Valentine’s Day 2008

Valentine’s week in Toronto this year set record numbers for snowfall and sub-zero temperatures. A great metaphor for what’s known to be the history of Valentine’s Day – which is really the anniversary celebration of cold-hearted murder set against the warmth of love. In Rome, A.D. 240, Emperor Claudius had the Bishop Valentine brutally executed for his Christian faith, and for secretly marrying lovers – because the emperor was convinced that “love” weakened men he needed as soldiers. While in prison, the one who would be sainted two centuries later fell in love with the jailor’s daughter. His farewell to her came in the form of a note signed, “From your Valentine.” Thus, Valentine’s Day is best understood as a memorial to honour warm hearts beating in the face of the coldest of realities.

Deza won’t tell me her age. (But I would guess 25 or so?) Won’t tell me where she’s from. Won’t tell me where she goes when she’s absent from the street for days, weeks, even months at a time. Still, I have known her on-and-off for at least 3 years. 3 years that have aged her no less than the equivalent of 10. But despite her secret existence of survival, she seems mildly amused by my redundant presence and failing persistence. On Monday, I offered to help dig out her lost belongings covered beneath the 25 cm snowfall that had landed while she slept, somewhere beneath the Jarvis onramp. But, “no thanks.” On Tuesday, I brought her hot chocolate and a bagel and begged her to let me walk her to a shelter, submitting to the -25 degree wind chill. But, “no thanks.” And on Wednesday, I brought her extra socks and hand warmers. And again, with raised eyebrows and a polite nod, “no thanks.” Tell-tale signs of abuses at the hands of men who had posed kindly in her past, and ended up tearing at her soul. 

So I walked on. A 30 minute meeting at a donut shop, a 20 minute conversation with a frostbitten teenager, and a 10 minute chat with two drunk seniors on a heating vent, and I had circled back to Deza’s corner for the day.

I looked at Deza, smiled and sighed, “I know, I know, no thanks.” And she smiled back. But then, straying very far from the norm, she called out, “Hey, hey…”

My heart leaped. She was always a responder. And in that, always kind and courteous. But distant at best. Never, in any way was she an initiator. Perhaps this was a new day though – I thought, I hoped, I prayed.

“Yes, yes, what is it?” I all but leapt at her.

She drew her shoulders back as if to say – “too close.” So, indeed, I stepped back instantly and repeated myself in softer tones, “Yes, yes, what is it?”

Her hands fidgeted beneath her worn sleeping bag and then one reached towards me. In her grey mitten was a shred of paper. I reached out and took it slowly between my fingers.

Much more than a simple note, it was a Valentine. Not a glossy store-bought one. Not a romantic poem or sonnet. No ribbons, bows, or tinfoil glue-ons. Something much, much grander than those could ever be.

Deza had hand-torn the red back of a cigarette pack into the shape of a heart and written 3 words on the opposite side:

“Thanks for trying.”

Measure for success in my career do not exist. Trying to create such a yardstick would and could only announce the unbearable failure in seeing too few lives changed, bettered or made new. So, people like me cling to “ministry” terms, so that we can at least get out of bed in the morning without feeling completely defeated, sigh: “the only measurement for success is being faithful.”

But if there was a gauge in place that would at least identify the true highs – well, simple and profound things like notes on the backs of cigarette packages would peak the mercury. And 3 words like “thanks for trying” are worth more than silver or gold.

And while I believe that there may be no greater compliment that any of us could share with one another – on or off the streets – than “thanks for trying”, the beauty in it has nothing to do with any of my failed attempts. Far from it.

I go home every single night to my warm bed, and forget to thank the people who fill me up, share my world, and are committed to the ends of the earth on my behalf. So, what kind of angel is it that sleeps in snow banks and can make 3 words more beautiful than the scrolls of poets? What precious child of God hides from the world, eats from trash bins, and tears pieces of garbage into cherished gifts?

Surely it’s one who has a heart more alive than most. One who remembers the smallest of details about going to summer camp as a child. One who wishes that she was dressed pretty, walking into the very restaurants she panhandles in front of, to meet a handsome date. One who dreams of being a mommy, of grocery shopping and choosing bath towels for the guest room. Yes, yes and yes. Over the years, of the tiny bits she would allow, these are among the sentiments she has indeed shared.

But who is she right now? She is the one who cannot pretend her way into Valentine’s Day. She is the one who cannot buy her way into Valentine’s Day. She is the one who cannot wish her way into Valentine’s Day.

Look at me while I hold her note between my palms, up against my chest, and I will tell you what I believe she is. She is Valentine’s Day. Because she is the warmest of hearts beating in the face of the coldest of realities. And for that reason alone, she is also my hero.

To those of you who have stood with me even when I was nothing shy of an embarrassment… to those of you who have prayed for me even when what I deserved most was to be scolded and shunned… to those of you who have spoken blunt truth to me only to be ignored or dismissed…and to those who have loved me only to have it taken for granted… this Valentine’s Day I was reminded of the life-giving power of three beautiful words. As much as the day is shaped around the three magic words “I love you,” these are not them. Without a doubt, they are:

“Thanks for trying.”

Happy Valentine’s Day.

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