Gospel Mission and the 3 P's

In one of his sermons on Living Truth, Charles Price talked about the three items in the Ark of the Covenant: the stone tablets containing God's Law, a jar of manna and Aaron's staff. Each represents a different aspect of our relationship with God. The tablets represent God's purpose, the manna represents His provision; Aaron's staff represents His power: this is the staff that blossomed and bore almonds while the staves of the representatives of the other 11 tribes of Israel remained sticks; Aaron's staff manifested God's power and life through Him.

Does that not apply to Gospel Mission? God's purpose has been playing out pretty much since the Mission was founded in 1929, in the Mission's principle of "God's food first" and its emphasis on being a place of Worship, ministry of the Gospel and demonstration of the love of Christ.

God's provision is represented in numerous ways, particularly in The Lord's Rain. It provides a place to meet a Basic Human Need, which is to be clean; but the fact that the facility has always met its rent and utility bills, often through miracles (OK: consistently through miracles), shows how God has made sure the ministry's worldly needs are being met.

And now we come to God's power. From what I've been hearing and reading on the Gospel Mission Society Facebook page, that has been descending, big-time, on the Mission. I'm getting reports of healings, people receiving the Holy Spirit, and other demonstrations of God's love and grace. It bruises my ego to say it, but it's happened since I was moved out (by God, I should point out) and Wesley Chadwick was moved in. (God has His way of moving us around like chess pieces: we usually have no idea what He's doing at the time, but He eventually shows us when we need to know it.)

This is exactly what God has shown me the Mission would be doing, and exactly what the Downtown East Side needs. It doesn`t need more money, more programs or more handouts: it needs a dose of the Holy Spirit and the Gospel, straight-no-chaser, to bring the hope people need to keep moving forward and turn their lives around -- for His name's sake.

Gospel Mission is an Ark in another way: like Noah's Ark. Years ago, God showed me that there would be Revival on the Downtown East Side with the Holy Spirit coming in like a flood, rising up and catching people unawares in its tide. The Cross would be the Ark for people to grab onto to avoid being swept away and drowned, and so long as Gospel Mission puts the Cross and all It represents first -- God, Jesus, Redemption, Forgiveness, Grace -- people will find the refuge and the hope they need there. With the manifestation now of God's power, going with His provision and purpose, we're seeing the two types of "ark" melding into one.

From The Lord's Rain: The Wedding Miracle

On the face of it, this miracle has nothing to do with water and wine, and everything to do with the fact that the wedding happened at all. This past Saturday (May 9), Janet Klassen, the Assistant Pastor at Gospel Mission with responsibility for The Lord’s Rain, married Kim Mogenson, who has been around the Mission in one way or another for at least as long as I’ve been there – 8 years, now.

I’ve written about Janet before, the struggles she’s gone through and her victories. Just before Barry Babcook passed away unexpectedly, we learned that she and Kim had become an “item”. General reaction: "al-RIGHT!" (and various other cheers and unbroken Hallelujahs).

Yes: what did happen to that guy?

Kim has often asked the rhetorical question, “Whatever happened to the man who used to wait outside and then come in between ‘Amen’ and ‘Pass the food’?” 

Actually, it’s a pretty good question. I first met Kim in 2004 at Rainbow Mission: drunk, sometimes spaced-out on something else, obnoxious – the kind that would make you cringe. And indeed, because we didn’t lock the door at Rainbow once the service started, people would arrive just in time to miss the message and get to the “important part”.

But a few weeks after John, Danilo, Amelia and I moved to Gospel Mission, Kim showed up, flashed a grin, and said, “You tried to get away from me, eh?” And something was different. He started bringing a Bible to the Saturday night services. He started asking questions about the Bible before, after – and sometimes, during – the sermon. One night, he stood in the doorway of the kitchen and told Amelia, “I’m going to turn my life around.”

We learned that he had been a chef, working at a restaurant in Port Renfrew. For whatever reason – and they are usually legion – his life fell apart: chronic health issues, drugs, booze, all lined up against him and he wound up on the Downtown East Side.

Pastor David Brown, Kim and best man Justin, awaiting the grand entrance

As I write this, I’m hearing Brian Houston of Hillsong Church, telling us that God has a special purpose for every one of us. I get the feeling that Kim was able to regain that sense, not quite sure how it would manifest itself, but it was there, and would become apparent, so long as he kept turning towards the Lord.

Kim would sometimes get up and share something he’d read or observed. One day, he came up to me before a service and said, “I think I’m ready to give the sermon.” The next Saturday night, he took the mike and spoke about the need for us to be salt and light in the world, illustrating it with his own experience as a chef.

While this was going on, he took courses at FreeGeek, which provides IT training for people on the Downtown East Side; he joined a guitar class at the Carnegie Centre; he got more and more involved with the Mission. When Janet was shattered by Barry’s unexpected passing, Kim became her support and also her buffer, the initial point of contact when the rest of us had questions about the running of the Ministry. Others, like Pastor David Brown and Liane Hyatt, the Mission’s treasurer, took on a lot of the load, and Kim was the rock Janet needed to lean on.

So this past Saturday, there was a sense of the climactic ending to one chapter and the bright, hopeful beginning of a promising new one. Watching Janet walk down the aisle on her dad’s arm, in her magnificent white dress, it suddenly struck a lot of us how huge this occasion was. She read her personalized vow to Kim, and there was not a dry eye in the house. Tears, laughter, love, and you knew that God was watching over it all, seeing this raw, obvious example of how He had made it all happen.

In fact, you don't have to stretch too far to see that this is a "water-into-wine" miracle, do you?

**

The seventh anniversary of the opening of The Lord’s Rain came and went with little fanfare, but it’s important to note that we have now passed the 8500-mark in the number of showers taken since we opened. On Tuesday, 25 people came in to get cleaned up, and one has to wonder where they would have gone and what they would have done if The Lord’s Rain hadn't been there. I've been reviewing the history of the building of The Lord’s Rain, and have a hard time believing that we took the dilapidated, rat-infested space and, beginning with a vision but no money, built this facility that meets a basic, and vital, human need.

But we did -- and not by any strength of our own. The people, the finances, the supplies, all came together exactly as and when they were needed, as God made it clear that the project was going to go ahead, no matter what the worldly evidence might say. If you ever want a “wow!” experience, consider the fact that you've been involved with this in one way or another. There are more people than I could count, who are grateful for your support.

(If you would like to contribute to The Lord's Rain, you can send your cheque or money order to Gospel Mission Society, PO Box 98802, The W PO, Vancouver, BC V6B 0G0. The Lord's Rain can always use more volunteer help, too: please contact me through the "contact/comment" box for more information.)

"I could be in Pittsburgh!" (special from Hawai'i)

One of the more prominent features of Lahaina, the historic Royal Capital of the Kingdom of Hawai’i, is a spreading banyan tree outside the old court house. From a single trunk, its aerial root system spreads over 2/3 of an acre: the roots, which appear to be branches, dive down into the ground and take root, themselves; others spread outward and up.

The ficus benghalensis, which was planted in 1873, is a favorite spot for tourists to take photos, and people of all ages mill about, posing, snapping pictures, and gazing in wonder at the this tree. And nearly invisible are the half-dozen or so people who actually live there.

By “live there”, I don’t mean in Lahaina: I mean “live under the tree”. These are some of the homeless on Maui.

I know what some might be thinking: "So you're homeless - you're on Maui! Sleep on the beach ... under the stars ... must be nice!" Yeah - right.

One man is hunched over in a wheelchair, with what looks like a plate lunch in a Styrofoam container in his lap. He seems unwilling or unable to brush away the flies that seem to be enjoying the lunch more than he. A friend is sitting next to him and doesn't seem bothered by the flies, either. On a bench nearby, a man with a grey beard is lying on his back, a few shopping bags with belongings and cans on the ground beside him; a grey-haired, tanned woman is sitting beside him, reading a book to him.

Another fellow is sitting on a bench next to them with a dog beside him. Clean-shaven, tanned, and clear-eyed, he tells me the dog isn’t his: “I’m just watching her for her mom,” he says.

“Him,” I say, noting the obvious.

The man tells me his name is Mike and that he had been a casting director in Hollywood. “It was a lot of work: I’d go twenty straight days without a break, and I’d be just about to take some time off when they’d call me and I’d have to go to another set and work there. When I had my last heart attack, my doctor said I had to retire.”

“Your ‘last’ heart attack?”

“I had a mild one, then I had a serious one, and that’s when the doctor told me to get out of the business.”

But the Hollywood glamor did not come with a decent retirement plan, so with a Social Security income of $509.00 a month, Mike headed for Maui. “You can’t buy much on $509 a month,” he said, “and you can’t afford rent.”

“At least you don’t have to worry about heating bills,” I offered.

“My brother in Pittsburgh spends more in a month on heating than I get in Social Security,” he says. “If it gets ‘cold’,” he said, making “quotation” signs with his fingers, “you might need to use one sheet or a blanket. So, you know: I could be in Pittsburgh!”

At another point, he told me about working for his brother, who’s a lawyer. “I had a job going around to the pharmacies and picking up medication just before they were going to expire, then taking it to the homeless people.”

“What kind of medication?” I asked. “Prescriptions? Methadone?”

He shook his head. “Antibiotics. People on the streets – “ he looked around him “—they don’t take care of themselves. They get sick … they need antibiotics.” Around Lahaina, there are no facilities like The Lord’s Rain. Mike manages to get to the public swimming pool from time to time to wash up, but for the most part, it’s a basic human need that’s still unmet.

I thought those who support The Lord’s Rain would like to know that: that it's provided -- and continues to provide – something not readily available in other parts of the world. When I see some of the infections suffered by binners on Vancouver’s Downtown East Side – like the time, a few years ago, when Ron nearly lost an arm because a “nick” from a dumpster got infected (doctors had to open up Ron’s entire forearm to treat the infection) – I think how much worse things could be if The Lord’s Rain weren't there to at least provide an option. 

**

SROs, Maui-style

The next day, I learn that there are some individual efforts around Maui to help people get clean. I got the opportunity to ride along with “A Cup of Cold Water”, a mobile ministry set up by St Joseph’s Episcopal (Anglican) Church in Wailuku. (And whoever gives one of these little ones only a cup of cold water in the name of a disciple, assuredly, I say to you, he shall by no means lose his reward. – Matthew 10:42) Maui doesn't have a skid row area per se, so the trick in ministering to homeless people is to know where to look. 

ACCW is a white-and-blue van, which carries a stock of “basic” food items, and “on request” items like underwear, socks, t-shirts, dog food and hygiene products. In the van are Lawrence, his mother Juanita, and Dutch. All three are Hawai’ians by ancestry; Lawrence and another man, Keku, who organized this “ride-along” for me, are retired police officers. We go first to Kahului, leave the main road and hit a badly-maintained dirt road near the shore.  I had just explained what an SRO is (single-room occupancy hotel) is when Lawrence said, “Here are our SROs.” He pointed to a row of derelict cars and trucks along the dirt road.

Each vehicle had at least one person living in it. I was reminded of the "rubber tramps" that Rudy, a fellow I knew at Rainbow Mission, told me about after he'd finished his hitch in the Vietnam war.

We were first greeted by a small dog, leashed to a tent that had been made out of the back of a pickup truck. Presently a young woman squirmed out of the tent, pulling on a dress. We hand her a “single person” bag – one can each of cocktail sausages and Spam (As the late John Pinette said, “I love Hawai’i: there, Spam is a vegetable.”) – two bottles of water, a pudding cup, fruit cup, granola bar and Rice Krispie square.

There was a familiar pong in the air. Dutch motioned towards the buildings at the end of the dirt road – the sewage pumping station.

Lucy, a petite woman about my age, emerges from another truck. “How’re ya doing?” I ask. “Hanging in,” she says. “Hangin’ in.” She then reaches out to me and gives me a huge hug and clings to me for a long time.

“The owner of my place suddenly decided to sell,” she says. “We got 30 days’ notice and nowhere to go. I went to get a camping permit but you know what? They (the County) wanted $45 a day! I can’t pay $45 a day! So I’m here.”

We pray together, then she goes and gets her bag. As we drive away, Lawrence explains that the County inspectors had gone to the place where Lucy had been living and found that no one really knew who owned it. When they finally found out who the owners were, the owners decided to sell rather than upgrade. And Lucy and others were out on their collective ear.

We move on. There’s a little shack in a parking area behind the pumping station and we pull up and honk the horn. A reddish dog bounds out to say hello and in the doorway we see a large woman hurriedly putting on a robe. She comes out to us with one hand on her cheek.

“How are you?” Dutch asks.

“Got a bad toothache,” she says. “You don’t have any Tylenol, do you?” We don’t. We hand her the bag and a couple of tins of dog food and move on.

Dutch explains that there are some areas where they don’t always go – areas inhabited by known criminals and drug dealers. “We especially don’t let the women go in alone,” he says. “If it’s me and Keku,” Lawrence puts in, “we might, ‘cause we can take care of ourselves; but if it’s just ma and some of the other women, they don’t go.”

“We also don’t want to be ‘enablers’,” Dutch adds. “If we go to these guys, they’ll barge in and take whatever and then sell it.” He motioned to a group of tents across the river from our next stop. “But if they come across the river to us while we’re here, we’ll give them something. If they cross the river, they’re exposed, so if they're making that effort, we figure they really need it.”

I ask them about options for cleaning up. In Lahaina, they point out that there are hoses on the docks used for washing down the boats (wonderful! Let’s bathe in tepid sea-water!) and the Family Life Center in Kahului offers showers. Lawrence’s brother, a lifeguard at the public swimming pool in Kihei, has arranged to allow homeless people to shower at certain times of the day. Even that was a tough sell, but he was able to make it happen.

We drive on … to a spot where two men are living in a makeshift shack in a location where other shelters had been destroyed by the storms this past winter (yes, Maui gets winter storms, and they can be nasty). We had gone to see if anyone was left. As we left, we saw a County park inspector drive by – possibly to “encourage” them to move on.

We hit Kalama Beach Park, where a lot of un-housed people set up their homes. Because it was Wednesday, most of them had moved their vehicles out onto the road so the County could clean the park, which is done every week. “They call it ‘resting the park’,” Dutch explains. 

We come across one man – probably in his 60s – who’s installed solar panels on an old pickup truck and uses that to power his truck radio, a TV (with satellite dish) and a few other things. 

A young woman emerges from a minivan, carrying a little girl – maybe 18 months old. It’s not clear where the woman’s husband is, although it’s possible he’s at work, and doesn't make enough to afford a place to live. But where you might think there would be despair, there is love in the mother’s eyes, and joy in the baby’s: the little girl is still blowing kisses to us as we climb back into the van.

At our next stop in the park, we find three generations all together.

“There are actually three or four clans here,” Lawrence says, as Juanita and I throw together “family” bags.

“Why aren't you in school?” Dutch asks one little boy.

“I'm sick today,” he says.

Back into Kahului, we wind our way through the industrial area, past the warehouses and big-box stores, finding one or two people in various places. Lawrence has a keen eye: “There’s some (people) there,” he says, as we pull up at a traffic light. He’s spotted a shopping cart off to the side of the road, with four or five guys huddled around it. We hand out single bags and chat for a bit, then head on.

We then pull up near the Family Life Center, but Lawrence makes sure he parks on County property. The Family Life Center, which is run by another church organization, has made it clear it doesn’t want ACCW parking on its property. Whether it’s jealousy among ministries, a sense that one’s turf has to be protected, or a misunderstanding, it’s something I've noticed in Vancouver, too. A few couples come over for bags; one fellow pulls up on a bike laden with bags. As we drive off, Lawrence mentions the fellow with the bike.

“He was a great athlete,” he says, “but just couldn't handle it all. They get all that money, and then the drugs and something goes wrong …” Lawrence doesn't mention his name or what sport he played: right now, that doesn't make much difference.

Families … drug addicts … the mentally ill … but for the most part, Just Plain Poor – people who work but still can’t afford a house … others, too old to work but for whom the “social safety net” has holes a humpback whale could jump through … A Cup of Cold Water, like The Lord’s Rain, is “Jesus With The Skin On,” a reminder that they haven’t been forgotten, they are loved by people who hardly know them – and especially, that they are still precious to God.

That may not seem like much, but neither does a seed, until it’s planted.

You Just Never Know ...

One of the recurring -- and possibly overworked -- points I make when I talk about the Downtown East Side is that anyone is just one misstep away from winding up in a situation similar to the "street people". It might be something obvious or it might be something seemingly minor, that sets off a cascade of events.

I've known Mike since I started at Gospel Mission eight years ago. Nice-looking, pleasant, polite, 40-something, he would sit at or near the back and sing lustily during Worship. He loved singing, and had been in his school's choir in Prince Rupert, which had won awards in festivals.

But as the years went by, one could see changes in him. He'd be prone to outbursts of anger -- not directed at us, but he would come in and bend our ears about the way some of the advocacy groups he was involved with, like VANDU (the Vancouver Area Network of Drug Users) would treat him. He was angry that they would ask him to leave meetings for being disruptive. How he was disruptive was never clear.

Certainly, Mike could be candid and maybe less than judicious in the things he said. When supporters of InSite -- the supervised injection facility -- turned out en masse for a court ruling regarding federal health-care funding, Mike was a no-show. "I missed out on thirty-five bucks," he said, explaining that had been promised to those who came for the demonstration. He then told me that he and others were given box lunches and a trip to Victoria for a demonstration at the Legislature.

Aside from exacerbating Mike's anger issues, the drug use has savaged his physical state, with ghastly open sores appearing on his face. I found it very easy to judge him, saying to myself, "so how are those 'drug users' rights' working out for you?"

Then, a couple of weeks ago, he shared a piece of information.

"My mother died 35 years ago this month," he said. "She, my auntie, my grandma, my sister and brother -- all killed in a car accident. It was just outside Edmonton on Highway 16 and they hit a tanker truck."

That was a jolt. I remembered that crash well. It was one of a number of fatal crashes in 1980 along what the papers were calling "Death Highway". Shortly after that, I had to drive that highway en route to my first radio job, in Lloydminster.

And now, here was someone directly affected by that string of disasters.

He went on. "My grandpa said, 'I got a bad feeling about Mikey going with you.' He didn't want me to go. 'I got a bad feeling,' he said."

"Wow," I said. "So you stayed home."

"Oh, no," Mike replied. "I went. I was the only survivor."

Suddenly, a lot of things fell into place.

So now, it becomes understandable that Mike would turn to drugs as the solution to his pain and his lingering grief ("survivor's remorse" is probably a part of that). Personally, I'm no more in favor of people doing drugs for any reason -- and certainly not in favor of making them "safer" to take. But Mike's experience reminds me that there are so many deep-seated issues that need to be dealt with and frankly, only God can reveal and only Jesus can heal. Anything else is a damned lie.

==

"My mother. Did. What she thought. Was right."

Denise spoke very deliberately, as if she was forcing the thought out of her mouth and into the light. Her mother had handed her over to a children’s aid agency when she was a baby, and her point was that she couldn't hold any anger against her. Mind you, her determined way of saying it suggested she had had a long and difficult time to get to that stage.

Ironically, Denise, herself, parted ways with her children. She talks with them from time to time, and then they go about their lives; but there's still a sense that there are still a lot of gaps in their relationship.

Denise is the one who said, "I'd have to kill you all!" when I asked if she'd share her life story for my "In His Image, Too ..." video project, so this was a remarkably candid revelation. She's in her mid-fifties, petite, still attractive with grey threads through her black hair and has definitely “seen it all”. But she refuses to play the victim and blame the myriad people who could be and are regularly blamed for what happens to our Native brothers and sisters. Instead, she’s what I'd call an actionist – someone who just gets in there and does what she can to help. In her case, it’s serving at the women’s centre on the Downtown East Side, helping other women – particularly the young ones – cope with the situation.

“Just show me a Native woman who hasn't sold her body at some point,” she said recently. Someone had had the face to ask her if she'd ever been a prostitute and she was her usual direct self. But with the annual Memorial March for Missing and Murdered Women about to happen, Denise was equally emphatic that it would have to go ahead without her.

“Nothing changes,” she said, meaning the impact of the marches. “But more than that: I'd like to see a march for missing and murdered men. You never hear about that, but that’s what happened to my husband and I wish someone would talk about that.” But almost immediately, she added, “Not me, though: I'm not goin’ on that crusade!”

Denise believes that handing her over to a child protection agency (ironically, the same one that was under the microscope last year in connection with the death of a little boy in Ontario) was not the right thing to do. And yet, it's clear that the experiences Denise went through as a result have led to this calling on her to help others. Who knows how many people she's blessed, just by being there for them?

I would say Denise has a calling of God on her life: I don't know if she'd see it that way, but I'm reminded of Romans 8:28 "All things work together for good, for those who love God and are called according to His purpose."

==

When we went to Australia in December, we walked around Circular Quay in Sydney (I love the Aussies' directness in many things in their language: it's a quay; it's shaped like a circle; therefore, it's named "Circular Quay") and one of its features is "Writers' Walk". This is a series of plaques, in tribute to the writers from Australia and around the world who have, in one way or another, had a connection with Australia. Alongside Nevil Shute, Jack London, Rudyard Kipling and James Michener, there is this plaque from Kath Walker, an Aborigine who took the name Oodgeroo Noonuccal -- the name of her tribe.

I could tell you of heartbreak, hatred blind,

I could tell of crimes that shame mankind,

Of brutal wrong and deeds malign,

Of rape and murder, son of mine.

But I'll tell instead of brave and fine,

When lives of black and white entwine,

And men in brotherhood combine -- 

This would I tell you, son of mine.

Note that this poem was written in 1964, at about the same time Martin Luther King was delivering his speech, in which he said, in part, "I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood ... that ... one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers."

Eloquence from two different parts of the world, at the same time, with the same thought towards brotherhood, equality and, yes, integration. For what it's worth, it's my own prayer for our First Nations in Canada, because the current situation, I believe, is geared to keep them oppressed -- just in a different way. But it's one thing for whitey, here, to talk about integration and brotherhood: hearing it from the oppressed people themselves, gives it credibility.

NEWS RELEASE - New General Director for Gospel Mission

NEWS RELEASE                                                                                                      FOR RELEASE: NOW

Contact: Drew Snider, Media Pastor, 604-353-4423

A NEW “AROMA” FOR THE DOWNTOWN EAST SIDE

Former “black sheep” to guide Gospel Mission Society

People living on Vancouver’s Downtown East Side – newly-arrived condo-dwellers and “street people” alike – can expect a new reason to be attracted to the area around Hastings and Carrall Streets.

The newly-hired General Director of Gospel Mission envisions a spirit of welcome and love to draw people into the building and into a new relationship with God. Wesley Chadwick has been chosen to take over Western Canada’s oldest continuously-operating Mission, filling the position left vacant by the unexpected death last year of Rev. Barry Babcook. Rev. Babcook had been in charge of the Mission for 17 years. 

A native of South Africa, the 38-year-old Chadwick was, for a time, the black sheep of a family dedicated to serving God. His father and mother planted churches in Rhodesia (as it then was – now Zimbabwe), Zaire (now Democratic Republic of Congo) and the United Kingdom. But in his late teens, Wesley fell into drug addiction. He used crack cocaine, among other substances, before he and the woman who is now his wife were miraculously set free.

“It happened overnight,” he says. “We said to each other, ‘we’ve got to stop this.’ God decided it was time for me to get out of that and serve Him better.” This testimony of hope, mercy and grace will encourage people on the Downtown East Side and show how it is God’s will for people to be set free from the things that oppress them. 

At the same time, Chadwick sees a new role for the Mission, expanding its reach and its scope, likening it baking bread, with different ingredients coming together that tastes and smells delicious to all.

“You know how, when you walk past a bakery, the smell of baking bread just draws you in?” says Chadwick. “That’s how our Mission – our church – should be: where people are drawn in by the goodness of God. If that means newcomers are sitting beside ‘street people’, so be it.”

Founded in 1929, Gospel Mission offers hope to people on the Downtown East Side in a variety of ways, all through the Gospel of Jesus Christ. There is a Sunday Believers’ service, church-style services throughout the week, Bible study, prayer night and even a movie night. Meals are offered at some of these services. Since 2008, it has operated The Lord’s Rain, a facility that provides showers five mornings a week. It receives no government funding, and is supported by volunteer help, in-kind donations and finances from churches, individuals and foundations.

-30-

"Normal -- except in a bad place"

"Normal"? Well ... 

My friend, Murray Scott, who was one of the builders working on The Lord's Rain, made that observation as he sat in his van, watching the passing scene in and around Pigeon Park. You can hear Murray's observations -- as well as those of Rachel McKinley, Jeff Ridley, John Sharp and Kathy Kinahan -- here. It's been one of the "takeaways" that I have from the project: the fact that, in spite of the obvious differences between the people who live on the Downtown East Side and those who don't, there are a lot of similarities -- perhaps more than one would imagine.

It's that takeaway that's made me less fearful of "gentrification" on the Downtown East Side. It's a wonderful opportunity for integration of what's become Vancouver's version of the "two solitudes". The "good folk" of the city, buying condominia amid the squalor and depression of Hastings Central. If each group could just see and interact with the other, rather than put up barriers of fear and loathing, people might be more inclined to help, encourage and in their way, minister to one another. The "haves" might start to see the "have-nots" as people who do have something to offer them; the "have-nots" might be less inclined to see the "haves" as starlings, waiting for a chance to push them out of their nests.

At least, that's the pipe-dream. The real picture is starting to look more like two solitudes living side by side and barely acknowledging the other -- kind of like the woman who told a Vancouver reporter recently that she went for years without saying more than two words at a time to her neighbors on her floor.

Case in point: ultra-high-end lighting boutique, right across the street from Pigeon Park.

In the background, you can see where some people are camping in one of the openings cut into the hoarding around the old building. (That's the building where two concrete cornices crashed to the ground last fall, leading the city and the owners to say, "Yeah ... I guess it's time to get that fixed!) Somehow, I don't think they'll be buying their lighting from the place across the street.

At the same time, two young men walk a white labradoodle along Carrall Street, but passing by on the other side from Pigeon Park. There's a metaphor for you!

And inside, a young couple finally finds a place to crash after what was apparently a sleepless night.

Even though it's not exactly manifesting right now, I still believe in this "integration" thing. Let patience have her perfect work ... (James 1:4) They're in the same neighborhood, and that's a start.


(Yogi Berra might say, "as long as there's proximity, people will be close.")

Yes, anyway ... how do we get to there from here? This is one case where I will use the word "evolution". The divide is too great to be paved-over by a free barbecue at Oppenheimer Park or a street party in Gastown: you won't get people to mingle at either. A commenter on John Fischer's blog a couple of years ago wrote, "Nothing positive happens until we either allow someone into our sphere or we are invited to enter someone else's. Maybe having one's bubble burst isn't such a bad thing after all." 

The barrier of fear, loathing and suspicion has to come down, and that will only come through time and a conscious effort by both sectors to stop and say "hi". When that happens, each side will recognize that the other is, as Murray put it, "normal" -- and as the contact progresses into better understanding, the "place" will be less "bad".

                                                                                                               

Terry's Tale -- "I'm not a lucky man"

Today is Terry Hill's birthday, so it's fitting that this entry would be his story -- because 5 years ago, there may have been some question as to whether he'd even see this day. 
Terry Hill almost literally stumbled in The Lord's Rain in March of 2010. It turned out to be a pivotal moment in his life, and  ... let's let him tell the story ...

Hello my name is Terry Hill. I am a grateful follower of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. I was not always a believer in fact I grew up as an atheist and was raised by atheists. I even married an atheist. Throughout my life I was pursued by God, although I didn’t know it.

           

            At an early age I was molested by one of our neighbors. It was tough because my parents didn't or wouldn't believe me. I ended up growing up on the streets here in Vancouver. I spent my youth running away from anybody and anyplace that I was put. When I was a teen I was locked up in a youth detention Center in Burnaby, BC I was locked up for being a run away. I was told I was unmanageable. While I spent those months locked up I learned how to really survive. I was going to make them pay for locking me up. I would give them a reason to lock me up.

            When I was released from the detention centre I was placed in a foster home. My foster parents were Christian. I thought my foster dad was a freak and kept this doubt that he loved me. He seemed to be too good to be true. His wife also really cared about me. They took me into their home and allowed me to be me they never pressured me into anything. They believed I was a good kid and they trusted that God would show himself to me. I ran from their house many times but they would phone and let the authorities know – not to pick me up, but to watch that I was okay. They knew that I would eventually come home on my own. Just like the prodigal son.  Which I did. But I still didn’t believe in God.

            I ended up being an Alcoholic. I was drinking to kill the emptiness inside me. I met my daughter’s mother at 22 and she and I drank and partied together. She was a prostitute when I had met here. I was fresh out of jail. She quit working the streets when she met me and I was trying to go straight. I wanted to go straight because she became pregnant with my daughter. I went into King Haven treatment centre in Abbottsford not to get sober but to get my back as my drinking caused a lot of problems. It worked for a few months but then I went back to drinking. She left me and took my daughter with her. She always allowed me to see my baby girl and after a while she met another man. I tried everything to get her back.

            When my daughter was about five years old my ex wanted to get out of a bad relationship and move back home to Saskatoon. She couldn’t go unless I allowed it. I guess this was one spot that God had touched my heart because I gave up everything and moved her and my daughter back to Saskatchewan.

While in Saskatchewan, I started working for a roofing company called “Little Rainbow". The motto was “SEALED FROM ABOVE”. Whoa boy my employers were born again Christians!

Rick and Veronica were two of the nicest people I ever met. Rick would always try talking to me about the Gospel and I would joke with him that as long as I didn’t convert I would have job security. I was working there when I met my wife at AA. She was an atheist and we got along. But I was never totally honest with her about my past. When my past caught up with me she left me. And if I hadn't slept with some other woman while we were separated, I might have gotten back with her but that is not what God had planned for me. I ended up running away from that working and drinking I moved away from Saskatchewan and lost track of my daughter.

            By the beginning of 2010, I was highly addicted to crack cocaine. I was no longer working was angry and was at the point in my life where I thought I was better off in jail or dead. I hated me and I hated what I became. On a cold rainy night in March 2010, I was broke, coming down and feeling like crap. I wanted to just rob someone so I could get more drugs. This became one of the greatest nights of my life. I started walking from White Rock towards Surrey looking for someone to rob. I ended up walking all the way to Vancouver that night through surrey New Westminster, Burnaby and Vancouver,

           

            There were numerous opportunities to rob people at the instant tellers along the way, but every time I got a chance a police car would drive by. So I didn’t do it, I wasn’t going to jail without getting high first. So I was sore, wet and angry by the time I got to triage shelter on this cold and rainy Saturday morning in March of 2010. They didn’t have a bed available and I wasn't a really nice guy. They escorted me out to the street. I was defeated – I was going to go to Hastings and Carrall and rip off a dealer I didn't care if I lived or died. I came to Carrall street and this blonde haired man standing in front of a building asked me how I was doing I don’t remember exactly what that conversation was but I remember him smiling and saying, “looks like you’re having a bad day, why don’t you go in and have a coffee?”

He asked me if there was anyone he could call for me but I said I burnt all my bridges there is no one. While sitting there Drew was talking to John at the counter talking about God and Jesus. Well I saw the shelter list and I was going to test their God. I picked up the shelter list and said you can call them and see if they have a bed. I already knew they didn’t.

            “Well,” Drew said to John, “let us pray before we call.”

I remember rolling my eyes into my forehead thinking what have I got myself into. Well, this was the first time I saw prayers answered, and I started to believe there must be a God, because this place had a bed for me.

I spent the next three days there at the shelter and never once wanted to use or drink. On the Monday I started to seriously want to quit drinking and drugging. I ended up going to Union Gospel Mission where I was helped by more Christians. They prayed for me and got me into a shelter out of the downtown core to wait for a bed in their recovery program.

That Wednesday, I came to the Carrall Street Mission and was still in AWE of God’s wonderful power and that evening in front of a small group of people in this room I asked Jesus into my heart as my personal Savior. The power of the Holy Spirit came upon me my knees went weak and I had such a feeling of Love and Joy that I had never felt before, I was given such a high that no drug could get me to.

I remember to this day that feeling and I would like to say that it’s been nothing but good times since then but it hasn’t: I’ve had many days that were horrible and I forgot about the love that Jesus has for me I spent the next few years struggling but I was searching for God’s love mostly in the wrong places I thought I could do things on my own, I have since put my trust in God.

I know now that everything that has happened has happened for the benefit of my good. For He has nothing but good for those that believe.

Today, I am 18 months clean and sober. I attend a Christian recovery group called Celebrate Recovery. I know that Jesus is in these rooms with us healing the broken and the hurt. I thank God for the day that I was so broken that I asked him to deliver me and so far he has been. I pray for all the people stuck in this lost and evil area of addiction and alcoholism that the Lord will bring them into his Grace as well.  I also thank God for my brother Drew and John who God used to soften my heart to actually hear his voice and feel his love. Since coming to Christ, He has brought my daughter back into my life after 16 years and I now have 4 grandsons that I have met and look forward to watching them grow up.

I am not a lucky man but I am truly Blessed by God.

Click here to hear Terry tell this story.