Black Friday. The real sign that we have swung into the Christmas season. As we are inundated by appeals from the Mustard Seed and Salvation Army among others, the dream I had last night isn’t all that surprising. I was at a Tim Hortons (how very Canadian of me) and a down and out fellow shuffled into the place and rattled enough change onto the counter to buy a large double-double. He eyed the doughnuts on display, the menu above the cashiers, and he sat down with his coffee. At some point in the dream, I bought the fellow breakfast to the disapproving stares of others in the building. As I paid for his meal, something compelled me to tell them why I was doing it. I can still feel the emotion of my response.
This is Bill. Bill is why.
Homelessness often starts with mental illness or addiction. Our home growing up had one which led to the other. Our mother didn’t become homeless, only because her husband took “for better for worse, in sickness and in health” rather seriously.
I won the genetic lottery, not in looks but mental wellness… for the most part. (The name “Crazy Woman” given to me by a couple of our indigenous instructors notwithstanding). My brother won a good dose of charm and a propensity for addiction. Nothing he chose, nothing he wanted, just the luck of the draw.
His struggles began to see light in his teenage years and for many years he struggled. Lost licenses, lost marriage, lost respect.
Finally, he moved from hospital to a treatment facility and came out with the addiction pushed to the background. He got married again and had three beautiful children who he loved to the moon and back. One with the family dimple, one who looked a lot like him and one who possessed a natural joy. He went above and beyond for a Dad of this era; after a full day of work, his evening often consisted of bathing the kids, getting them into their PJ’s, folding laundry and choosing their clothes for the next day.
He loved every minute of it.
For 12 years, he worked, supported his family, rejoined society and loved those kids. Then one day it slipped a little when he got a taste of a new addiction. Often it isn’t the original addiction that gets someone who has walked that path before…
He slipped completely after our Dad died. Dad had always held him up when the going got tough, just as he had with my mother. I can’t imagine what it must have felt like to lose that safety net entirely. I know it was painful to watch him fall.
One thing remained constant. He loved those kids.
He wasn’t able to see his children during those tough times. He sunk deeper; that loss was the toughest of all. As his addiction took more control, he ended up living in his truck in the parking lot of our childhood church: this good looking happy child, this handsome outdoors-loving teen, this loving father… was homeless.
It seemingly ended on a train track in Southern Alberta one night. What Bill didn’t know was he still lived in the hearts of his kids, especially the oldest who remembered the good times best. She remembered him still when she got married last summer, and I was honoured to join her other auntie walking her down the aisle in his place.
My niece had given her uncle a picture of her Dad to take throughout the day, to the ceremony, awaiting her at the altar, to picture taking, and at the reception, joining us at our table. At one point in the evening he even joined her and uncle in a dance.
She never stopped missing him. Addicted or not, homeless or not…she missed who he had been in their lives. This oldest girl has tried to help the younger two know him the best she can.
As her sister plans a wedding and her brother reestablishes his relationship with his sisters, she misses who he could have been in their lives.
Next year Bill becomes a Grandpa and I know what a special thing being a grandparent is. (The baby will call me Grauntie! )
My brother wasn’t at his best during his moments of crisis but I loved him too (even when I didn’t like him) because I remembered the entirety of his journey.
As many communities face an opioid crisis and are repelled by lost souls more visible than ever, it’s hard to remember their humanity. Their previous lives may have included parenthood, home ownership, satisfying work…Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, sons and daughters. We remembered this during my husband’s birthday party at a park in Calgary, AB this summer.
Behind this photo is a fellow who entered the park, pushing a shopping cart. One of my girls brought him food from our barbecue, he rescued our ball from the river, and we expressed our heartfelt thanks. (It was rather amazing what he could invent from the contents of that cart.) The most important moment of that day for this guy? It was probably when my husband turned to him and asked, “So what’s your story?” Hubby told him he didn’t have to share, but my husband caring to hear it was likely a humanizing moment. He did share, and his journey wasn’t far from my brother’s. By the end of the day, the grandkids were asking him if he wanted the plastic tablecloths, and we left him some more food for his next meal… not because we pitied him but because we were just helping a guy out who joined our party for a while.
We all thought of Bill.
When next you see someone camped out or existing in some marginal way, I would never ask you to approach, some addictions are truly scary. I only ask that you adjust your mind to their humanity, to this face of homelessness.
This is Bill. This is why.
Happy 63rd birthday bro…
Path to Pasture 