Advocacy:  Being a Voice

Tim Huff
Director, Light Patrol and Homelessness Initiatives

“Spare change – for my friend on the next block. He’s going home.”

In over 20 years of street work, I had never seen a sign like this. I quizzed homelesss young Terrance on his sign, as he sat panhandling on Queen Street. And he explained, his buddy “Shaggy” was ready to return home, now that his mom had separated from his very abusive dad, and he just needed money for a train ticket east.

Terrance had nothing. One rung below Shaggy’s plight, he didn’t even know where mom was. Any change he could reel in from strangers, he could more than use for himself. But, while his life and prospects were cold and dark, his heart was the warmest and brightest light on the Queen Street strip.

This is not a story about panhandling or begging, or meant for the controversial dialogue it often brings. It is not really even a story about homelessness. It is a story about advocacy.

The word “advocate” gets thrown around a lot in this day and age. Measured up against the notion of “armchair quarterbacks”, there are countless water cooler advocates across the country, soap-boxing on every issue under the sun. Sometimes the title “advocate” is owned with more pride than goodwill. But the heart of advocacy is not words on a page or spoken aloud. They have their place, but they are not at the core.

Empathy, selflessness, and a passion for justice – these create the bedrock for godly advocates. It is impossible to imagine a Messiah that would only talk about serving the poor and loving His neighbour, or merely speculate on dying for our sins. The words were, and are, transforming because they coincide with the humility and sacrifice of actions.

Through my highest and lowest of times at Youth Unlimited, one of the constant encouragements to me has been listening to the hearts of our staff as they share the challenges of the young people they are among. Heartfelt words born out of seeing, experiencing, doing, and wanting to do more. This is advocacy. This is what makes words spoken aloud or on a page come to life, and become more than just opinions.

Shaggy went home. Two thirds of the train fare were paid for by Terrance, who hugged him goodbye at the train station, and returned to his cold, wet corner. The day Shaggy left, Terrance had one small sign in front of his empty coffee cup. Asking for nothing, it simply read, “Thank you, my friend is home.”

This is advocacy.

Printed in the Youth Unlimited (Toronto YFC) Times, Volume 10, Issue 2, Spring 2009.

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While reds and greens are standard Christmas colours, blue ornaments, blue tinsel and blue lights have inexplicably been my favourite. And if ever I hedged on that, these blue lights sealed the deal.

Jimmy-D is a boy wonder. One of countless brilliant minds hidden in the cracks of our nation’s city streets and alleyways. Tucked away on the external side of an abandoned lakeside sawmill, his make-shift dwelling is a monument to ingenuity and street genius. Several times he had cooked me hot dogs using two nails and electrodes wired to 9 volt batteries. He kept a small space heater working on a timer via a car battery and re-jigged booster cables. And a string of ten blue Christmas lights were lit for five minute intervals on a WWII radio hand generator he bought at an army surplus store. Sad, beautiful blue bulbs that would slowly begin to fade as the juice ran out; an ironic metaphor for street life, too profound to miss.

One night while we roasted marshmallows over a wheel-rim fireplace, I asked him, “Why blue lights?” (Then told him they were my favourite.)

He answered with a soft smile, “Grandpa told me blue is the colour of depth… and everything deep in your soul is blue.” Grandpa was both artist and poet. And lifeline.

Jimmy-D’s grandpa died when he was twelve, just two years before Jimmy-D escaped his abusive home. A bright blue light in Jimmy-D’s soul.

God’s secret weapons in the fight for faith are warm grandpas and tender grandpas. There are more safe and loving memories and wise quotes from grandparents floating along curbsides in Canada than from any other source – including parents, peers, teachers and preachers.

We sat below the blue bulbs at brow level, weaved betweed skid-planks, and ate toasted marshmallows in silence. Between each roasting, he would lean over and re-hinge the hand generator’s handle and wind the bulbs to a brighter blue.

A few marshmallows and rewinds later, I asked, “What else can you tell me about your grandpa?”

Jimmy-D leaned into his shanty and rummaged around. And he handed me an old leather Bible. An old-school, Grandpa-looking Bible, with a cover that folded over the tissue-thin, gold-edged pages. He didn’t say a thing. He couldn’t. So he wound up the lights, opened the Bible on my knees and tapped his finger on the inscription.

In Grandpa’s lovely cursive writing, it read:

“My dear James, no matter what goes wrong in life, this will always be right. I will always love you – Grandpa.”

I read the inscription out loud. Then we sat in silence until the lights went out.

May your Christmas be filled with the depth of blue and what’s truly “right.”

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September, 2008

On June 26th – technically the last day of school – I was walking through a downtown park at 1 am. Several people dotted the park in slumber, or passed out – but one unlike all the others. I came across a young man flat on his back; unconscious, bloodied, backpack of items dragged open around him. I called EMS, and waited by his side.

It was both sickening and fascinating to sit inches away from a total stranger who is completely vulnerable and unaware of your presence. Even after experiencing it as such hundreds of times. As I waited I decided to gather the remains of his belongings and put them back in his pack. Left behind were the un-sellable, un-useable items; a street-muggers rejects. Among them… a grade 12 report card from another province. Information-gathering is the justifying word for a street workers curiosity. I looked. Four failing grades.

Most people think kids run from home for fear of low-brow abuse and addictions. But it is remarkable how many run from well-to-do, high-achiever expectations. This was Andrew’s story. Bad grades=dad’s wrath=beatings.

After an entire summer surviving the streets, Andrew is returning home for another stab at grade 12. By phone, the arrangements had all kinds of conditions and expectations that ended with his dad’s words, “or else.”

Andrew’s dad is a scholar. Andrew’s dad is also a cold fool. Andrew has already lived out “or else,” like no one should even have to imagine. Pride has wounded many young souls on the street than drugs and weapons ever could. It’s enough. It’s more than enough.

As the school year starts – let’s love our young ones through bad marks, good marks, peer pressure, teen angst, whatever comes, whatever doesn’t. Just as God has in store for all of us, no matter how we succeed or fail… knowing that “I love you” is always the “or else”; regardless of all other consequences.

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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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December 24, 2007 

Outside of tonight’s romps through the backyards of some of my friends with small children, ending at my home (where – sigh – for the first time this year both my children know it’s daddy) there have been 13 Santa visits in mid-December. I have been doing the Santa thing for a decade at hospitals, hospices and special-needs group homes. There were 4 stops yesterday on the “Santa tour” between Toronto and Ottawa. One was an afternoon stop, St. Nicking on a hospital floor for terminally ill children – keeping all of my self-imposed rules… there are many. Here are the top 3:

Rule #1 – I never ask for details of any illness. Often I am told by a parent, nurse or doctor, and most often by the children themselves – but I never initiate an inquiry. While in every other situation in life I believe that information is power (while I hate that statement, I like the ‘helpful’ side of what it can mean)… there is nothing this Santa needs less than more information. The situations tell as much of the story as I can bear and still fulfill the role I am there for.

Rule #2 – Never look at the parents while talking with their child. A simple greeting on the way in, with as little eye contact as possible will do. The parents are always in tears, and Santa has to bring the distraction of a bit of cheer. And if this Santa even peeks at a parent who is anticipating this to be their precious child’s final Christmas – well, all bets are off. Complete loss of composure. And truly, nothing would be a greater rip off to one of these kids than a sobbing Santa.

Rule #3 – No matter what, make no promises. Far worse than a weeping Santa would be a lying Santa. Santa is a wonderful man with a bit of happy magic. He is not a magic man with a bit of humanity. Too many children have asked me, well, Santa, to make them all better.

And so I did what I do: pray silently and desperately in the hallway as the nurse tells the kids in the room “we have a special visitor,” enter gently and move through the room slowly, with time for soft talk and a pre-arranged gift for each child. (Indoor Santa has a much softer touch than the romping, silly backyard Santa my own kids and those of friends have known over the years). And always, without staff, parents or children recognizing it, before I move on to the next, I touch the child’s face and say a silent 2 second prayer. Always the same one. Always, “God, hold this child today.”

Emotionally, the 20 minutes feel like 20 days by the time I turn, wave and ho-ho-ho back into the hallway. Santa’s last giggle as he exits always has the warble of just barely making it out of the room without losing it.

But today there was an extra gift in store. Not from Santa, for Santa.

A little girl saw me from the end of the hallway. A healthy 7 or 8 year-old in a Candy Cane Christmas dress. She ran to me, grabbed my hand and began tugging me back toward where she had come from, “C’mon, c’mon, see my little brother, c’mon.” Her name was Ella.

By the time we had reached the end of the hallway, mommy, daddy and 2 medical staff had appeared. The mom saw Ella dragging Santa towards them and collapsed in her husband’s arms. But her sobbing didn’t phase Ella: (A) – Ella had a plan; and (B) – Ella had seen mom and dad in uncontrollable tears more than enough to let it slow her down.

“Go in, please, go in and see Jamie, please.” She kept tugging.

I looked at the dad as he held his wife in one place. He said nothing. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he simply nodded, submitting to his daughter’s determination.

Finally, one of the nurses smiled and said, “Santa, you’ll need a mask.”

Before I could mumble either a reluctant agreement or lame excuse, I found myself capped, masked and gowned. Magically spun into light blue scrubs over my red velvet suit, with baggies over my tall black boots and a surgical mask pressed against my fluffy fake beard. Then I was given more information than I wanted or needed by a very sweet nurse – “He is not expected to make it through the end of the day.”

And the next thing I knew, I was sitting at the bedside of 5 year-old Jamie. Connected to more tubes and beeping machines than a NASA project.

All alone with a little boy I did not know, and who did not even know I was there. He was fast asleep.

I prefix and suffix every emotional strain in my life that I can anticipate by listening to music as preparation on the way in and for healing on the way out. Driving between hospitals I had listened to Steve Bell’s “Even so Lord Jesus Come,” at least a half dozen times. So, I put my index finger inside the palm of the little boy’s hand and sang sofly. And as I began the 3rd verse – “Holy Spirit breath of life, light a path through darkest night…” – God revealed Himself. Jamie’s eyes opened for 3 or 4 seconds. He smiled, squeezed my finger and fell back to sleep.

Up until that moment, I had felt all the things I would have guessed I would. That I would guess most everyone would. Tormented by helplessness. Devoured by the very thought of ever having to face this with my own children. Suffocated even trying to comprehend getting on with my life if it was one of my own children. And baffled by God’s unthinkable plan that allowed a 108 year-old woman from my church to live from 1899 in and out of 3 centuries (passing away only last week) and only giving this little boy mere years of struggle and pain. All these feelings overwhelmed me, but none of them surprised me.

Until his eyes opened for the briefest of time. Then I felt something I had never felt in my life. I was overcome with the realization that Jamie would see and be with Jesus before the day ended. And of all the absurd things I have ever felt – I felt jealous.

Nothing could have shocked me more. Even in the assurance of my faith, I have always been terrified by death. How it might come, when it might come, where it might come. Recently my pastor said in a sermon that death is a river we ultimately cross by ourselves, but Jesus is waiting on the shoreline. I remember praying in that very moment that Jesus would paddle out and pick me up at least half way…

But Jamie was not panicked. His river journey was well underway. And, while all that could be seen from this shoreline was the turbulence of despair, he was facing the calm and sunny shoreline with Jesus on it.

Do 5 year-olds with terminal illness get instant passes into heaven? If they don’t, then it is not the heaven I have imagined, and God is not the God that I have known – and I don’t want to go either. The answer can only be – “yes, they do.” No theologian could ever convince me otherwise, and would be wasting their time trying.

I stayed in the room for less than 3 minutes. Back in the hallway I was met by a beaming Ella. Santa Claus got on his knees and told her she was the bravest little girl he had ever known. I was true to my own Santa guidelines – no lying.

Indeed, she was the bravest little girl I had ever known. Courage to make something happen and seize moments that would be missed easily enough. She did not seek Santa for herself, and she didn’t ask him for a single gift. She just braved her way through the mayhem of confusing and distraught grown-ups to get something done.

Peace, comfort, glory, love, compassion – the Christmas season is filled with songs about the things that matter most. There are very few Christmas carols or songs about being brave. But surely, bravery is a gift that we need to sing about and celebrate. Especially bravery like little Ella’s.

The rest of my day was filled with Kris Kringling across the 401 and along the 416. Then, at 10:10 pm, on a long reflective ride home I received a call on my cell phone. The duty-nurse had taken my number, and called to tell me that Jamie was gone. He was on the shoreline – surely running and playing, eyes wide open – seeing and being with Jesus. Unknowingly honouring his brave sister and heartbroken parents by making the brave journey across the river.

When the call ended I turned my stereo back up – I had once again been listening to Steve’s Symphony Sessions. The first lyrics I heard, from the spectacular chorus of “This is Love” – a song setting apart God’s love from all other things: “But this is not the same. It’s a different thing, altogether. This is not the same. It’s a better thing. Altogether.. This is love. This is love.”

My day was filled with this-is-not-the-samedness. My prayer, hope and Christmas wish for one and all, this day and everyday, is that you would experience a love that is not the same. A different thing. A better thing.

 

 

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