owners were afraid of their presence in the dark. They swore us to secrecy as they told us about one building manager and his inability to keep them out of his buildings.

I wondered why they asked us to keep their secret. And why they immediately trusted us when we quickly replied, "Of course." A vulnerability of the street? Misplaced trust. Trust given too quickly. A history of trusting the untrustworthy. An assumption of co-conspiracy? Assumed community?

We talked to teen prostitutes. Runaway teens. Elderly men with years and years of street life pounded into their worn out shoes. Pockets dragging with the weight of hands buried deep within their folds, holding off the cold, clutching a bottle for support.

We put a granola bar in front of a woman lying on the grass in a park. She looked pregnant. Sound asleep? Passed out? A man walked up and told us, "She's okay. Just napping. She'll wake up in a bit and move on."

We talked to teens hanging out. Teens hanging on to some vestige of humanity as they politely thanked us for the chocolate bars and water bottles we handed out.

We didn't talk to one man wheeling a spiffy looking bike down a quiet avenue. His companion stopped to chat with us but he kept moving. Kept putting distance between him and us.

Them and us.

Two sides of the street.

One of the last men we talked to stood in front of us as we waited at a red light to cross the street. I wasn't sure about talking to him. He stood aggressively. His arms lifting up from his sides as if he thought he might be able to fly away. It was late. 11pm. Dark.

One member of the team tried to open a conversation with him. "Hi, we're doing a street count. Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

The expletives flew fast and furious. He aggressively pushed his body towards us. I wanted to calm his anger. He seemed stoned. Or perhaps he had a mental disability. I offered him a cigarette. He thought I meant a smoke of something more potent. I backed away. We all backed away. We crossed the street. Kept walking away, his expletives colouring the air behind us.

As we worked our way back to our starting point, we came upon the first man we'd encountered earlier that evening. He was sitting on the sidewalk at the back of a gas station. Beside him, an older gentlemen sat in a wheelchair.

"Hey," the man said. "I know you. I met you before."

We smiled and reminded him of our encounter earlier.

"I remember!" I didn’t know if he was surprised he remembered, surprised to see us again, or surprised we remembered him.

He was visibly more inebriated than before. He had trouble holding himself upright and unlike previously where his conversation was lucid and polite, his words were laced with expletives. He wasn't threatening. Just colourful. Between the expletives he kept insisting, "I'm not a bad person."

I asked the gentleman in the wheelchair if he had a place to sleep that night. "Oh yeah," he replied. "I'm going there." And he pointed down the street to a building two blocks away where those under the influence can spend the night.

The other man interjected. "I'm going to push him there in a little while." He added his signature phrase. "I'm not a bad person." And then promised. "I'll be careful with him." He pointed to his buddy. "I'm not a bad person. He's my friend. I take good care of him."

The language of the street. I'm not a bad person. He's my friend. I take good care of him.

The street with a language of its own. Colourful. Filled with expletives. Filled with the human condition pouring out in words of denial. Words of fear. Of pain. Of defiance. Of camaraderie. Of shared experienced. Common ground.

The young woman standing on a corner, looking for business. "I'm not a crackhead," she told us when we asked if she had a place to sleep that night. "I got my own place. I quit doing that shit six months ago. I can take care of myself."

The young couple, tattoos and spiky hair, demographic markers on the dark side of the street. "We don't use no shelter. We can take care of ourselves."

Taking care. Good care. Any care on the street is not easy.

Being careful is not part of street life.

Exposed. Vulnerable. Naked to the eyes of passers-by. Easily identifiable. Easily targeted. Easily counted by census takers on a warm night in May.

We didn't ask everyone if they had a place to sleep last night. Only those who looked like they didn't. They were easy to identify.

And when we parted we wished them well with a concerned admonishment to, 'be safe'.

As darkness descends, the street can turn mean. You gotta be safe.

What Is Poverty by Jo Goodwin Parker

The following speech "What is Poverty" by Jo Goodwin Parker, was required reading in a class Tim G., Afternoon Building Supervisor, took while in University. It's a powerful, disturbing commentary on the horrendous cost of poverty to the human spirit.

What is Poverty. by Jo Goodwin Parker

You ask me what is poverty? Listen to me. Here I am, dirty, smelly, and with no "proper" underwear on and with the stench of my rotting teeth near you. I will tell you. Listen to me. Listen without pity. I cannot use your pity. Listen with understanding. Put yourself in my dirty, worn out, ill-fitting shoes, and hear me.

Poverty is getting up every morning from a dirt- and illness-stained mattress. The sheets have long since been used for diapers. Poverty is living in a smell that never leaves. This is a smell of urine, sour milk, and spoiling food sometimes joined with the strong smell of long-cooked onions. Onions are cheap. If you have smelled this smell, you did not know how it came. It is the smell of the outdoor privy. It is the smell of young children who cannot walk the long dark way in the night. It is the smell of the mattresses where years of "accidents" have happened. It is the smell of the milk which has gone sour because the refrigerator long has not worked, and it costs money to get it fixed. It is the smell of rotting garbage. I could bury it, but where is the shovel? Shovels cost money.

Poverty is being tired. I have always been tired. They told me at the hospital when the last baby came that I had chronic anemia caused from poor diet, a bad case of worms, and that I needed a corrective operation. I listened politely - the poor are always polite. The poor always listen. They don't say that there is no money for iron pills, or better food, or worm medicine. The idea of an operation is frightening and costs so much that, if I had dared, I would have laughed. Who takes care of my children? Recovery from an operation takes a long time. I have three children. When I left them with "Granny" the last time I had a job, I came home to find the baby covered with fly specks, and a diaper that had not been changed since I left. When the dried diaper came off, bits of my baby's flesh came with it. My other child was playing with a sharp bit of broken glass, and my oldest was playing alone at the edge of a lake. I made twenty-two dollars a week, and a good nursery school costs twenty dollars a week for three children. I quit my job.

Poverty is dirt. You can say in your clean clothes coming from your clean house, "Anybody can be clean." Let me explain about housekeeping with no money. For breakfast I give my children grits with no oleo or cornbread without eggs and oleo. This does not use up many dishes. What dishes there are, I wash in cold water and with no soap. Even the cheapest soap has to be saved for the baby's diapers. Look at my hands, so cracked and red. Once I saved for two months to buy a jar of Vaseline for my hands and the baby's diaper rash. When I had saved enough, I went to buy it and the price had gone up two cents. The baby and I suffered on. I have to decide every day if I can bear to put my cracked sore hands into the cold water and strong soap. But you ask, why not hot water? Fuel costs money. If you have a wood fire it costs money. If you burn electricity, it costs money. Hot water is a luxury. I do not have luxuries. I know you will be surprised when I tell you how young I am. I look so much older. My back has been bent over the wash tubs every day for so long, I cannot remember when I ever did anything else. Every night I wash every stitch my school age child has on and just hope her clothes will be dry by morning.

Poverty is staying up all night on' cold nights to watch the fire knowing one spark on the newspaper covering the walls means your sleeping child dies in flames. In summer poverty is watching gnats and flies devour your baby's tears when he cries. The screens are torn and you pay so little rent you know they will never be fixed. Poverty means insects in your food, in your nose, in your eyes, and crawling over you when you sleep. Poverty is hoping it never rains because diapers won't dry when it rains and soon you are using newspapers. Poverty is seeing your children forever with runny noses. Paper handkerchiefs cost money and all your rags you need for other things. Even more costly are antihistamines. Poverty is cooking without food and cleaning without soap.

Poverty is asking for help. Have you ever had to ask for help, knowing your children will suffer unless you get it? Think about asking for a loan from a relative, if this is the only way you can imagine asking for help. I will tell you how it feels. You find out where the office is that you are supposed to visit. You circle that block four or five times. Thinking of your children, you go in. Everyone is very busy. Finally, someone comes out and you tell her that you need help. That never is the person you need to see. You go see another person, and after spilling the whole shame of your poverty all over the desk between you, you find that this isn't the right office after all-you must repeat the whole process, and it never is any easier at the next place.

You have asked for help, and after all it has a cost. You are again told to wait. You are told why, but you don't really hear because of the red cloud of shame and the rising cloud of despair.

Poverty is remembering. It is remembering quitting school in junior high because "nice" children had been so cruel about my clothes and my smell. The attendance officer came. My mother told him I was pregnant. I wasn't, but she thought that I could get a job and help out. I had jobs off and on, but never long enough to learn anything. Mostly I remember being married. I was so young then. I am still young. For a time, we had all the things you have. There was a little house in another town, with hot water and everything. Then my husband lost his job. There was unemployment insurance for a while and what few jobs I could get. Soon, all our nice things were repossessed and we moved back here. I was pregnant then. This house didn't look so bad when we first moved in. Every week it gets worse. Nothing is ever fixed. We now had no money. There were a few odd jobs for my husband, but everything went for food then, as it does now. I don't know how we lived through three years and three babies, but we did. I'll tell you something, after the last baby I destroyed my marriage. It had been a good one, but could you keep on bringing children in this dirt? Did you ever think how much it costs for any kind of birth control? I knew my husband was leaving the day he left, but there were no goodbye between us. I hope he has been able to climb out of this mess somewhere. He never could hope with us to drag him down.

That's when I asked for help. When I got it, you know how much it was? It was, and is, seventy-eight dollars a month for the four of us; that is all I ever can get. Now you know why there is no soap, no needles and thread, no hot water, no aspirin, no worm medicine, no hand cream, no shampoo. None of these things forever and ever and ever. So that you can see clearly, I pay twenty dollars a month rent, and most of the rest goes for food. For grits and cornmeal, and rice and milk and beans. I try my best to use only the minimum electricity. If I use more, there is that much less for food.

Poverty is looking into a black future. Your children won't play with my boys. They will turn to other boys who steal to get what they want. I can already see them behind the bars of their prison instead of behind the bars of my poverty. Or they will turn to the freedom of alcohol or drugs, and find themselves enslaved. And my daughter? At best, there is for her a life like mine.

But you say to me, there are schools. Yes, there are schools. My children have no extra books, no magazines, no extra pencils, or crayons, or paper and most important of all, they do not have health. They have worms, they have infections, they have pink-eye all summer. They do not sleep well on the floor, or with me in my one bed. They do not suffer from hunger, my seventy-eight dollars keeps us alive, but they do suffer from malnutrition. Oh yes, I do remember what I was taught about health in school. It doesn't do much good.

In some places there is a surplus commodities program. Not here. The country said it cost too much. There is a school lunch program. But I have two children who will already be damaged by the time they get to school.

But, you say to me, there are health clinics. Yes, there are health clinics and they are in the towns. I live out here eight miles from town. I can walk that far (even if it is sixteen miles both ways), but can my little children? My neighbor will take me when he goes; but he expects to get paid, one way or another. I bet you know my neighbor. He is that large man who spends his time at the gas station, the barbershop, and the corner store complaining about the government spending money on the immoral mothers of illegitimate children.

Poverty is an acid that drips on pride until all pride is worn away. Poverty is a chisel that chips on honor until honor is worn away. Some of you say that you would do something in my situation, and maybe you would, for the first week or the first month, but for year after year after year?

Even the poor can dream. A dream of a time when there is money. Money for the right kinds of food, for worm medicine, for iron pills, for toothbrushes, for hand cream, for a hammer and nails and a bit of screening, for a shovel, for a bit of paint, for some sheeting, for needles and thread. Money to pay in money for a trip to town. And, oh, money for hot water and money for soap. A dream of when asking for help does not eat away the last bit of pride. When the office you visit is as nice as the offices of other governmental agencies, when there are enough workers to help you quickly, when workers do not quit in defeat and despair. When you have to tell your story to only one person, and that person can send you for other help and you don't have to prove your poverty over and over and over again.

I have come out of my despair to tell you this. Remember I did not come from another place or another time. Others like me are all around you. Look at us with an angry heart, anger that will help

As Long As Hope Lives

It is just a piece of paper hanging on the wall of an office at the Drop-In. A white piece of paper with a picture of a man standing between two teenagers, his arms around their shoulders. I can see their smiles but the eyes of the teenage girls are blacked out. The man's whole face is visible. He's wearing a cowboy hat. Black shirt. Black jeans. He's got a Johnny Cash kind of look, a cocky stance as he smiles, obviously happy to be between his daughters. I know he's their father. The message on the paper tells me. "Has anyone seen this man?" And then, beneath it, "Dad, please call home. We love you."

A simple, heartfelt message. A pain too great to fathom.

It is a story often repeated at the Drop-In and other homeless shelters across the country. Mother's call in looking for their sons. Daughters look for their mothers. Brothers come in search of their twin, wives search for 'their better halves'.

It is a story that reminds me of what I once did to my daughters. Disappeared. Vanished. Left with no forwarding address.

Hard to imagine. But true.

I look back on that woman who believed so completely that she had no value, no meaning in anyone else's life but the abuse and terror she was enduring. I feel the pain of those lost souls trying to escape the loving arms reaching out to them, wanting to tell them a simple truth, We love you. And I know the sorrow of those reaching out in fear they've lost the one they love forever.

It's hard to hear someone loves you when you believe you are completely unworthy. The mind cries out. You must escape from the burden of their love, escape from the truth of the self-hatred burning inside for all that you are, all you've become. You must run and hide.

It was a relationship that brought me down. A man who believed it was his right to control me, to take over my life because he could. And I bought into his lies. Let go of the sacred trust my daughters depended upon to give their lives meaning. At some point in that journey through hell, the responsibility of their love became too great, too hot to touch. The truth of what I'd done became too great a burden to carry. In my fall from grace I had to deny the one thing I craved, the one thing that gave my life meaning-- to be connected through the circle of love to the one's I loved. Lost on the road of life, I told myself I didn't deserve their love. I was not worthy.

And so, I ran away. Disappeared. Vanished.

I was blessed. I was found before I was erased from this planet. I was found before all I left behind was the painful memory of my journey through hell, a bitter reminder for those who loved me to grapple with, make sense of, understand. In my 'finding' I found the gift of healing, of forgiveness, of love.

At the Drop-In, sometimes the lost are not found. They pass by and pass away, their lives an untold story never to unfold. Like the young man a volunteer told me about on Saturday. Her husband had befriended him. He was a schizophrenic. Twenty-eight years old. He used to sit on the sidewalk outside the man's office building and panhandle. Her husband would give him coins, buy him coffee and a muffin, sometimes take him for lunch. And then one day, he disappeared.

The husband wondered where he'd gone and then continued on with his life. Until a week after his disappearance when the police appeared. The young man had died. An overdose. His story ended. We found your business card amongst his belongings, they told him. You're the only contact name we have. Can you help us connect with his family? The husband knew of a brother, which led to a parent. Thanks for letting us know, they said. They didn't come for the funeral. The volunteer and the husband were the only one's there. Two strangers saying a prayer over a man whose life had lost all connection to this world. At least the family knows what happened to him, the husband said. At least they won't have to keep worrying about him.

Sometimes, the lost cannot be found again. Sometimes, there's no one looking for them.

I hope and pray those two daughters find some sign of their father. I pray one day he will find himself on the road of living in love and joy reconnected to the ones he loves.

Until that time, we must hold open the doors that lead the way off the street so those who are lost can find their way home again. We must keep hope alive for those who are searching for the one's they love so that they do not give up hope that all will be lost with the passing away of the mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews and nieces who are missing.

In honour of Augie. Written by: Roger G.

While putting my laundry in the washer this morning, I thought back to the beautiful memorial service I attended yesterday for Augie Simonaitis. Clients and staff and friends came together to fill the MultiPurpose Room on the 6th floor; staff I've worked with, some who have moved on to new ventures, and others I only know by name. There were clients whom I have watched as they've ridden roller-coasters of success and failure, a client who has found contentment with the slow road of building on small triumphs rather than chasing after the dramatic life changes that have eluded him, a client whom I've watched waste away, and another who just keeps plodding along, seemingly in his own little world most of the time. We were all there to pay our respect to Augie, and it felt very much like a family.

I knew Augie for the six years I've worked at the Drop-In. For three of those years I was one of the front line workers greeting clients, donators, EMS and CPS at the main doors, while he was in "the fishbowl", the Security office behind us. I can remember one night when Augie was being a bit bossy for my liking, calling out his
opinion of every little thing we were doing as we tried to keep the peace out in the lobby. I finally went to his window and said to him, "Augie, we just got a phone call from Environment Canada. They say that the hot air from your mouth is affecting weather systems all across the Prairies, and they say they'll give you a silver-framed barometer to hang on your wall if you'll shut up." To my surprise, he did. For a little while.

When I was first offered a supervisor's position, my response was "Who, me? a supervisor? Are you kidding?" And it took me about a year before I felt comfortable and competent in that role. But Augie had confidence in me; he would tell me that he believed I was good at my job and I could handle whatever came up. I needed those words, especially from people who knew where I had come from, what I was good at, and what I wasn't.

Due to the foresight and care of my own supervisor Linda, who had heard from nurse James that Augie might not make it through the night, my work was done by others last Tuesday, while it came to me to be with him when he died. I phoned Dr. Hurley just after 1:00 a.m., so she could come to the apartment, phone the funeral home, and sit with Augie and I while we waited for them to come pick him up. But until the service yesterday, I never knew that Augie had been a client. I had known nothing of his life of hard struggle with self-destructive habits. And I never guessed at the many lives that he had touched so deeply. The memorial gave us a chance to briefly sketch out for each other a few outlines of who this man was and how we had each been touched. Appropriately, we were met a the door with a beautiful pencil drawing of Augie done by Jeff, one of our new Security staff, who had the chance to meet Augie before he left us.

I am grateful towards Andrew Joo, John Rowland, Dermot Baldwin, and whoever else organized this memorial for Augie so that we may have a chance to gather together and tell each other stories about our friend. Is this not a fine, fine way for us to accept death as part of life? to process our loss and to give thanks for the flawed,
imperfect, fully human lifegiver who has passed on?

For us, life goes on; in our booming city there are a thousand ways to get the short end of the stick and various addictions to shorten the stick further still, so there are still clients to feed and house at the Drop-In. There are mouths to feed at home. I'm on my days off, and my laundry is now ready to go out on the clothesline.

Roger G. continues to work nights for the Drop-In, as he always has.

In celebration of a heartfelt man.

Her cheeks are caved in where once her teeth held the shape of her face in place. Her dark eyes dart around the room as if constantly searching for an exit or perhaps she's just making sure she's ready to make a quick exit in case someone comes to tell her she has to leave, this isn't where she belongs. The pinkish white flesh of her scalp shows through between the strands of her salt and pepper hair which flies about her face like feathery whiskers on a cat. She's tall. Thin. Almost emaciated. She never wears shoes, her stockinged feet shuffle as she walks.

She isn't comfortable sitting amidst the black suits and dresses. And yet, she's come. She's here. She must pay respects to the man who gave her a gift no one else ever had.

She cannot get up to speak at the podium, "Talking in front of people makes me nervous," she tells the MC. She sits in her seat and holds a conversation with him as if there's no one else there. We strain to listen, to hear her. What she has to say is important.

"I came in one day, stoned, like I always was," she says, her eyes never leaving the MC's. "I'm an addict," she says by way of explanation.

Her entire body is in motion where she sits on the edge of her chair, leaning into the conversation. She nods, her arm lifts up, she straightens her pointer finger and jabs the air. "He saw me stumbling and came out from behind the glass window towards me. I could barely stand. I was crying. He came over, put his arm around me, held me up and said, 'It's okay. It's okay. You've got a good heart."

She stops and swallows. "He said that to me. 'You've got a good heart.'" She shakes her head. "Nobody's ever said that to me before. He did. And I'll never forget it. You've got a good heart."

She sits back in her chair, her thin lips pulled back from her reddened gums in a smile as innocent as a baby's. She nods her head, mutters to herself and rocks her body. "I have a good heart," she whispers.

He died last Wednesday. This man who could see the good heart within each of us. His care giver had turned away to make a cup of tea and in those brief moments, he slipped from his earthly form to another plane.

It is how he lived his life. On his terms.

It is how we are celebrating his passing. Nothing fancy. No formal service. Just a roomful of people gathered to celebrate the life of a man whose past is a blur, but whose impact in the ten years many had known him was profound.

I'd only known him two years. Since coming to work at the Drop-In. I knew him as a security guard. Committed to giving his best. To ensuring the rules were followed. Procedures maintained so that everyone was as safe as possible in an environment where chaos is the order of the day. He always had a kind word. A gentle smile. An outreached arm lengthened by his pointer finger jabbing the air to get your attention or to bring your attention to a point that he believed must be made.

He'd once been a client. A man, like so many others, struggling to let go of a past that haunted his waking moments as he slipped into a bottle that gave him courage to face the day. It was a past that slithered through his nights on velvety whispers that would not let him forget where he'd been and what he'd done.

But he wanted to. Forget that is. Forget what he'd done. Forget where he'd been. Forget the past so he could be free to live today for all he was worth.

And he did. Let go. But he couldn't forget. He didn't really want to. It was his legacy, and his way out. He couldn't forget it, but he could at least forgive himself and the past that had caused such trouble in his life.

At the shelter he found the road out of the past to living each day with dignity. He found the path away from the darkness of the addiction that gave him false courage into the sobriety that gave his life meaning.

I remember him making his rounds of the building. He was a tall man. Thin. Handsome in a Clint Eastwood kind of way. He wore his black vest with the gold lettering with pride. His footsteps were measured. Sure. As he walked and tested doors, he held his clipboard in one arm, carefully checking off that locks were secured and everything was as it should be.

The routine gave him meaning. It made me feel safe where ever I was in the building.

If it was after hours and no one else was around he'd sit for a moment in the blue chair across from my desk and chat. Sometimes, he'd tell me a story of another time. He wanted to share what he'd learned through living life on the wrong side of the street he told me. He wanted to use his story to give hope and strength to others who were lost on the road of life like he once was.

"I gotta give back to give meaning to my life today," he said.

He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, I listened.

"I once tried to go back," he told me. "I thought it was time I reconnected to my past. I went east. Checked out some of my family. It didn't work out. Too much water under the bridge. So I came back. Here. Where I belong." He paused, lifted his right arm up, extended the pointer finger, nodded his head and said. "There's never any going back. You've always got to find where you belong right where you are."

Yesterday, dozens of people gathered together to celebrate the life of Augie. A gentle spirit. A wise soul. A heartfelt man.

A Tribute to Augie -- written by John R.

He had a gruff voice.

He growled at my kids, but he did not scare them.

For me this says it all. Augie was one of those gruff men, with a soft interior, and my children knew this instinctively. No matter how much he barked, they were not scared. He barked at them telling them to be careful, and then gave them his chair so they could play with the cameras. For my children he was one of the most important people in the Drop-In. There were sad when they found out he had passed away. [Augie passed away, Wednesday, April 23, 2008]

He was a man who was both differential to me out of respect, yet willing to assert his authority by calling me on my cell phone to remind me that I had a master key signed out, and had not returned it.

He always told me that he did not want “Alan on his case”, but I always knew that really it was because working security in the Drop-In was a matter of pride for him. He did his job to the best of his ability.

For those of us who have known Augie for a long time, we know that there are two sides to the man. He was a gentle giant; there is no doubt about that. But neither is there any doubt about the past that he worked to put behind him. I would be curious to hear from someone who knew the old Augie what he was like. I can imagine, but I will never know.

Augie always expressed gratitude to the people who gave him a chance to live differently than his past, especially a woman from Edmonton who gave him a job in a hotel. He spoke to me several times about this women (who’s name unfortunately I do not know) and how by giving him a job when no one else would when he got out of jail, she turned his life around.

I think in a similar way, the staff at C110 who listened to Augie as he struggled to build a life in Calgary, and then when the Drop-In gave him a job doing security on the construction site that became this building also gave Augie something important to those of us who are human.

Redemption.

I may be wrong, because I never heard Augie say this, but I think working security for the Drop-In was Augie’s way of making up for all the other stuff in his life. His way of contributing something good to this world.

Augie, thank you for showing my children what a kind caring person you were. Thank you for letting them play in your chair.

Submitted by: John R.

His Guitar -- written by Nurse James

Written by: Nurse James

It’s late April, at 8:45PM and our lobby is packed. It is snowing outside and cold. Minus 8, with windchill, minus 13. It’s very busy at the Drop-In.

*Jesse*is playing his new guitar in the lobby on the first floor. He received it as a gift for staying sober.

He plays a good rendition of Johnny B. Goode, and then goes onto some other Drop-In favorites; House of the Rising Sun, Rambling Man. He starts his version of Wild Horses and a young man joins in to sing with him. Soon the two are really in sync and as Jesse plays, his new partner belts out a five-minute rap song about street life and coming together and living at the D.I.

The crowd is right into the song, lots of people clapping and whooping along to the five minutes of singing and rapping.

Jesse swings his guitar over his head and with his arms bent backwards and his guitar inverted, begins playing the song faster and faster. His partner sings and raps faster and faster along with him.

As the song winds down and comes to a close, many in the lobby are on their feet cheering and clapping. The song ends, Jesse takes a bow and embraces his rapper friend. Everyone is now standing and giving the two a standing ovation, including the staff who are present.

It is a happy time. I am glad to see that so many can find so much joy and comfort in the short impromptu concert. Happy that so many are enjoying themselves despite the fact that they have next to nothing. Happy to see that so many people, from so many varied backgrounds and ethnic groups are standing together as one to cheer on one of their own.

They own so little, yet they have so much to live for. So many little opportunities, yet so much love, joy and attention they have to give to each other.

The laughter and smiles coming from the clients in the crowd is a stark contrast from the dreary attitudes that are usually present on a cold blustery day.

This is one reason I cite when people ask, “Why do you work at the homeless shelter?” Sometimes, they even ask me why I choose to come here instead of working elsewhere?

Because of the people I tell them.

The people here are like nowhere else. The people here are so close, and so caring. They have so much fun with so few items and possessions.

The short but energetic jam session had me seeing hope, not despair, laughter, not sadness, and something that a lot of people in this world crave and need the most, a sense of family and belonging.

*Not his real name*

Written by: Nurse James

Hope for a better life

He was 53 the first time he tried crack. After a lifetime of sobriety, he still wonders today what made him do, what in retrospective, turned out to be a really bad idea. But, on that night, ten years ago, when a buddy came over to watch a movie and offered him a snort on his crack pipe, it seemed like not too bad an idea.

“I figured I had a strong foundation that proved I was not the ‘addict’ type,” he told me when he dropped by my office for a visit. “I’d never even tried marijuana. I didn’t drink and I’d always preached to my kids about the dangers of drugs. I figured it wouldn’t hurt me to try it, just once.”

That ‘just once’ led to a ten-year odyssey through drug abuse. “When my buddy was leaving that night, I gave him some money and asked him to get me some more. There wasn’t any question that I wasn’t going to smoke it again. I was hooked,” he said, shaking his head in dismay.

It didn’t take long for John to sell his welding truck and pawn everything he owned. In need of money for his addiction, when his supplier offered him the opportunity to run a crack house in the northern city was he was living, he quickly jumped at the offer.

“I didn’t look like your average crack dealer,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling. “I was 53. Slimmer in those days.” He pauses to pat his belly. “I was forty pounds lighter when I was using,” he adds before continuing to tell me about his crackhouse days.

“I ran a tight ship,” he says. “We were in an upscale area of the city. The Mercedes and BMW’s of my clients didn’t raise any eyebrows when they parked in front of the apartment building for fifteen minutes and then left. We only operated from 7pm to 7am, not the 24 hour stuff of flophouses. People came in. They bought. They left. Whatever was left over when the sun came up, me and my partner would smoke. We’d do that for 3 or 4 days and then one of us would crash. And the cycle would continue. My suppliers thought I was great. I always paid them first and on time. Never caused them any trouble.”

And then, about four years after beginning his journey into hell, the apartment was raided. “I was lucky. I didn’t happen to be there at the time,” he says. “So, when my supplier came to me and asked me what I was going to do, I told him I was getting out. Because of my age, the poor state of my health due to my heavy use and my history with the gang that supplied the drugs, they let me go.”

John came to Calgary and began the slow process of recovery. “It wasn’t a straight path,” he adds. “I went into a treatment centre and in 2002, when I got out, I hooked up with a younger woman who was also getting out of treatment. That’s a recipe for disaster. Two addicts, fresh out of treatment with no place to go.”

It’s one of the aspects of recovery that John finds difficult to understand. “We put people who have nothing but the clothes on their backs through treatment and then we make no provision for what they’re going to do, or where they’re going to go once they’re out.”

John and his lady-friend ended up in a low income apartment building in the inner city. “We both had jobs but the building was rife with lots of opportunity to buy drugs. We were too fresh into recovery and couldn’t resist the lure of using together. But just on weekends,” he adds with a chuckle. “During the week, we’d both work to pay for the drugs we’d do on weekends. Eventually, weekends became longer and workdays became fewer and suddenly, we were both back out on the street.”

They ended up at the Drop-In, homeless and addicted once again. “The staff and counselors did so much for me,” he says. “Eventually, I made it up to the fifth floor into transitional housing and Amanda and Darce (Drop-In counselors) really got me thinking about my life and what I wanted to do and how I was going to get there.”

He knew he was getting too old for street life. “I was committed to change and knew that for it to really happen, I had to break the cycle of my drug usage. The first step for me was to get out of the downtown core completely so that I could get away from my old haunts and the people I used with.”

John found a new job and took shared accommodation in a suburb as he began the process of cleaning himself up again. A year later, with sobriety firmly in place in his mind and heart, John has his own apartment in the inner city and has worked continuously for the same employer.

“I don’t have a lot,” he says, “but I appreciate what I’ve got so much today because I know what I’ve got to lose if I fall off the wagon again.”

To keep himself on track, he volunteers his time with the Nursing and Social Work Programs at the U of Calgary and the SafeWorks nurses at the Drop-In.

“I love working with the students,” he says, a big smile on his face. “I take them around, show them the places I used to be and where addicts still hangout. It helps me stay sober because it reminds me of where I never want to be again.”

He admits he never gives an addict money. But, he will share his story about how he beat his own addiction. “I want them to know there is hope for a better life than being an addict.”

The Miracle

Written by: Denise R.; Day Staff

For the past nine months, I have been helping a young drug addicted woman who has been a client at the Drop-In. She’s lived a hard life, working the streets to support her habit, coming into the Drop-In for respite after a drug run that could last from anywhere for five to seven days. She’d come in and sleep for two to three days, eat, catch her breath and then, the beast of her addiction would kick back in and she’d be off to feed it.

About eight months after she first appeared here, she realized she was pregnant. Her addiction, however, had a death grip on her and so, she continued to do her drug runs, returning once a week for food and shelter. Every time she came in, we watched in horror what she was doing to her body. We knew the affect her drugs were having on her unborn child. We knew the odds were against her and her baby. And we knew there was nothing we could do to intervene other than to continue to try to talk to her, somehow reach her to convince her to seek help. It was to no avail. She kept using and abusing as the life inside her continued to grow.

And then, on March 24, 2008, a miracle happened that changed my life. This young girl gave birth to a little angel. A perfectly healthy 5lb 12 oz. baby girl.

What a miracle.

Created in the hellhole of an addict’s life, a tiny, bright eyed, dark curly haired miracle came to life that day and brought with her the spark of hope, of humanity into the dark world into which she was conceived.

This tiny miracle came quietly into the world. She looked around with her bright shiny eyes, stared at the wonders of the world around her for at least three hours before falling into a contented sleep.

The mother wouldn’t hold her. She knew she’d never be able to give this miracle of life what she needed. She knew she couldn’t promise to kick her habit for the sake of this child’s life. And so, she did the bravest thing she could do and made the most difficult choice she could make. She gave her baby up. To ensure her baby has the life she cannot give her, this young mother gave her the one thing she had to give, the gift of life.

It is sad when the beast of an addiction is greater than a mother’s love but that’s the reality of addiction. That is the horrible truth of what crack does to body, mind, and spirit.

For this miracle of birth, however, she is one in a million. She’s come through her mother’s womb devoid of any signs of the ravages of the drugs that possess her mother and keep her on the path of self-abuse, over and over again.

For me, the miracle of this baby’s birth reminds me that we are all miracles of life, gifts of the Creator. Life isn't fair but for this tiny baby, I pray she find a home where two parents will love and cherish her for all she's worth. She deserves it.

And for the mother, I pray one day she realizes, she's worth fighting for too.


Written by: Denise R.; Day Staff

We are All People

Written by Nurse James

I was talking with a friend recently about my position as a Nurse at the Drop-In Centre.

The conversation went something like this.

Friend: Aren’t you scared to work there?

Me: No, should I be?

Friend: Yes! There are so many criminals and addicts there, so much crime happens there.

Me: Happens where?

Friend: At The Drop-In Centre.

Me: Inside the Drop-In Centre?

Friend: Well yeah, aren’t you scared for your safety and your life? So many drug dealers and prostitutes and criminals.

Me (again): Where, inside the Centre?

Friend: Yeah.

Me: Are we talking about the same place? The Drop-In Centre is filled with wonderful people. Lots of caring, compassionate and awesome people.

Friend: Yeah, but aren’t you afraid?

Me (again): Afraid of what? The People at the Centre are the same as you and I (I emphasized people for a reason). I work with, and am surrounded by people. Some make mistakes, some have addictions and some have money problems.

The person I was talking with did not seem to believe me. She was emphasizing the negative things of the city of Calgary in general. There are many negative things in this city, but the people who utilize the Drop-In Centre are not whom I would count as one of the negative things.

Calgary is a big city, with a big city comes big city crime. The ‘people’ at the Drop-In Centre are the same as you and I.

We have families, they have families. Some of them have money troubles; some of us have money issues. Some have problems with addictions. Whatever these addictions are, a lot of people in Calgary have them, some people just hide them better, we have family problems, and they have family problems.

Friend: Yeah, but aren’t you scared? (She could not let go of the fear that she thought I should be having while working inside the Drop-In Centre.)

Me: Scared of what, being hit by a plane falling out of the sky? Getting a bad grade on a homework assignment? Getting run over by a dump truck? No, I am not scared.

I went on to explain that I was more apprehensive about walking through on of the City’s shopping malls than I am being surrounded by a thousand people at Supper service in the Drop-In Centre. I am more concerned about being run off the road by some inattentive driver than I am of an incident while at work.

Most of the ‘people’ I emphasized again, are decent caring members of society, they are just having some problems right now.

How sad a state would this country be in if we refused to help a family member who was down on his luck? How sad a place this world would be to live in, if we refused to help a friend or a co-worker with clothing when they needed it? What a terrible position we would be in if we turned a brother or sister away who was fleeing an abusive relationship. What a horrible thing we would do if we turned our parents away when it is cold outside.

Bad things happen at the mall, road rage happens on Deerfoot Trail; fights happen in schoolyards, drunk drivers hurt people daily. Yet, somehow this all seems normal for some reason. So and so discovers that his or her child is smoking crack, or doing crystal meth. But, for some reason when I asked this friend and other friends if they were afraid of these things that happen in their homes, they said no. That this is going to happen in life.

We are all people; we all struggle with issues daily. Some issues are more prevalent than others. Some do not go away without help.

We are all people, we all have problems, whether we chose to admit it or not.

We are all people; we are all capable of love, and hate. We are all capable of doing despicable things, but we are also capable of doing great and wondrous things.

I choose to emphasize the positive, rather than the negative. I choose to do something. Instead of ignoring someone who has a problem, I choose to give them a hand however I can,

We are all people.

Written by Nurse James

The light and dark of saints and sinners

Written by Roger G., Night Supervisor, 4th Floor

One night in February I learned, when I began my shift at 9:00 pm on one of the transitional floors at the Drop In, that one of my guys was drunk. We try to maintain it as a sober floor, so I tracked "Bill" down and confirmed the assessment of his inebriation. I told him he had to leave for the night. and he asked me if he could get something from his locker but I knew in his state that could be a long and noisy operation, so I said I would send it down to him later. I asked him to get one of the 1st floor staff to contact me on the radio once things had settled down there, which happened about 9:40. I learned later in the night that the request I heard by radio had been edited; what "Bill" actually said was "Could you ask Retard Roger to send my stuff down now?"

Coming to the 4th floor under the influence that night - breaking the contract he'd agreed to - was a Strike 3 for "Bill" and I could have closed his bed over it, sending him down to long line-ups and daily uncertainty about where he would be sleeping at night. His two earlier strikes, however, were for different issues; leaving a mess on his bed when he left one morning, for instance. I decided to give him another chance, but first I wanted him to do some homework around his drinking and the recovery process. I gave him this assignment, basically a goal-setting exercise, the next morning when he came up to access his locker before leaving for the day.

A couple of nights later "Bill" brought to me his completed homework, and we had a long talk. We talked about what situations and interpersonal conflicts are troublesome for him. We talked about art, for which he has discovered a talent and a passion for in recent years. Finally, with his permission I led him through a simple imagination exercise I learned a few years ago. Tools like this can begin to clear away some of the baggage we carry around that may have far more to do with the opinions and judgement of others, than who we ourselves are at the core. He appreciated that, and told me afterwards that it was beautiful imagery. We left the office, and I went off to do a head count of the clients on the floor. My co-worker Art told me later that after leaving the office, "Bill" approached him and said "I feel like I've just had a conversation with Gandhi!"

So now I'm both Retard Roger, and Gandhi. Cool. This is one of the most important truths I'd like to help uncover for the guys on my floor, that we are all a mixture of light and dark, saint and sinner, good and bad. If they see that in me and begin to see it more in themselves, then I have served them well. An awareness of our own wholeness can loosen the bonds by which we are held by shame in smallness and isolation, increasing our capacity for acceptance of ourselves, and for honesty with ourselves and others.

"Bill" has been spending a lot of time drawing since then. He also told me last week that his favorite way to fall asleep lately has been to spend a few minutes with the images we walked through that night. He spent another night drunk on the first floor last week, though I didn't have to send him off the 4th floor in the evening. Maybe he's taking a step back, after the steps forward he's taken in the past month. That seems appropriate. Our journey through life is far more like spinning across a dance floor than along a railroad track; two steps forward and one step back works just fine.


Written by Roger G., Night Supervisor, 4th Floor

Baby it's cold outside

Written by: Nurse James, Drop-In staff

The recent cold snap in Calgary has left me with many emotions and some mixed feelings.

I have seen more than a few of our clients for frostbite, and some people that were not our clientele who were just looking to get in from the cold. I have learned a few things about the human spirit these past few days.

People are a lot more resilient than we are led to believe.

I talked with a client who had been outside in the cold shoveling snow for almost an hour. He only had on a thin pair of woolen mittens that looked like they were some years old. He came in to warm up his hands for a few hours, and then was going to go back out in the cold to make more money doing snow removal. I offered to get him some better gloves and he declined. His hands actually looked very frostbitten at first, and I thought he was in danger of losing at least one of his fingers. He was very humbled that I would take the time to offer my services, never mind make a few suggestions as to how he could stay safe. After about twenty minutes of me examining and talking with him, he chose to walk away, stating he would be all right. His fingers looked OK and I suggested he wait until the wind stop howling at least…he just gave me a sly grin and said he was fine.

I could not help feeling that I wanted to force him to stay indoors, but I have no authority to stop anyone in their right state of mind from doing what he or she wants.

This last week in total I have assessed and evaluated seven people for frostbite. Not too bad I guess when you have over a thousand people a day coming into our building.

Some were not so bad, two needing advanced medical attention. The not so bad ones just required them to stay indoors for the next day or so, else they would risk doing some real damage. They were the lucky ones, just needed a bit of warmth and maybe a warm shower and they would be OK, as long as they did not venture out in the Minus 32 temperature again.
With the wind chill we reached a staggering Minus 44 Celsius. Cold enough to freeze exposed skin in less than a minute. Scary stuff when you have a warm bed, a vehicle to let warm up before going to work. A cell phone in case your car breaks down. Terrifying when you don't.

Calgary's homeless citizens do not have these luxuries. Some have not even got what I would call safe clothing for this type of weather. [Ed. note: Our staff attempt to give clients appropriate clothing whenever we see someone venturing outside without warm apparel.] And we are only just beginning February. We have at least two more months of potential cold weather after February.

So what happens to our clients and those who seek us out? They continue to bottle pick in the alleys, or they continue to work the outside labor jobs that no one else is willing to do for the money that they are paid.

One man in particular touched my heart this past week. He was standing outside of a convenience store, he was opening and holding the door for the customers. When there was no-one going in or out, he was shoveling the walkway with a cheap plastic shovel. His pay? Occasionally a customer would give him the change that they received from their purchases. Nothing that special right? Except that it was minus 31. The wind was blowing 30km/h, the windchill in the minus 40's.

I did recognize him as one of the city's homeless citizens, but he was not one of our regular or steady clients. He was dressed in what I would call the absolute bare minimum for this type of weather. Thin gloves, holes in his jacket and thin pants.

Why did he impress me and at the same time depress me? His age was the major factor here. I felt so helpless and ashamed that I had a place to go home to. This guy standing out here freezing his fingers and toes for small tips was at the very least past 65 years old. No home, no family, no decent clothes and a cheap plastic shovel to make his tip money with.

Resilient, yet proud because he was earning his meager wage instead of begging.

I pray that we see no deaths from the cold, I pray that our clients do not lose fingers and toes this year, as so many have in the past. I pray that we find a better way for our seniors and addicted to find proper care and lodging.

I pray…

Written by: Nurse James, Drop-In staff

Les Marmitons: Good Eats. Great Treats. Gourmet Delights.

Four years ago, when the Calgary chapter of les Marmitons wanted to make a difference at the Calgary Drop-In & Rehab Centre, they chose the last Sunday in January as their preferred date to come and prepare a day’s worth of gourmet meals. Historically, it is considered to be the coldest day of the year, and this year was no exception. If not the coldest, January 27 was definitely one for the records.

While previous Sunday’s served up chilly weather, Sunday, January 27 delivered up bone-chilling frigid air spurred on by a biting north wind that cut through even the heaviest of clothing. It was a day to sit curled up in front of a fire sipping hot toddies and enjoying a bowl of tummy warming soup.

There was no roaring fire to warm-up clients at the Drop-In hearth, but the building was hot, and the kitchen a hotbed of feverish activity. Long before the crack of dawn, les Marmitons, a group of Calgary men from all walks of life who share a love of food and cooking, swept in amidst a flurry of pristine as snow white hats and aprons, and gleaming chopping knives and spinning whisks. Surrounded by giant mixing bowls and hundreds of pounds of potatoes, vegetables, butter, cream, garlic, salt, pepper and meats, they deftly conjured up a day of feasts fit for a king.

Economist, John Kenneth Galbraith said, “It is not necessary to advertise food to hungry people, fuel to cold people, or houses to the homeless.”

No one had to sell clients at the Drop-In to come and partake of Sunday’s meals. For most, eating at the Drop-In is a given. It is all they can afford. With the arrival of les Marmitons, however, eating became a gastronomic adventure that pleased the palates, warmed the hearts and filled bellies with exotic tastes that awakened imaginations to the possibilities of life beyond a homeless shelter.

“I used to go to fine restaurants. Before my addiction got the better of me,” said one client. “Tasting the food today reminds me of what is possible if I stay clean.”

There wasn’t an empty seat all day on the 2nd floor of the Drop-In, and, as another client said after sitting back from a satisfying lunch of Baked Chicken Breast with Mushroom Sauce, Tomato & Yello Pepper Wedges, Baby Vegetables and Rice Pilaf, “Why leave when there’s more of this to come? I appreciate the meals I get everyday, but this is amazing.”

Feeding 1200 to 1500 people is not for the faint of stomach. For Drop-In chef, Cindy, it is a daily undertaking. With a budget of seventy-five cents a person per meal, Cindy possesses an uncanny ability to juggle and organize, and a remarkable proficiency at some slight of hand that includes stretching a meal prepared for 800 to fill the bellies of two to three hundred more.

As Glenn Comm of les Marmitons pointed out, “We had a budget of $15,000 and 3 tons of food while Cindy has to try every day to feed the thousands with the equivalent of five loaves and two fishes. I am humbled by her dedication.”

On Sunday, Cindy opened up her kitchen to 40 amateur chefs and their families and friends. At times, there didn’t appear to be room to beat an egg, but nonetheless over the sixteen hours members of les Marmitons were on site, she kept the kitchen on track and organized amidst what appeared at times to be chaos. Between ensuring there were enough plates to feed the overflow, scrambling to clear tables, keep coffee flowing and meals cooking, Cindy worked with her team of volunteer chefs to ensure the day passed without any broken eggs thrown on the kitchen floor in frustration.

It was a day to remember and one clients and staff will continue to replay in their minds and on their tastebuds. As the applause at the end of each meal showed, les Marmitons served up a first-class day of culinary delight that pleased the palates of everyone in attendance.

Thank you to all the members of les Marmitons, their families and friends. You make a difference.

Thank you also to Coca-Cola for their donation of an extra 30 cases of pop – quenching the thirst is an integral part of feeding hungry souls.

Sysco Food Services of Calgary, Inc. also stepped up to the plate and upgraded the order for AA beef to AAA. Going a cut above gave clients' spirits a lift and made chewing easier for those for whom dental care is a luxury, not a way of life.

Also on the gratitude list is the Southern Alberta Institute of Technology (SAIT) who kindly made its John Ware Kitchen, one of the clubs two regular venues, available to club members to use for their Saturday preparations. Without their help, along with two instructors who participated in the Sunday event, les Marmitons would not have been able to deliver such superb culinary delights on Sunday.

Come Together

Written by: Heather M. Night Staff, Intox

We stood in a circle like a grieving family and took turns washing our bodies with the smoke of his soul. One at a time we did the washing motion, some of us as tears rolled down our cheeks. My eyes glanced around watching the pain in their eyes as they folded their fingers together and let their hands hang in front of their bodies. I had never smudged before. We watched the shell as the grass slowly burned down to nothing. We stood in silence as we watched his soul climb to heaven...

My last memory of him was shared with the circle: We had a stack of gifts from the Christmas Wish List waiting to be claimed in the back room. I felt like Santa delivering some of them to the clients I knew who came in that night. I understand now why that big man in red is so jolly. The way their faces lit up and their lips parted cheek to cheek made me thankful for the giving people of Calgary.

He came in earlier than usual that night and slept in row 4 close to his friends. He awoke at 2am to get a drink of water and I jumped up to get his Christmas gifts from the back room. I brought them over to him as he sat on his mat. He smiled and said "thank you".

I perched on the table at the entrance of Intox where I sit sometimes in the middle of the night and scan the sleeping clients. I crossed my legs and watched him open his gifts. He unwrapped a winter hat and slowly placed it on his head. Ever so carefully, he took a winter scarf out of the box and slowly wrapped it around his neck. He treasured each gift as he opened them with such precision. He looked so happy, so content, so beautiful. The whole room was still.

His breath always smelled of Listerine and he was always smiling and the drinking slowly broke down his body and he died from hemorrhaging and we all really miss him.

This morning it felt like my greatest gift working at the Drop-In is just to love them. It felt like enough...and maybe it is.

Written by: Heather M, Night Staff, Intox

It’s a Miracle

Last night I went to visit my mother in the hospital where she’s been since a fall on New Year’s Eve brought her down. As I walked along the corridor towards my mother's ward, I passed a small seating area where four people were sitting chatting, quite loudly, about the trouble with health care.

I haven't experienced the negative side of health care. My mother is receiving excellent care. The nurses are supportive. They're helpful and they continually go out of their way to ensure every patient feels comfortable, cared for and part of the going's on in the unit. It can't be easy. It's a lock down geriatric ward. Patients cannot leave without permission or someone in attendance. Some, as my mother says, 'are out of their minds' and difficult to work with. And yet, the staff remain professional, courteous and committed at all times.

I think it is a miracle that so many people want to work in health care. They are short-staffed, under-budgeted, under-resourced and under constant criticism from 'all of us'. In spite of that, they remain committed to delivering superior service to every person who walks through the door.

The same can be true of most aspects of any service provider in the public sector, such as the Calgary Drop-In & Rehab Centre. We continually struggle to manage increased demand with declining resources under the scrutiny of many who believe we are a contributor to the problem, not a solution. Yet, a review of our forty-seven year history demonstrates we have successfully helped thousands of individuals end homelessness, one person at a time.

Since our inception in 1961, we have operated under a mandate of continuous innovation to ensure the services we deliver meet the needs of our clients while addressing the many systemic issues that drive individuals into homelessness. Where once we offered only a bowl of soup and a meal, we evolved our services to include night shelter and then 24 hour service. We were the first agency in the city to incorporate transitional housing into its programs and with Bridgeland Manor, we offer the only community-based supported living facility in Canada for homeless seniors.

At the Drop-In, we recognize that homelessness is not just a physical condition. To ensure we help our clients find constructive solutions to the issues that need to be addressed for homelessness to end in their lives, we provide counseling, job-readiness training programs, legal assistance, and health care services in-house. Recently, in recognition of our constant priority of helping clients address their health, we hired a doctor to assist our in-house nurse with client care.

In discussing health care, we seldom talk about the stories of lives saved. We seldom hear about families who have remained intact because of the miraculous work of the individuals providing them service through whose knowledge, skill, and access to the right resources, have played an instrumental role in healing someone's life.

On New Year’s Day, when my eldest daughter's friend was critically injured by a car, the prognosis was not good. Today, he's out of ICU and is awaiting a bed outside the Trauma Unit where he has spent the past few days. He's walking on crutches, and as his girlfriend told my daughter yesterday, "He's going to be okay."

He has youth on his side to help his healing. He also has superb care, from the EMS team at the scene of the accident and the police sergeant who arrived within moments of the 9-1-1 call being placed, to the Emergency Room staff who fought so hard to save him and the ICU team who wouldn't give up. The care he received saved his life. The care he is receiving today will ensure he will continue to prosper in his life moving forward.

At the Drop-In, we seldom talk about the lives of those who have been helped by what we do. When you're in the business of saving lives, there is no time to spare counting accolades. There's also the issue of privacy. Sometimes, people don't want to reveal that their lives have been in such disarray. Sometimes, in their desire to leave the past behind, they don't give a forwarding address. And, sometimes, just as the health care system saves lives, what we do is simply our work.

In our work, miracles happen every day that only we see. "A miracle, " I recently read in a letter from a friend, "is not the suspension of natural law, but the operation of a higher law."In health care, in the care of homelessness, in the police service and public service sectors all over, miracles happen every day because we are committed to making a difference in other people's lives. We are committed to working to a higher law, a greater purpose that serves others.

Every day, someone walks away from homelessness into a situation that will pave the way to their living a self-sufficient and productive life again. Every day, someone gets into rehab. Someone gets the mental health care they need. And every day, thousands of lives are saved because shelters like ours are there to provide them a safe place to catch their breath, find their balance and reclaim their sense of direction.Every day, in hospitals throughout the city, more people are healed than those who cannot be healed. Most find the treatment, help and support they need to cure whatever ails them.

And every day, people chat, like the group I overheard in the hospital lobby, about what's not going right, about all that's wrong. They sit on their chairs and complain, and never get down to the business of making a difference. They miss the miracles and get lost in their criticisms.

The miracle is people continue to make a difference in spite of the complaints. It's not a miracle the health care system works. It's not a miracle public service works. It's hard work, commitment and a dedication to helping those in need by people convinced they will make a difference by staying focused on their purpose. They leave the rhetoric to those who would paint them with the brush of failure. They don’t have time for failure, they’re too busy getting the job done.

Life is a miracle. What I do with it is up to me. How I respond. How I react to circumstances, to other people, to trials and tribulations -- that's all my doing. When I look at my life as a miracle, I see miracles reflected all around me. So, for today, I shall walk through each moment celebrating the miracle of life around me. For today, I shall remember, I have a choice, to complain about life, or celebrate it. I can look for rainbows dancing in my wake or fault-lines waiting to trip me up.

Will you sit on your chair and complain, or will you get up and make a difference?

The Miracle of Christmas

Over 2000 years ago, a mother and father huddled together in a tiny stable and witnessed the birth of their child. The story of the Christ child’s birth has lived throughout the years. It touches all our hearts, Christian and non-Christian, believer and non-believer. No matter if we believe He came to earth to ‘save our souls from Satan’s power’, or if he was simply a powerful prophet, or just a great man whose story has survived the ages, His birth represents the power of love to create peace in the world and to restore our spirits as we celebrate the miracle of life.

Christmas is a time to celebrate. A time when we are connected in love to the miracle of one child’s birth long ago that reminds us, every year, that we too are miracles of birth inspired by the act of love that ignites our journey of life – in all its limitless possibilities.

Last night, as I wrapped presents and reflected on the meaning of Christmas, my spirit lifted. Sitting in my cozy living room, surrounded by twinkling lights and festive bows and crinkly wrapping paper, I felt connected to the millions of other parents, grandparents, sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, friends and lovers who wrapped and taped and lovingly placed gifts beneath a twinkling tree – a tree that we had decorated together with those we love as we shared in the joy of hanging each ornament, old and new, upon its fragrant boughs. As I wrapped and hummed a Christmas melody (and sipped a glass of cheer!), I felt the power of Christmas surround me. As I placed a pretty bow upon each gift I thought about the person to whom I was giving and my heart was filled with love. In that love lay the true meaning of Christmas. It wasn’t in the gifts, or the giving. It didn’t lay in colourful disarray piled beneath the tree, but in the love that filled my heart as I thought about my daughters, family and friends whom I love so dearly and who mean the world to me and who create such meaning in my world.

What a miracle Christmas is! 2000 years ago a child was born and from His birth has grown this night where the world stops, and takes a collective breath as we join in a song of love, faith, hope and joy. 2000 years ago a child’s birth gave birth to my evening last night. I sat alone and felt the power of that moment touch me. I took a deep enlivening breath and felt my heart expand in love. In that breath, I was connected by the circle of love into which I was born and which encircled my daughters as I embraced the miracle of their lives to change my life. For just as the Christchild was a gift of love for his parents, and ultimately the world, with my daughters' births I was given the greatest gift of all -- the awesome reminder that life is a miracle and each birth a precious gift of love; powerful, enduring, everlasting.

This Christmas, as I reflect upon my life, I am reminded, once again, of the power of love to heal, to make peace and to create miracles. And that is the true meaning of Christmas for me. A celebration of birth, of life, of love. A healing. An awakening. A miracle that wraps us all in a never-ending circle of love.

Here at the Drop-In, we see miracles every day. Small ones. Big ones. Infinitesimal ones. They're the miracle of an addict asking to go to rehab. A mentally disabled person getting the care they need or in the words of thanks from a senior getting a home of their own in Bridgeland Manor. They're in a stranger's kind words to a person lying on the street and someone else coming in to volunteer their time, or to drop off a donation. Miracles come in many forms at the Drop-In and with each one we are reminded -- we are not alone.

We can't do what we do alone. We can't do it without the help of the countless thousands who donate their time, energy and resources to make a difference in the lives of those who have nothing. Thank you.

Merry Christmas to each and everyone of you. May your spirits be light, your hearts full of love and may your world be filled with the limitless possibilities of the miracle of your life as you live each moment, filled with love, gratitude and joy.

Generosity of spirit on the street

People are amazing.

Yesterday we filmed a new TV commercial for the Drop-In, part of the series called, Little Things. The film crew, about 8 people, had all donated some of their time -- an amazing gift as it cut the cost of the already discounted budget by half!

When I arrived on the set on the 8th Avenue Mall at the entrance to the Telus Convention Centre, two gentlemen were talking in front of the large plate glass windows where the cameras were set up. I wondered if they were the actors, (they looked the part) or not -- they were the actors. We chatted for awhile and then the crew went inside.

The plan was to film through the plate glass windows looking out at the street and the two homeless characters outside. The camera would pull back to reveal two well dressed business man having a coffee at a stand-up bar.

The setting outside was surreal, and very believable. One man lay on a piece of cardboard on a grate on the sidewalk while the other sat on a bench behind him. From beneath the grate, two dress steamers blew steam up through the grate outside. A well provisioned shopping cart, complete with bags of bottles hanging off the sides sat at the edge of the grate while a park bench was lined up perpendicular to the windows behind which we watched the scene unfold.

At one point, a crew member went out to give one of the actors direction. As he was talking to the man lying on the ground a female passerby approached, her body posture combative.

"Is this man bothering you?" she asked the man lying on the ground, her gloved hand pointing at the crew member, her voice filled with concern.

The crew member looked at her, surprised. "No," he replied. "We're filming a commercial. He's an actor"

Embarrassed, the woman quickly apologized and left, leaving us all with a sense of awe that she cared enough to intervene, even when the odds were against her. We were all touched by her concern for the homeless actor on the ground.

Awhile later, the actors were alone outside as everyone was busy getting ready inside. Two police officers approached, prepared to move the actors from their resting place. The Director and I raced outside and moved the officers along before they ticketed our actors!

Another woman, carrying a big paper shopping bag, walked by and stopped to chat to the two 'homeless' actors.

"Here," she said to one of the actors as she pulled a big woolen sock out of her shopping bag.

"Merry Christmas" and she handed him the sock filled with toiletries and Christmas goodies which she had been intending to bring down to the Drop-In along with the other socks in her bag.

"Oh no. I can't," said the actor. "I'm just playing the role of a homeless guy for a commercial."

The woman didn't believe him. "Please, take it." She waved the sock towards him.

He gestured to the camera and crew hiding behind the glass.

"Oh!" She laughed. Waved at us and carried on her way.

Joe* is a client of the shelter. He wandered onto set later in the day. He stood and watched the action outside that wasn't really action as the filming had not yet started.

Eventually he came inside.

"Hi," I said as he stumbled towards me.

"Hey! I know you!" he exclaimed in friendly recognition.

We chatted for awhile, his words slurred. He's quick minded. Funny. Self-deprecating kind of humour. "I auditioned for a movie role," he said. "They told me I was too good looking."

"I can understand that," I replied with a smile.

"I could be in this movie," he said, motioning to the actors outside. "I could go out there an pick bottles. I'm the world's greatest bottle picker."

"They'll want you to be sober, Joe," I replied gently.

"Oh that." He scoffed, waving his 'to go' coffee mug in front of him. "Everyone always wants that." He paused and grinned at me. "I gotta drink to get through my day."

"Can I get you some more coffee?" I asked pointing at his mug.

"Aahhhh. I cannot lie to you," he said grinning sheepishly. "It's beer." And he tilted his head back, lifted the mug to his lips and took a long, satisfying swallow.

It was a day of contradictions. Another homeless woman stumbled onto set. Set her backpack on the ground and started to chat amiably with the actors. We watched from behind the glass. They obviously didn't tell her what they were doing there. From her jacket pocket she hauled out a pack of cigarettes and offered them both a smoke.

The generosity of someone who has nothing.

I filled a coffee cup, grabbed a couple of sugar and creams and took it out to her. "Would you like a coffee?" I asked.

She looked at me, nodded her head up and down, her body moving in constant jerky bobs. "Nice," she said. "Nobody gets left behind."

She took the coffee, sweetened it with the sugars, picked up her pack and continued on her way.

The actors continued to hold their positions. People continued to walk by, most trying to avoid looking at the poor derelicts lying on the ground.

A school group wandered past, a mother hastily grabbing her son, tucking him under her arm as she pulled him closer to the side of the building so that they could pass as far away from the scene as possible.

A well-dressed, affluent looking business man walked by. He glanced furtively at the scene of the two men, one lying on the grate, the other sitting on the bench smoking. His face was a study of disgust.

Some walked by, dropped a coin and continued on their way before anyone could object. Others hurried by without looking.

Contradictions. Generosity of spirit. Coldness of heart.

It was all part of the parade of life that unfolded yesterday on the street where so many people live.

Thank you to Trigger Communications & Design Ltd. and Joe Media -- you guys are awesome!

There aughta' be a law!

Written by: Nurse James, Staff

I am on the second floor dinning hall at supper time. It is a Sunday night, and it is busy.

Even though I am the Nurse for the Drop-In Centre, I frequently come out of my office and help the staff on the second floor, especially around supper time. I get to hang out with the clients, which gives me a chance to know them a bit better and to work with the staff.

Tonight it pays off to know the clients by name and mannerisms.

I spot a client about ten meters from where I am. I am talking with another client about flu shots, and I observe a female client with an unsteady and unbalanced gait. Now I know that working where I do, and at night, this certainly is not an unusual or isolated occurrence. At any give time we have many inebriates and clients that are in a drug induced state. But like I said, knowing this client and seeing her walk the way she was walking was unusual to me.

I cautiously approach her and ask if she is OK. I say cautiously because I know that she is not a drinker nor a heavy drug user and I do not want to seem accusatory in any way.

She has a black eye, and she has several bruises and areas on her forehead that are swollen. Conversing with her for less than two minutes I determine that she has suffered a head injury.

She tells me that she was assaulted leaving the train platform yesterday. She tells me that she was knocked unconscious and that she woke up an undetermined amount of time later, confused, disoriented. A little bit later, she woke up some more and realizes that three hours have passed and that she is not at the train station any more, she is downtown somewhere.

She calls her boyfriend on the phone and he comes to find her and takes her to a Medical Clinic not far away.

She does not have an Alberta Health Care Card.

At the Clinic the Nurses and the Doctors tell her that she is not severely hurt. Send her on her way without checking to see if she needs more of an assessment.

They tell her to return when she has insurance.

As I am talking with her I can see that her left pupil is greater in diameter than her right pupil. The pupil size troubles me, as I know that this is a sign of an internal head injury.

She is having trouble speaking and remembering things, this is another indication she has a head injury. She cannot remember where she was or what she did for three hours. These are all indicators that she has a head injury and that something is wrong.

I advise her that she needs a Doctor and she tells me no, she already tried that route.

I talk with her a little more, and I convince her to see a Doctor that I know from CUPS. She agrees.

The Doctor at CUPS looks at her and calls CUPS transport to have a CAT SCAN and MRI done on her.

She goes to the Peter Lougheed Hospital.

She has a concussion and bruised retina.

The neurologist tells her it is a good thing that she came to see them. Her concussion is mild and will pass within a week or so, but the eye needs to be assessed more thoroughly.

She returns to see me a day later and thanks me for 'strongly advising her' to see a Doctor. As she tells me what the Hospital found on the CAT SCAN, she can see I am not happy at all. She asks if I am upset.

Upset?

No, I am not upset. Upset is what you get when you spill your coffee in your lap. Upset is what you get when you lock your keys in your car. I tell her I am more than upset.

I am furious. I am extremely disappointed that something like this can happen in our city.

Calgary is one of the most diverse, wealthy cities in North America; maybe the world. And STILL this happens? Someone with no fixed address and poor is told by some Medical Professional that they will not see her and treat her injuries because she has no insurance?

I am more than upset. This should not happen in this day and age. With all of our vast knowledge and our claims to be civilized this person, this human being is slighted and told to come back when she has insurance.

There outta be a law...oh wait a minute. There is a law. Hospitals and Clinics cannot refuse to see a person based on income or insurance status. But STILL it happens. It happens a lot more than I would like to think it does.

I am also happy. Happy that she is alright, and that with proper ongoing treatment, maybe she will have normal vision in her left eye.

Maybe.

Written and submitted by: Nurse James, Calgary Drop-In & Rehab Centre

DISCLAIMER: The articles posted on this blog are the personal views and commentary of the individual writers.

Song of Joy

Last Thursday night, we had graduation at the Dale Carnegie course here at the Drop-In. In a gesture of generosity and kindness, John and Faye Fisher, who own the franchise, provided the course as their charitable contribution. They wanted to do something to make a difference and improve the lives of those who give so much every day at the Drop-In.

It was a beautiful event, filled with heart-filled stories of people's lives becoming more than ever imagined possible. Of hearts learning the words to songs they've yearned to sing. Of eyes opening wide to the beauty within. Of minds listening to the unique voice behind the speaker.

The assignment for last night was to talk for two minutes about a specific time during the training where one of Dale Carnegie's principles helped each of us do something differently. And then, to spend a minute talking about six months from now as if six months from now was reality.

For me, I talked about the form I had to fill in when registering for the course. One of the questions asked what was my vision for my life? The first lesson in the Dale Carnegie course focuses on building a foundation for success -- thus, it's important to write down dreams and goals and to identify at least one thing I can do differently to be successful -- and then make a plan to do it.

Now, I have always resisted dreaming. Always resisted setting goals. Not that I haven't had any, but my fear of articulating them kept me from actually putting them to paper and then taking the necessary steps to move towards them. Too many voices from childhood clamoured to overrun my dreams with their insistence that I was stupid, or dumb, or simply wrong for dreaming. My fear kept me mired in building sandcastles in the air because I was terrified that anything I did to make my dreams concrete would be washed away beneath the laughter of others. I was afraid of falling and thus, told myself I couldn't fly.

Last night, I stood up in front of the group and claimed my dreams. I stepped into the centre of my light, and cast away my fear of standing in the darkness of my dreams vanishing into thin air because I was afraid of living them. Last night, I spoke of my dreams and claimed my right to create them as the centre piece of my very own wild and precious life.

Last Thursday night, I was privileged to share in my classmates and co-workers doing the same.

What a powerful, moving and inspiring event. To witness wings unfold. To watch in awe as they expanded into the delicate and vibrant beauty of their owner's light shining for all to see. To sit humbled in the glow of the greatness and the magnificence of the hearts beating around me to the beautiful sound of their dreams awakening and their unique voices singing a song of love and joy.

It was magnificent.

For these past three months I have been privileged to hear the stories and to see into the hearts of people who give themselves everyday to the care of those who have lost their voices. Like our clients at the Drop-In, many of us never knew how beautiful our voices were and are. For some, because somewhere in the past someone told them they sang off-key, or perhaps because someone silenced their voices through fear and intimidation and abuse, their voices had never been heard.

Last night, I heard voices in song so pure my tears flowed in awe. My heart beat a wild tattoo of joy.

There is nothing more beautiful and powerful than the human spirit opening itself up to love. Nothing more inspiring than passionate voices rising above the cacophony of the past and singing out in joy for the freedom to be all that they are meant to be.

I was in awe last Thursday night. These are my co-workers. My friends. These are people I admire. I care for. People who inspire me. Who challenge me. They show me how to see and hear the humanity in the people we serve and who, through their example, teach me the meaning of being a magnificent human being filled with gratitude, humility and love.

Thank you to John and Faye, and to the amazing people who assisted in the course -- Matthew, Aaron, Evan, Michael and Patty. Your commitment, dedication and generosity of spirit have created a new world of opportunity for all of us who were privledged to be guided by you through the course of the 12 week program. The difference you have made is seen in the enthusiam and passion we bring to the job every day -- and the fact we can 'take them there' without hesitation! Thank you.