Beautifully Broken

Walking past a door in Victoria, I saw a poster regarding the late Peter Verin.

My previous blog: “HomeFree—Not Homeless” concluded with the post about Peter’s passing, as I attended his outdoor service. When a basket was passed along for donations for a commemorative bench, I gave what I could…$3.00.

Now, as I stood reading the poster taped onto the door, I discovered a celebration of life was held on Sunday, June 11^th, 2017, for the dedication of Mr. Peter Verin’s memorial bench. At that moment, I felt as if someone was holding onto my weary heart, letting me know I am not alone, as I navigate the uncertainty of my own life. There was sadness that I had missed this special dedication, yet everyday proves its own set of challenges in where I end up. 

Walking away, I thought of my daughter’s memorial bench, overlooking Okanagan Lake. In dealing with the celebratory dedication, was my dearest friend Michelle. When I felt vulnerable within my surroundings, she came alongside me as a mother herself, to let me know the tears she shed along with the balloons released, were from the depths of her heart breaking for me. 

Michelle and I at Shayla Rae Dawn Driver's Bench.

Along this path of displacement, I have met human souls that once walked amongst those visible in life. I recall walking down an alley, where fragments of scattered lives were intertwined with the pieces of garbage they leaned on. 

A man wrapped in a Johnny Cash jacket approached me. His rail thin proportions seemed drowned in the coal layers, while a course of white drooped from his face. This gave the appearance of a weathered Cash dressed as St. Nick.  His words were both simple and reeked of the truth: 

“You must have taken a wrong turn,” his gruff voice remarked.

Thrusting a bag forward filled of winter goods, I feel a smile creeping upon my wrinkles.

“Would you like anything?”  I inquire.

My purpose of my visit is to offer those on Christmas Day, something that reminds others that I care.

His face softens and as he shakes his halo of white hair, he replies:

“No ma’am, please give it to someone else who deserves it.”

I feel my hands clench my bag as I stood before this fellow man, his contrasts of black and white, echoed rejection.

“Everyone deserves a little something, especially on this day.” I choke back on my tears.

He looks me up and down; a moment of curiosity comes forth in his lingering words:

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

I take the time to share about my child, the one with a golden heart, whose compassion surges through me. I see his hands start to tremble and what is exchanged in our conversation links our paths in tragic loss. St. Nick tells of a life that included a well-established business, a wife and child. The actions of another would seal forever, the fate of the three of them.  A drunk driver took the love of his life and only child away. A prescription for painkillers led to a raging addiction and removed his home, employment and life he once knew. As his words of mourning fell from his lips, I watched as his bent finger tapped the pin I was wearing, in memory of my daughter. Looking up at me, he asked:

“Now you tell me what separates us out here on the streets?”

Shaking my head and allowing the cold air to cradle my tears, I mumbled: “Absolutely nothing sir.” 

St. Nick and I embraced one another in a hug that was dipped in grief. This tender moment of relating, was a reminder that our lives were dislocated; two individuals whose death had paid a visit, showing no mercy. Still, what could not be torn from us was a bonding of survivorship that saw us find one another on a day of giving.

In my travels, I have been immersed in a world that never could I imagine being part of. 

Last month while in Nanaimo seeking out the jobs in the area, my life was enriched by a man I will call Smitty-- whose generosity brought me peace and comfort. I met him at a local coffee shop, as he was gathering beverage containers. 

My car, filled to the rim with remnants of my life, was parked next to his vehicle. As he made his way to the parking lot, Smitty glanced over. As I opened the car door he remarked:

“Either you’re in the midst of moving or you’re living in the car.”

His blunt words hung in the air. Abruptly, he opened his door and as I looked inside, I could see his home was also his vehicle.

We struck up a conversation and as he spoke of being a Christian, he also mentioned a diagnosis of Bipolar. Leaning in he asked me quizzically:

“Do you know what that is?”

Part of me wanted to start chuckling as here we were: two Christians, homeless and dealing with the same mental illness.

“I have Bipolar too, I replied.”

“No kidding…well there’s no such thing as coincidence, Jesus knows what he's doing!” he smiled with an upper, toothless grin.  

During our time chatting, I shared about my work injuries and what had led me to becoming a ‘home-free’ person. Smitty asked questions that reflected his caring about others. He wanted to know if my vehicle had any gas, or had I eaten at all. I shared I was waiting on the next deposit into my account from my claim and only had .60 cents.  Without hesitation, Smitty gave me some money and I began to cry. As he hugged me, this man who was a stranger 10 minutes earlier, said:

“Now go across the street and get some gas…and a chocolate bar, ‘cause that will make you happy.” 

When I asked to pay him back, he refused saying: “Over the years, many people have helped me out…just pay it forward one day, when you can.” 

A few days later, when it was discovered my new tent had leaks in it, Smitty met me again at the coffee shop with three tarps; carefully explaining that if I listened and did as he said, there would be no more water issues. 

Later in the week, I came to show my friend how proud I was to have set up the tarps as he had instructed which resulted in a warm, insulated space for the next thirty days.

It brought joy to Smitty, knowing he had been able to help, someone else in need.

Had it not been for my meeting these angels disguised as ordinary people, my heart would not have known the grace of their sharing.

By TL Alton 

*Some Names have been changed to protect their identities.