The blue wagon goes missing

Cold weather is arriving this week, colder than we've had yet this fall. And when you're homeless and trying to survive in the outdoors, temperatures below zero are always an issue; warm clothing a must.

A replacement wagon?

Fortunately for Sanctuary of Peace and our Tuesday Table Time ministry, we've been receiving a lot of good winterwear, snacks, handwarmers, and toiletries "survival kits" from friends who know about our street ministry. Every week, we wait outside Bissell Centre East to meet those who live on the streets or in shelters located nearby. We offer them basic necessities, often things donated to us, that folks can't afford to purchase for themselves.

A few years ago, a friend donated a blue canvas collapsible wagon that we've used to transport a lot of Table Time supplies. We've guarded it carefully because we know so many of our folks would love to have it for their own use. We've often heard, "Is that wagon up for grabs?"

and received a lot of good-natured teasing when we said, "No, we need it or we can't set up our table next week."

Even so, the wagon suddenly vanished. We realized it was missing on Sunday because we usually fill it with left over cardboard boxes after we pass out the 200+ lunch bags supplied by our supporting communities. Its absence was felt again today because we had more than the usual Table Time supplies to offer folks ahead of this coming cold snap. We did a big search for our missing wagon, with staff at the Bissell Centre helping as well. Pastor Quinn also checked with the Provincial Navigation Centre across the street. 

No luck.

The wagon was very much missed for the hour and a half that we managed to give away piles and bins of good warm clothing, snacks, toiletries and gloves (we never have enough gloves for everybody). I and others made extra trips to and from our office, juggling boxes in our arms as we tried to navigate door handles. Good thing I did my Tai chi this morning to warm up those muscles!

Unless our wagon turns up this week, which we highly doubt, we're on the lookout for a new one, and/or anyone who might like to contribute toward it.

I've priced them out, and a good collapsible wagon (we don't have a lot of storage space) costs more than $100, more like $150. It has to have a heavy-duty metal frame, with good wheels that can roll down the corrugated metal ramp from our office to the street. Cheaper wagons with tiny wheels or a box that isn't sturdy enough to carry our bins and boxes just won't cut it.

If you're looking for a way to support folks living rough in the heart of the city, cash donations to Inner City Pastoral Ministry (our old name) will help us to buy a new wagon -- or, if you prefer, gloves, snacks and other winter items that people really need right now. Click here for a link to our website's donation page. E-transfers can be sent directly to icpmgiving @gmail.com, and tax receipts will be issued by our board treasurer.

Any amount helps. Our arms and backs will be much happier when we can use another wagon, and our friends on the street are always happy to receive Table Time assistance, whatever form it takes.

Relentless

Tuesday is "table time." Pastor Quinn and I set up our table on the corner near the Bissell Centre to hand out clothing and winter boots. Folks came by and politely took what they needed, and loaded up on Halloween candies and bananas that were possibly frozen (it was -14 and the wind was cold; the bananas had no chance).

And the people didn't have much of a chance either. Eight police officers and a group of cheerful city workers in hazmat suits came to throw the tarps and belongings of people huddled against the building into a waiting garbage truck. I can't imagine how those workers can do what they do every day of the week. I almost cried.

Police and clean up crews are paid outrageous amounts of money -- this is what our tax dollars get us, when they should be used for building supportive, non-market housing and offering the necessary physical and mental health care to the downtown community. My heart breaks every time our homeless folks are relentlessly forced to march on as if they're only as valuable as their belongings being tossed into that garbage truck...

But I helped three people into warm winter coats this morning, shared chocolate bars, and gave away eight pairs of boots. 

Small comfort.

Please, write your politicians. Housing is a human right. If we were all as relentless in demanding housing as Police and clean up crews are forced to be in clearing encampments, there wouldn't be a housing issue.

Meeting Ephthemia

Photo by Alfred Schrock on Unsplash

One of the first people who came to visit during Inner City Pastoral Ministry "table time" yesterday on the corner near Bissell Centre West was a small elder with shiny black hair, a huge smile (in spite of very few teeth), and the tendency to shout the odd word to emphasize it. 

She picked up a few snacks ("I like them HICKORY STICKS!"), thanked us, and moved on to collect hugs from a couple of Bissell Centre staff members that she obviously recognized, and they her. She stood in the middle of the sidewalk, arms outstretched, just waiting to be embraced, and she was not disappointed. Their encounter made me smile.

Pastor Quinn and I stood at our little table of shareable items for almost an hour,  having our own encounters with people who came for snacks, toiletries, dry socks and underwear (it had rained at least an inch overnight, probably more). 

I love table time for the interactions with the locals. One guy made me laugh when he said, "I'm from Newfoundland, so give me the tuna and crackers kit, not that chicken salad and crackers sh*t." Inevitably, there are jokes and stories exchanged at our table. Some of the stories are hard to listen to, but the tellers of those stories appreciate that we listen and sometimes pray for them -- if they request it. Inner City Pastoral Ministry is a ministry of presence, of just being with folks. We can't solve their problems for them, but we can listen.

After we had given everything away to people who had come to our table from nearby encampments and other dwellings, Quinn headed inside to see if any of our regular community members were taking advantage of the Bissell's services, as he usually does. I broke down cardboard boxes and folded up our portable table, watching for Quinn's return, because he's my ride home. He was gone longer than usual, but eventually I spotted him further down the sidewalk, chatting with the little elder with shiny black hair and very few teeth at the small garbage bin across from the entrance.

When I arrived, Quinn was using the lid of the bin as a table for a tape dispenser, and carefully taping the arm back onto the elder's glasses. She had a small bleeding abrasion on the side of her nose where the nose piece of her broken glasses had cut into her skin, and a lot to say about it. "That STUPID woman had to hit me for NO GOOD REASON!" she said. "I'm sixty-six and that TWENTY-SOMETHING B**CH thought she'd take a piece of me. COWARD. Now she's HIDING inside."

Quinn confirmed that he'd seen a younger woman "clock" the older one, and that he'd gone inside to ask the Bissell's nurse for help outside (better to keep the two parties apart), but the nurse was already swamped by people needing attention. So I waited with the little woman while Quinn went back in to see what he might do for the elder first aid-wise.

I asked her name. "I'm Effie," she told me. 

"But there's more to your name than that, I'll bet," I said. "What is Effie short for?"

"My full name is Ephthemia. It's Greek. Do you know what it means?"

"Greek!" I exclaimed. "It's a beautiful name. But how did you get a Greek name?" 

"My dad knew a Greek guy," she said. "Ephthemia means Beautiful Butterfly. That's me. I'm a beautiful butterfly."

"You definitely are," I agreed, and pointed to her t-shirt, which bore the image of a woman with butterflies in her hair. Delighted that I'd noticed, Ephthemia wrapped me in a hug. I asked where she lived, and she told me she had a place in a nearby seniors' affordable housing building.

Quinn returned wearing medical gloves, carrying gauze and a little vial of saline solution. He asked Effie's name and got the same story I did, but without the hug. He carefully swabbed the cut on her nose and told her to stay away from the young woman who had hit her and suggested that she go see the nurse anyway to get checked for concussion.

Effie said, "I'm not afraid of HER! I've gotten worse beatings from a KITTEN." She gave me another hug, I told her to take care, and Quinn and I headed back to the car.

"Did you see what actually happened?" he asked me.

"No, I was folding up."

"I saw the girl hit her, hard, but I'm suspecting Effie smacked the girl's uncle on the head first, or maybe poked her as she walked by. I guess we'll never know."

"With a name like Ephthemia, she's certainly one of a kind," I said. "I wonder if it means what she says it does. I've never heard it before." 

When I arrived home, I looked up Ephthemia/Efthimia, and it actually translates as "well-spoken." But if "beautiful butterfly" suits her self-image better, I definitely won't argue. 

Effie will have a shiner today, but hopefully it won't matter too much because Ephthemia knows she is a beautiful butterfly. In my books, and in God's sight, she is.