Displaced

The courtyard outside the North York Civic Centre is busy. People sit around the picnic tables scattered under the trees or on the metal benches that line the fountain in the middle of the square. Unlike the suburb where I spent the past three years, or the quiet street where I grew up, Yonge and Shepherd is a constant swarm of activity and noise and traffic. The relentless nature of it is overwhelming.

Today, however, it does not bother me. I am sitting on one of the benches, sipping my morning coffee. It is my first day off in a week. I have done my best to keep busy, but the truth is, I like my job. Working with special needs students -- be it in a group home or residence or camp -- is always rewarding. My clients remind me that it is in the simple things where we find the greatest portions of joy. And while I'm with them, for a while at least, I don't have to think about home.

But today I am not working. And I am home.

If only I knew what that meant.

I can tell you my physical address, can take you there and point to the room where I sleep. But I might as well be pointing to a bed on a stage. My condo represents my house. But it isn't my home.

A small brown and white puppy bounces in behind its owner, tail wagging, excited by its morning walk. His owner, a tiny woman in her mid-thirties, leans down to rub its face before continuing. I smile as the puppy twists the leash around her legs in excitement, and it is some time before the owner untangles them. My gaze drifts. Beyond the puppy, a ripped Wendy's wrapper twists and swirls in the wind.

I am still not sure how I got here. All displacement is hard, and all of us will deal with it a few times in our lives. Moving. Changing jobs. Deaths in our family. It is part of being human to see change and see it suddenly, so much so that the movement of "there to here" feels like a chasm.

In my case, the chasm is not only moving to a new location, but doing so without the one I thought was my life partner. And it is that part with which I struggle on a daily basis. The one that deals with home.

Before I moved here, the building never mattered. Neither did the address.

She was my home.

The wrapper flutters in the wind and sticks against the side of a garbage can. I stare at it for a while, hoping it will shake itself loose.

I take a deep breath and slowly get to my feet. An elderly woman walking a medium sized Pointer stops and lets me pet him.

Time is a wonderful healer, but it moves slow for me these days. I try not to think about her and what she's doing or what we could be doing together. I try not to think about home.

Sometimes I am successful.

And yet, I am lucky. I have friends who take the time to wade through this painful transition, friends who are helping me face the chasm behind me and pushing towards the future. Not everyone has this. I think of the homeless man that I spoke with the other night. He claimed to be a professor from Columbia. He spoke of how much he missed his family. I have no idea if what he was saying was true, but it was clear that he was lonely. Clear that he had no house. Clear he had no home.

What I face, and what so many of us face, is not unusual. It is painful and awful and isolating, but it is normative. At some point in our lives, we will all feel this loss. I have worked with many children who grew up without a home. Too many. And so while my days are long and filled with questions, I remind myself that I have been given insight into the hurt of others, an insight I do not take lightly.

I slowly head back to my building. I notice a man sitting alone on one of the benches. His pants are pulled up high, his face unshaven. He is muttering to himself. He rises suddenly and sits again, still muttering. It looks like he hasn't showered in some time.

Where is his home? Who takes care of him? Is he alone?

I walk the final two blocks to my building. A torn piece of newspaper swirls in front of me before sticking against the window of the convenience store. I think about the puppy, so excited at his new world. And I think about the garbage, abandoned and left to the wind.

I put the torn newspaper in the garbage bin.

Everything has a place.

Missing the Miracle - Part I

A cool breeze rippled the waters of the pool, as David listened to the sounds of the morning. The clatter of hooves from some merchants bringing in their wares, the moaning of the other beggars, the heated discussions of some priests passing by. He turned his face towards the sun, enjoying the ambience of light that for a time seemed to conquer the blackness. He'd often wondered what it'd be like to see the world, to connect sounds to pictures, but he'd been blind his whole life. When he was younger, he'd asked that question to everyone who would listen, and they had all told him the same thing. These days, he no longer wondered why he was blind. He knew the answer to that. He only hoped that God would accept him anyway. He wished there was a way for him to atone for his sin, but a blind beggar was not welcome at the Temple. David sighed and held out his bowl. At least the breeze was cool this morning.

Change jingled into his bowl.

"Thank you, sir." He said, the early morning gift unexpected.

The Pool of Siloam was not a great place to beg, but there were stories of healing that stretched back through the years, and David had decided that he had nothing to lose. At least there was the scent of hope in amongst his friends. Unlike the others, he had nothing that could be healed, since he had been born deformed, but even the thought of witnessing a miracle gave him hope.

The sound of another early morning group echoed across the pool. David held up his bowl, hopeful for another gift.

"We'll need to get lunch ready a little sooner today, John. How is Philip's mother?"

"She's good, Rabbi. Just lonely."

"When you lose a loved one, it's to be expected." The Rabbi said. "Let's have dinner with her tomorrow. Tell Philip."

"He'll like that, Rabbi."

David listened to the Rabbi's voice, surprised by the gentleness in it. David had never heard this Rabbi before. He sounded young. Religious leaders occasionally talked around the pool, but mostly in argument about points in the Law. David waited for the Rabbi to pass by, but feet scuffed to a halt in front of him. The bowl trembled in David's hands at the thought that a Rabbi, even a young one, had noticed him.

The rest of the group followed in behind the Rabbi in front of David, blocking the sun. David was encompassed in blackness.

"This beggar was born blind, so who sinned, Rabbi? Him, or his parents?"

"Bah. You haven't been listening, John. You sound like the other Pharisees, more concerned with the law than with the people. What makes you assume he is a sinner?"

"Well, he's blind. Clearly, that is not a blessing, so God must be angry with him for some reason. Or his parents, I guess. It says in Ezekiel-"

David felt a light touch on his knee.

"What is your name, son?" The Rabbi asked him.

David swallowed hard, and his voice coughed out in the form of a whisper.

"David, sir."

"I have a cousin named David." He paused. "Do you want to see, David?"

"Yes, sir. Although, I, um, don't know how... yes, sir."

The ground crinkled in front of him and suddenly he felt a cool paste being applied over his eyes. No matter what happens, David thought, this has been the greatest day of my life.

"You see, John." The Rabbi said. "This man was not born in sin; the purpose of his blindness was to reveal God's glory. We have a tendency to look at people who are different, people outside our purview, and judge them. We do it because we do not understand, because it is safe. When we do that, though, we miss the miracle of who God is and why we are here." The Rabbi paused, and David could feel the breath on his face. "Go and wash in the Pool."

With that, the Rabbi stood and left. David could hear him talking to his disciples as they walked away. Slowly he clambered to his feet. He touched the mud on his eyes. There was so much going through his mind he didn't know what to think. The mud represented his sin. Or something like that. He was sure of it. Somehow, this Rabbi was cleansing him. What a day this would be! He would tell the others at the fire tonight. They would know more about this Rabbi.
He bent over the pool, and slowly washed the mud from his eyes. He took his time, enjoying the way the water trickled over his face. Thank you, God, he thought. I am so sorry for my anger. Thank you for this great day. He lavished the water over his face a final time and wiped away the last fragments of the mud.

As he stepped away from the pool his eyelids fluttered and then the strangest thing happened. He began to see pictures, or what looked like pictures. The sounds were the same, but suddenly his world was bathed in light and colour. He shut his eyes, and opened them again. They were still there! He took two steps and then stumbled to the ground, unable to navigate this new world.

"I can see! I can see!" He said suddenly.

"Yeah, and you can't walk, you drunk!" It was Benjamin, his old friend and fellow beggar.

With careful strides, David walked over, noticed the scars on his friend's hands and back, and stopped short. Benjamin looked up at him.

"Have a seat, David, but don't act so drunk! No one gives to the drunken beggar, and you should know better."

David merely looked at his scarred friend.

"Your scars, Benjamin. I never knew. Do they hurt-"

His friend's eyes widened and he leapt to his feet. "You can see? You can see!"

He hugged David hard and kissed his face. Tears streamed down his face.

"Surely God has been good to us this day!" He hugged David again and the two wept together for what seemed a long time. Others around the pool heard the shouts and soon enough the small community of beggars and sick were in an uproar. For the first time in his life, David was able to see his friends, and it was shocking. Some had lost limbs to diseases. Some had pockmarked faces. Some, like Benjamin, had been beaten so many times in the past their bodies were a mass of scars. And yet, here they were, united in their joy and hope for their friend, who to them had suffered the greatest affliction of them all. Blind from birth. Sinner from birth. Today, that had changed, and David made his way carefully around the pool -- it was still hard to walk and look at things -- exchanging hugs and kisses.

Benjamin's face was still red from the tears by the time David made his way back.

"What do I do?" he asked Benjamin.

"You must show yourself to the priests. You have been redeemed, David." The older man took a deep breath. "We will miss you."

"What do you mean, miss me? I'll still be here."

Benjamin smiled and propped up David's shoulders.

"No you won't. No more begging for you. You can work now, perhaps as soon as this week. You must become a part of the community again."

"But this is my community-"

"No!" Benjamin said fiercely, before softening his voice. "You give us hope by not being here. Your absence will remind us every day that God still cares for us. If you stay, it will be as if it never happened." He paused. "I love you, brother."

David nodded and hugged his friend again. He waved at the others, suddenly sad, and slowly headed towards the Temple.
*****

Thankful

I could hear the trees crackling in the cold as I headed out to start my car. The wind was quiet, but the cold was so intense it imposed a quiet stillness upon the neighbourhood, as if willing it to silence. It'd been a long week: an overlong stay from cold that had racked my throat and sapped my energy along with a difficult week at work. None of these mattered however, as I started my car and scraped the ice from the windshield. The sun beat down from a clear sky, bringing light but little warmth.

There were days I wondered why I bothered at all. Days when my life seemed little more than a treadmill upon which I ran with no destination or purpose. Today however, I disdained to entertain those ideas. As easy as it was to focus on the struggle of life, the struggle to making ends meet and my relationships work, more rewarding was the concentrated effort on seeing what could be. What one had and what might be in the future.

This past summer I'd had the great fortune to meet the woman of my dreams, a woman who loved me for who I was, in all my strengths and weaknesses. Unexpected and unprecedented, it'd taken me a while to accept it for what it was... a gift from God. Still, a part of me scoffed at the idea of an ideal relationship. Part of me brought back the memories of countless "false starts", of relationships that hadn't worked. Of relationships that had caused nothing but pain. Some days it was hard to hold on to what I had in the face of these painful memories.


I let the car warm for ten minutes before climbing in. The warmth covered me, and for a moment, I rested in its embrace before shifting gears and heading out. Memories were powerful things. Most of us lived, whether we knew it or not, by the force of our experiences. Unfortunately, it was these very 'lessons' that worked to keep us from experiencing so many good things in life.

As a teacher, Experience is narrow minded, and too often we give it the power to influence our future. Experience most often teaches from the basis of fear. It does not allow for exception or the exceptional. And if something happens that does not fit into the pattern of our life, the typical response is to shut it down. Better the devil we know... or so the saying goes.

For many years, this was true for me. It was easy to look at my life or at the people around me as their lives became absorbed by tragedy or apathy or both, and wonder why I even bothered pursuing my dreams. Everyone struggled. Why did I think that an exceptional life was possible for me? Of course, I never really thought about what "the exceptional life" looked like, only that I was certainly not living it. And that is where experience often fails us. While the emotional memories and warning signs can be powerful, they are often vague and undefined. After a while, we no longer think about what life could be, only that it is a disappointment. The real tragedy is that we often don't even know why.


The highway was clean, the snow piled lightly on the shoulder as I whipped along, staring ahead and at the empty, snow covered fields to each side. Stouffville was a small town about ten miles north from where I lived. Bethany had an important exam the next day. I was heading out to give her a study break, and a bit of brain food. (i.e. chocolate) Twenty minutes later I pulled onto Stouffville road, a hilly, country road that was often difficult to drive in the rough Canadian winter. It was clear today however, and I zipped along, anxious to see my girl.

It'd been a long time since I'd felt this way about someone. In fact, I was sure I'd never felt this way about anyone. Just the thought of seeing her, of holding her close, of laughing with her, was enough to bring a smile to my face. Every time I thought about her, about what she meant, I could feel my emotions quiver...

I passed a gas station and debated pulling over to get some snacks before deciding to wait until I got into town. Just past the gas station on the right hand side was an old cemetery. I slowed, glancing at the pale grave stones partially covered by snow, wondering, as I always did, about the lives of the people now gone. Had they reached for the stars? Had they lived as they wanted to live? Had they experienced the fullness of life?

I have always thought it amazing when to hear someone speak positively about life. Humanity is not set for 'positive thinking' and life deals more blows then rewards. And worse, in our consumer culture, we are not taught to be happy, but to be unhappy. Despite being the richest continent on the planet, we are taught from the time we are children that we are in need. Of something. Of everything. A new TV. A new car. A new house. New furniture or lawn equipment or computer stuff. New make up or clothes or power tools. Our culture is set against gratitude, because it is need that sells, not contentment. And of all the things that make our lives full, perhaps it is gratitude... simple thankfulness... that is most important.

I hear it all the time. This warning not to look at the world through rose colored glasses. True enough, if you're looking at those around you. When it comes to our vision of the world, we must teach ourselves to see the need in others and the blessings in our own lives. This is the proper view of the world, I think. The Kingdom idea that Jesus had in mind. Thankfulness is important because it is based on what is already present, and unlike experience, is detailed and sure.

Thank you, Lord, for my family.
Thank you, Lord, for my car.
Thank you, Lord, for my job and a place to live.
Thank you, Lord, for my loving wife, my partner in this crazy world.

Bitterness arises because too often we allow our culture tell us what we don't have, we allow it to muddle our understanding between need and want, and we allow experience to teach us that an exceptional life is impossible.


I waited for the light to turn green, smiling in anticipation of seeing my girl. I glanced at the bag of chocolate on my front seat. It would probably take her two months to go through it, I thought, unable to stop grinning. I pulled in the driveway a minute later, only to hear Micah, their family dog, go crazy in the hallway.

"Heya pal!"

The half Lab rubbed against my legs, wagging his tail and pushing his grey whiskered face into my neck. Bethany's parents laughed as I finally made my way into the hallway. I chatted with them for a while, enjoying it as I always do, until finally she came down. My heart beat a little faster as I kissed her and held her tight. I wasn't sure there were any words that could accurately convey my emotions at that moment, save one: exceptional...


It's easy to look at life and see what's missing. It's easy because it is exactly what our culture teaches us to do. Much harder is the practice of looking at our life and being thankful for what we do have. My prayer this week, as we continue in the Christmas season, is that not only will we realize how much we have, but how much we can give. Not only with gifts, but with smiles as well. With a love that only God can give. And perhaps the greatest gift of all, the echo of a life filled with thankfulness.

-Steve