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.

Tell a Friend

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.”

Tell a Friend

“Dana on Queen St. West”
December, 1999

“Good Night Young One”
December, 2000

Tell a Friend

Though it was broken, she treated it as though it was nothing less than priceless. For after all – it was.

Trudy wouldn’t say why she had left home. The most she ever surrendered was said one evening as she ran her finger across the sharp edges of her sacred keepsake – “You can only get so broken and still be worth something.” Enough said.

A Christmas ornament. An ordinary round, red ball and hook, hanging from her worn napsack.

And while she kept her own story a mystery, she was enthusiastic about the story of the ornament. “My grandma’s tree was all red. Red lights, red balls, red tinsel. Even a red star.” Pause. “I loved it. I loved her. But she’s gone.” Pause. “We got half of her belongings, including all of the Christmas stuff.” Pause. Tears. “When I came home one day from school everything was thrown around the living room – broken, ruined. All of it.” More tears, and then she walked away.

The telling of the ornament’s story gave her up. Just as most street stories are revealed – through the thin curtain of unlikely objects, childhood memories and pauses in simple stories.

Mom left years ago. Dear grandma passed away. And dad had nothing to offer but rage and spite. Trudy was broken. Very broken.

Trudy packed her things and left that same day. On her way out the door she picked up one ornament from the living room floor. One tiny bit of grandma. Of love. A memory of comfort and joy.

Of all that’s lacking on the streets, nothing is more scarce than comfort and joy. Tidings of comfort and joy, desperately needed.

This year, and perhaps for years to come – I am inviting you to join my family in hanging one broken ornament on your tree. Somewhere easy to see. So that every time you see it you will be reminded to say one simple prayer:

“For all whose hearts are breaking this season – comfort and joy. I pray for comfort and joy.”

And may it own you in a way that you seek opportunities right where you are – to bring comfort and joy to the broken-hearted in your life.

The last time I saw Trudy, she was kneeling in a ditch, cupping the ornament in both hands, and sobbing.

Priceless and broken… the ornament and Trudy.

Tell a Friend

A fake Santa Claus and a homeless man, sitting on the wet sidewalk on Christmas Eve… singing, no less. Not a typical Christmas image. But indeed… sacred.

When my daughter was two years old, I thought it would be fun for her to see Santa Claus sneaking around in her own backyard, on Christmas Eve. That notion grew into an annual tradition that keeps me scurrying about friends’ backyards across the GTA, ending in my own. A Santa suit rental became a Santa suit creation, and December visits to hospitals and group homes are now all part of the big picture.

But this Christmas Eve had something extra special in store. The last backyard Santa stop before home was along the Lakeshore. But my family would not be home from church for some time. So, creature of habit that I am, I drove into the downtown core – just to see the city when it stops. The only night it does. Or at least it seems to, at first glance. December 24th.

I drove slowly through the quiet cold, with my windows wide open, to take it in. It was just to be a bit of unscheduled time alone with Christmas carols on the radio… but an old soul drew me in like a sponge. Something I didn’t see coming.

He was sitting on Bloor Street, head tilted to the sky and all alone. I slowed and double-parked on Bloor – the only time of the year anyone ever  could. I took a few of the goodies I had with me (the ones this Santa leaves at back doors with notes telling the kids who spotted him – to go to bed), and hobbled over to himn, and sat on his left. He was spectacular. Weathered. Peaceful. Like an old tree.

“Hi Santa Claus”, he said, without even glancing at me. And without question – almost as though he’d been expecting me. Hmm.. expecting St. Nick, I mean.

“Hi. What are you doing?” Santa replied, questioning his role at the time.

He slid back, stretched out his long old body and said, as though rehearsed all day, “the stars in the bright sky look down where I lay.” Incredible.

He was so perfect in his profound gestures and mannerisms. He was shocking. Like a mysterious homeless angel.

“Chocolate?” I offered.

“Sure”, he replied with a sigh. Then he looked at me for the first time. And in his eyes was this grand look of disappointment, as though he’d hoped I was the real Santa. But he was close enough to spot a fake beard, not enough wrinkles, and a sad smile not worthy of the real deal. A Santa wanna-be. I even disappointed me.

He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t high. His mind was in its own place, but not “ill”. He was just living out Christmas in his world… the way we all do. And in his world, Christmas meant sitting alone, taking it in, and not even letting Santa Claus phase him. Most of us really could only wish for such a character.

We sat for a long while. Not saying much. Then he took in a long breath and began singing “I’ll be home for Christmas… you can plan on me…” His old warm voice was like a blanket. The words wrapped around me. At the same time, his sorrow was staggering. I tried to sing along, but could not stay composed… so just tearfully accepted the gift of being there.

He ended softly… “If only in my dreams.” Then he stood, collected his belongings, and began to walk away. He took 4 or 5 steps and stopped. He shuffled back to me, leaned low, handed me a small piece of cardboard and said, “Merry Christmas, Santa Claus.” He propped himself back up, and wandered away. I watched him, almost waiting for the clouds to part and snatch him up to heaven. But that didn’t happen. He just trudged along.

I looked down at the piece of cardboard. It read “God Bless You.” His panhandling sign… the most precious gift I had ever received. By far.

I have no theological basis for my thinking, but I have always thought that when someone who is homeless says “God bless you” that it is a blessing of profound significance. That they would give those words to me – or to you – has some kind of heavenly resonance. Even after all these years, it almost startles me. So to hold this sign in my hands… it was magnificent. And to own it!

But there I was, sitting all alone in a Santa suit on Bloor Street, on Christmas Eve, with a panhandlers blessing in my hands. My beautiful, bizarre miracle.

How tragic it is – the times over and over that God blesses us, and we don’t even notice. How often we rush through life, frantically looking for blessings of encouragement and inspiration, all the while buzzing past and trampling over the tenderness of God’s own children.

No greater blessing will this world know than a homeless baby, born in the slowness of a silent night, a holy night. May the prayerful offering of God’s blessing on you never be missed, overlooked or ignored. Especially from the voices and hands of His beloved, rising towards you from the sidewalks and streets of your own community. May we all be nothing less than humbled and made new by the offerings of unlikely street angels: “God Bless You.” No Santa could ever bring a gift greater than this.

Tell a Friend

When I reached Eddie beneath the bridge, he was inconsolable. I sat closeby and just waited until he could bring himself to speak. But before that ever occured, I noticed two things. One – something was missing. Two- something stunk. Before Eddie could gather himself up, I put things together.

“Where’s Shiloe?” I leaned in. Eddie wailed even louder. So I stood and followed the smell. I lifted the grey army blanket resting beneath the concrete beam, and there he was. Shiloe, dead.

When Eddie ran from his abusive home nearly a year ago, he took his best friend with him. The only one he could trust. The family do, Eddie’s solace since age 5, “Shiloe.” The one he clung to at night during dad’s dgrunken outrages, and the same one he clung to in the hidden alleyways of the inner city.

There is another group of people who roam in the darkest hours of the night… these are the night-feeders; those that prey on others. Those that steal, and beat, and hurt others to feed their weakened bodies and confused minds. When old Shiloe tried to protect Eddie from the night-feeders, faithful in a way only a good dog can be, he paid the ultimate price. They stabbed him to death. Faithful to the end.

Eddie finally stuttered out his words. Told me what he wanted. It wouldn’t be the first time, or the last, that I have stumbled around fuzzy lines of health issues or property acts. But… we carried Shiloe’s old brown and grey body through the shadows for about a kilometer. Then we spent an hour with some old pieces of board, digging a grave at the side of the railway tracks, where they would walk.

Many of you reading this letter have a dog at your feet, or a cat curled up on your lap even now. Others will see them on walks in the park later in the day, or at the end of the street. Today when you experience your cherished pet, or see someone else so likewise (especially a boy and his dog)…won’t you say a prayer for Eddie? And for the countless “Eddies” running, hiding, and doing their best day-to-day, across the nation.

As we stood over the secret grave, Eddie said, “I’ll see you soon Shiloe.” In a terror I have known too well, I put my hands on his shoulders and said “One day. But not soon, okay? Not soon.”

Love. Pray. Act. Believe.

Written with teary eyes and hands that still stink…

Wearily, Tim

Tell a Friend