We gotta get outta this place
If it's the last thing we ever do
We gotta get outta this place
'Cause girl, there's a better life for me and you
Those words by that eminent Worship band, Eric Burdon and the Animals, have Biblical connections, whether wittingly or unwittingly. Throughout the Bible, we read about people whose lives moved forward when they moved on. Abram (as he was then called) was commanded by God to leave his home in Ur near what was later Babylon and go to a different and potentially hostile place. "Arise, Joseph," Gabriel told the carpenter, "take Mary and the Babe to Egypt and stay there until those who seek His life have died." The other Joseph, he of the coat of many colors, was forcibly removed from his comfortable place as Jacob's favorite son: sold to some passing merchants and later in Egypt traded for purple, incense, and a eunuch to be named later.*
I ran into Albert this past Sunday. With his slightly misshapen head and speech impediment caused by having no teeth, he could easily be written off as a "typical" Downtown East Sider, possibly with a lower-than-average IQ.
He's not. Trust me.
He used to be a regular at The Lord's Rain. Polite, kindly, unassuming; he would come in and shower and shave and hang about to chat with us. Then one day, he announced proudly that he had a new place and was moving in.
The new place is in a condo project at 1st Avenue and Main Street. 1st is a few blocks beyond what I would call the outside edge of the Downtown East Side, and as I understand it, the project got the goahead, in part, because of the "social housing" component. Albert has a small, self-contained studio apartment - and so we don't see him in the neighbourhood much anymore.
I was waiting for a bus to go to church and Albert was en route to First Baptist Church, where they lay on a big breakfast for the poor on Sundays (not sure if it's every Sunday or certain ones, like just before Welfare Wednesday). We chatted a bit about where we were going and what the breakfast was like, and then I asked him, "So how's the new place working out?"
"It's great," he said. "I got my own kitchen and bathroom and it's really clean."
I mentioned that another chap I knew also had a place in the same building but there had been problems with drug addicts and dealers.
"Maybe on his floor," Albert replied. "Our (electronic key) cards only get us onto our floor. Mine's great."
The other fellow had pointed out that the dealers had managed to disable some of the locking functions and were able to move about.
"I've complained [to the people in charge of screening the residents] about the situation," Albert went on, "but they tell us, 'addicts need a place to live, too'."
"So do you," I pointed out.
Albert gave a sort of "it is what it is" shrug, and, with my bus arriving, we said our goodbyes.
Probably the biggest advantage to Albert's place is that IT'S NOT ON THE DOWNTOWN EAST SIDE. Many of the people I meet there would like nothing better than to get the heck out of there. As I wrote on another occasion, Marty summed it up by saying it's too easy to fall back into drugs, when all it takes is a phone call and maybe a half-block walk from your front door. Why would we want to keep people in such proximity to the very things, both the physical presence and the spiritual reminders, of the current state they're in? Life's troubles are only temporary, but in that environment, the present seems so permanent.
The paradox is that there are so many dedicated services on the Downtown East Side for the mentally ill, addicted and chronically sick -- people whose personal stories include workplace injuries from which they've never recovered, diabetes or the effects of longterm alcohol use. Moving away can make those safety nets seem out of reach. But surely there's a way to make those nets mobile and give at least some of the people who need them a better chance at breathing free.
Some years ago at the old Rainbow Mission, I preached a message called "If you don't go -- you won't grow!" One fellow piped up, "What if the only place where you feel like you're accepted is the place you're in?"
He had me there, although from a pure "faith perspective", if God sends you to a place (and that's one of the keys to Abram's experience), then it doesn't matter if people in the area "accept" you or not. Scripture tells us that Abram/Abraham gradually earned the respect of the Canaanites. In this day and age, we're expected to be more accepting of people, so that question should be our problem -- not his.
***
"You can never hate a man," an old Anglican priest once told me, "once you've talked to him." One of the keys to breaking down that artificial barrier around the DTES is to hear the stories of the people who live there. If you click here, you'll find Segment 1 of an exercise to that end. It's called, "In His image, too ...", and the first installment is the story of Kris Cronk. Over the months to come, you'll see more people who come into The Lord's Rain, telling their stories.
The trick, of course, is to get them to talk. I asked Maggie, a woman who's lived most of the last two years in a doorway on Cordova Street (she finally moved indoors this past week): "No," she said, "it's far too emotional." Ron and Gerald both said, "I'll get back to you." Richard, whose background includes residential schools, has only one word for that experience: "Unspeakable."
Then you get people like Marty. "Great idea," he said. "It'll help clear away some preconceived notions people have about this area." Exactly.
And Kris is eager to get others to do it. He found that, in telling his story -- which he has been doing for Megaphone Magazine -- he's managed to deal with the issues he grew up with and find a way to move forward. He also discovered a talent for writing that he never knew he had. So as more people tell their stories for the camera, I'll let you know when they're posted.
***
"They thought I was dead."
Mike re-surfaced this morning. He is one of many "Mike"s in the area, and the last time I saw him, he was dreadfully sick from alcohol abuse. He had been hoping to get into a recovery program, and part of our prayer that day was for that to happen. Clearly, he was sick of being sick. He was also terrified that he was past the point of no return and was going to die soon.
That was seven months ago. Today, he walked into The Lord's Rain: he was clear-eyed and quiet and one could sense he was different. He had managed to get into recovery, although I didn't ask what program. But apparently none of his friends in the area knew he had gone, so when they didn't see him for a while, they filed a Missing Person report.
"Shows they care about you," I said. "AND ... it shows you stuck with the program."
"Yep," he said. "I'm clean now. My color is back ... I was SO sick, man!"
I reminded him that he'd always have support with us. I hope he realizes that with us, and his friends he apparently didn't know he had, he's not alone in his struggle. Please keep Mike in prayer: he's won a key battle, but the enemy doesn't go away quietly.
***
*OK ... I made that part up ...
