this place, a valley in a valley
paved streets below peaked roofs
below apartment towers
and a river of cars runs through it
i join the flow on the banks of Main street
watch vehicular flotsam drifting by
turn my head at an ambulance's startled call
another answers in the distance
is this the valley of the shadow of death?
your staff and robe make you the crazy one
comforted by talk of green pastures and still waters
dinner at the mission
i am my own enemy
mountains rise beyond concrete
reaching blue sky
the house of the Lord
my shelter in this place
Joy and Sorrow
and sorrow are not
opposite, sitting across
the wall with a door between
where I travel
one to the other
they are here together
companionably having tea
to sit and drink in both
the gladness and anguish
because both speak
to what is precious of life
Not many people call me on my cell phone, but Rico did. So when the phone rang while I was driving I wondered if it was him as it clicked to voicemail. It had been a week since we’d last talked. It hadn’t been a great conversation and it had ended when he hung up on me.
Rico was a man who lived with pain. Physical, emotional, mental and spiritual pain. He was the quintessential person falling through the cracks of our systems. And falling and falling and falling. Although I love Leonard Cohen’s Anthem, there does not seem to be any light getting into these cracks.
Rico carried many labels: ex-con, violent offender, addict, schizophrenic. He was aboriginal, had grown up in foster care, spent years in and out of prison. He could also be charming and endearing and exasperating. Most of all, I think he was incredibly lonely.
Labels, I guess, can be helpful. I have friends whose children have various learning challenges and getting the label can help them get support. But labels are very limiting. They have no nuance and tell you nothing about the person. They are also sticky and hard to lose.
When Rico called me, his labels had done him in again. He had checked himself into an addiction treatment centre the previous day. He had been on the edge, feeling unsafe, like people were after him. A support worker had helped him get it arranged and I had bought him the Greyhound ticket. But the staff at the centre were sending him back to the city because, they said, of his mental health diagnosis. He needed to be able to check in with his mental health team. He insisted that the doctor knew about and supported his being there and it sounded like it was true when he told me about the conversations his doctor had had with their doctor.
I suspect he was right in saying that they didn’t want to deal with someone like him, someone who had the complexity of mental health on top of addiction. Just a reality. They may have felt they did not have the capacity for that. Rico also believed it was because of his record but it was hard to tell what was real and what was a symptom of his illness and what was triangulation. He was angry. And although I don’t blame him I asked him to stop yelling at me and said that the insults he was throwing at the people at the treatment centre were not helping.
But, like everybody else, I couldn’t simply fix it. And when, in my exasperation, I said that, he hung up.
The missed call, when I checked it at home, showed as private. There was a voice mail message from a Vancouver City Police detective. Nothing against police, but it’s rarely good when they call.
He started with the “are you. . .?” and “do you know a. . .?”
And, “I understand that you were his pastor?”
I had known Rico for years, I explained. We’d met at an outreach ministry and had kept in touch even as I moved into different work. I’d connected with him a lot in the community, supported him through homelessness and hospitalization, visited him in prison and talked to him regularly since he’d been out.
“We’re calling you because you were listed as his contact,” he said. “I have some bad news and am seeking information. I’m sorry to say that Mr. G- is deceased.”
I always find it odd when people say that. So and so is deceased. I guess it’s supposed to be less harsh than saying he’s dead but it often strikes me as prevaricating. I said nothing.
“It was likely an overdose,” he continued. “Possibly a medical event. But nothing was done to him,” he assured me.
Nothing was done to him. Trying to give me some level of comfort however small. Which it was. Rico had been afraid of dying violently, of being hurt. He’d told me that. He was often the target of violence and had been beaten up several times. He was also afraid of dying alone. He was afraid of dying alone because, he believed, that unless someone was there praying for him as he passed, intervening with God, that he would not go to heaven.
I had told him that I did not believe that to be true. I told him that God was not like that, that God accompanies us and that he, Rico, was a beloved child of God. He always found my theology baffling, or so he said, and to be honest it sometimes sounded hollow even to me in the context of his life. And I feel a deep grief to think that even if he did not die violently, he died believing that he had been abandoned by God and me and the system that tossed him down that crack.
Some people might attribute Rico’s death to the current opioid crisis. I don’t. His ensnarement went much longer and deeper than that. His life was a tragedy of layers of colonization that continually tried to contain and confine him. He seemed to get caught and mauled by every stinking dysfunction in our society. We think we have systems in place to help people until every single one seems to have a little sign on it that says, “Oh, well, not for you.”
I do not separate myself from that system.
There is a labyrinth embedded into the floor of the church. It is a beautiful pattern created out of a series of switchbacks that ultimately lead to the centre. Labyrinths are ancient spiritual practices. People walk them for many reasons: as meditation; for clarity; to shake loose stuck questions.
I walked the labyrinth trying to come to terms with Rico’s death. I walked with my guitar and sang and sang until something released and tears poured down my face. Singing became sobbing but I did not stop, just kept strumming the chords, the combination of walking, bare feet on the cool floor and vibration from the guitar a deep prayer that helped me to settle.
Often you step into the labyrinth with a question and the act of walking reveals new truths and you come out with new understandings. This was not one of those times. This was a walk of mourning, of lament, a private procession for a man, a beloved child of God, indeed a friend, who bore the brunt of our collective brokenness.
I once asked God what was the point of driving Rico around and never being able to help? The response, because he is now in my heart.
Grief comes from a deep place. It wells up from the cracked foundations of our lives, seeping sometimes through the layers and the patches we have used to cover our brokenness. Our own brokenness and our collective brokenness, the cracks that we sometimes carry on behalf of the whole. Rico carried our communal cracks for us. With my grief I picked them up and carried them like an offering to the centre.
I went down to the river today to check how the blackberries are ripening. Last year at this time the berries were large and sweet and plentiful. I went almost daily and picked bucketsful, coming home and filling the freezer. Things were hopeful then. Paul’s surgery had gone well, as good as can be expected, his surgeon had said.
Blackberry picking is prayer for me. It’s a communion of sunshine, berries and water. The stuff of life. Today though, green berries hung under smoke-hazed sky as I walked through the river.
I don’t know what it is about picking blackberries that takes me into contemplation but it does. Every time. The abundance of green berries mimicked my bereavement, hanging there where a year ago hung sweetness and hope. The water felt cold on my feet.
Yet as I gazed at the bushes I realized that there were not only green berries. Ripening had started. And while many berries that had darkened were not yet sweet, I could spot the ripe ones. Something about their sheen and the way they hung set them apart from the others. I started picking, carefully spotting the few and delicately rolling them off with my fingers. It’s almost impossible to completely avoid the brambles even picking from the river and the scarcity of the ripe berries meant moving in close to reach all that I could. I spent some time untangling from thorns. But I was thinking about how those ripe berries were adding up to a small but delightful harvest when I turned to step to the next section.
River picking takes some special knowledge, the main one being watch your feet. When you’re standing in water moving over slippery stone, stepping blindly risks falling. And it’s not just getting wet. Falling means losing the bounty of fresh-picked berries. So as I began to move down the bush, I turned to spot my feet in the river. And saw the ducks.
Five brown ducks skimmed through the water right behind me, bobbing and ducking and gliding. I found a dry stone where I could sit and watch their interactions. I felt myself soften. And when a dog and its human came down, scaring away the ducks, I noticed a fan of grass growing out of the crack of a stone poking out of the water. And my attention was caught by leaves floating downstream.
After a while I got up and crossed over to the other bank and picked a few of the ripe berries there. From that side I could hear the bumble bees that were visiting the flowers growing on the bank. I found a spot where I could watch them bounce between blossoms. The dog and it’s owner left and quiet settled in. The ducks mosied back. A brilliant blue dragonfly attached itself to a stem of grass. I lay on my belly for a closer look. The ducks found a spot for grooming. Little white feathers fluttered onto the water and drifted with the current. The afternoon ebbed.
Eventually I got up, brushed myself off and waded back to the path.
Today’s venture did not yield more than two cups of blackberries and only moderately sweet at that, and yet I came away with the abundance of the river. Maybe, as the summer continues, the berries will ripen to a bountiful harvest and maybe this will be a year of low yield. I’ll keep checking. But I’ve learned once again that God’s gifts are not always the expected or sought after. Abundance comes in different forms. And sometimes it shows up quietly from behind when our attention is elsewhere. If we’re lucky, we’ll notice. Thanks be to God.
Moments are simply the brief passings of time as we move through our lives. Most are here and gone, but a scattered few hold our attention. While all of living is sacred, there are those scattered brief moments that particularly speak to our hearts, enrich our lives or reveal unexpected beauty. Scattered moments. Sacred moments.
Since I last wrote in this space, critical parts of my life have changed. My beloved spouse died. He was a life partner, a loving and beautiful man who brought joy to many through his music and his kindness. Now I navigate what life will be without him. At the same time I find myself unemployed as my work contract ends. Two major losses. Endings and openings.
While it’s hard to see, I trust the sacred embedded in these moments. If Paul must die, let it be surrounded in the beauty of love and gentled by care. I slept by his side every night until the end, held his hand as his final gentle breath slipped into the universe. All he ever asked for in his last moments of consciousness was his beloved child. And Finn was there. We did nothing but be together in those last days, as our friends came and went, saying their good-byes.
Many people have commented on the bad timing of the end of the work I was doing. But I assure them with all sincerity that it is all good. It feels like God is giving me this moment to really feel the emptiness so that I can find the most life-giving way to fill it. What is it that I am truly called to be doing in this world? How can my particular gifts be used to heal brokenness, uplift beauty, bring forth justice? How do I offer myself?
It was a long winter. Snow fell like we have not seen for 20 years in this generally temperate place. After which we had months of grey days and rain. But today spring is definitely here. Clear blue sky. Buttercups and dandelions brighten the green. I can see moths fluttering through the grass. A neighbour has hung laundry out to dry. Laughter from the school yard floats through my open window.
It is not yet clear to me what I will be doing going forward. Yet I know that as sure as spring comes, life will unfold in unexpected and, I believe, beautiful ways. As Julian of Norwich reminds us, “all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” Not that there will never be more sorrow, never be pain or disappointment. But that the scattered, sacred moments will reveal themselves. And strung together they will uplift and cradle my one precious life.
Thanks be to God.
“On the home stretch.”
Paul wrote this to the doctor. “On the home stretch.” These words have a particularly poignancy when written by your dying spouse.
I wonder what he imagines “home” to be.
I’ve been thinking about the vanishing point in art. A road or path, stream maybe, that goes off into the distance will eventually seem to vanish. We know that it’s just perspective, that if we were to walk the path or the bank of that stream, that point would keep moving because the road goes ever on and on. We, stopped where we are, just can’t see it anymore. I imagine death being that point. The path, and Paul, will go on but we will be stopped here in this earthly place unable to see beyond the place of vanishing. But others will be there waiting. Paul’s mom and grandparents, his good friend Greg Johnson.
We all know how this is going to end but it’s hard to fathom. And it will be harder when we go home without him. Already, before we even came to hospice, I missed saying good-bye. It was a ritual for Paul. Whenever I went out, even if I had already gone to wherever he was in the house and kissed him good-bye, he’d come to the door, kiss me again and stand there while I waited for the elevator. Whether I was going to work for the day or to yoga class for an hour, he said good-bye at the door.
Paul had a ritual with Finn too. After Finn left, Paul would stand at the window and wait the few minutes it would take Finn to make it down the elevator or stairs and out the front door. As Finn hit the drive Paul would wave from the window and Finn would turn and wave back. They did this long past even high school, until Paul was in too much pain to move from the couch.
Paul was not just like that with us. As the assistant manager of our high rise for many years, Paul paid attention. He knew everyone by name, suite number and often what car they drove. He helped people out. I used to tell him that he was like the pastor to the people of Vista Royale. We have neighbours from many different places and he made it a point of learning how to greet people in their own language of origin.
Late in October I went to a retreat at IslandWood, a beautiful centre on Bainbridge Island near Seattle. It was a special time of discernment and retreat with the Center for Courage and Renewal. One morning as we were talking about mentors I had this realization that Paul has been one of my greatest mentors. I learned so much from him. He taught me to not take things so seriously. He taught me patience, although I may not have been a good student of that. He taught me perseverance.
Most of all he taught me love. Every day when I left the house and he walked me to the door to kiss me good-bye, I knew I was loved. Just that. Everything else, all of the ways that he took care of us - laundry and meals and dishes and knowing what we needed and finding things we lost - reinforced what I knew when he stood at the door. He taught me how to be a loving presence by standing at the door as the elevator came.
We can only watch as Paul will take the final steps to the vanishing point. We cannot go past the door to this world yet. But we’ve kissed good-bye and will wait with him while the elevator comes.
Previous Paul posts
Care taking and care giving
Sow's ear purse
Mark your calendars for the Super Duper Show - Triubute to Paul Leahy, January 27.
If you'd like to support the gofundme campaign that Paul's friends have started for him, you can find it here:https://www.gofundme.com/superduperstar
musings of someone spiritual and oddly religious
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