Back to Christmas

I have been encouraged this holiday season.  An increasing number of people, including co-workers, store employees and people on the streets are reverting to saying “Merry Christmas.”  Not one retailer has wished me anything other than “Merry Christmas” and I think that simple gesture helps to bring in the spirit of season.

After a number of years of political correctness being shoved down the throats of Canadians, Common Sense seems to be making it’s long awaited return.  In all likelihood, Common Sense is just visiting for the holidays and we will soon resume taking a stand for nothing…other than a stand against offending someone.  But the holiday is called Christmas, no matter what you believe.  December 25 is Christmas Day, just as July 1^st is Canada Day if you’re not Canadian, and February 14^th is Valentine’s Day even if you’re not in love.

If you happen to be one of those who is wrapped up in celebrating a completely non-offensive and politically correct holiday, do you enjoy living?  Don’t change Christmas for the rest of us.  Actually, if you aren’t celebrating Christmas, what exactly are you doing on December 25^th?

Everyone has a story.  Let those who celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ have Christmas.  That’s the story that gives you Christmas anyways.

Welfare Mentality

“I have to start school in January or they’ll kick me off welfare.”  It was intended to draw sympathy to the person’s plight, but it stirred me.  It actually disturbed me.  Truth be told, it’s disgusted me.

Call me prejudice or oppressive, but take a moment to hear me out. 

The latest statistics that I could find show there are 201,600 welfare cases in Ontario, with 382,000 total recipients.

Welfare was created to help people through difficult times.  That’s noble. 

Welfare was not created to develop a lifestyle.  That’s enabling. 

Approximately $1200 per month is paid to a parent with one child (plus the child tax benefit which I understand is at least $200 to a non-working parent, tax credits, GST returns and other government incentives).   A run down on the province’s website that summarizes the benefits for those receiving social assistance can be found here, including dental and vision care as well as prescription coverage.

There are many individuals and families who maintain employment, yet do not receive the same benefits.

My struggle with the claim of attending school to maintain welfare is this: there is no internal drive to become a “better person.”  There fails to be an intrinsic value on bettering one’s self.  No drive to gain employment.  No drive to create a self sustaining life or contribute to the community.

Instead, a mindset has been developed that makes welfare a career of choice.

How has our system of social supports created a segment of our communities that are content to only receive without giving?  Even more disconcerting, to limit one’s potential?  If we allow our neighbours and fellow community members to limit themselves, aren’t we allowing ourselves to be hurt too?  We are in this together. 

I am not disgusted with the person who made the statement.  I am disgusted that we have allowed this to become a viable option.

Everyone has a story.  I hope that I can be a part of showing people that they have so much more potential in their life and I hope that you will join me to encourage people in your circle of influence.  To do otherwise is to allow mediocrity to become the standard, and leave a life’s story unwritten, unread, and untold.

It's a lifestyle. Live with purpose, on purpose.

I think it all began when I was a child living in the Old Atkinson house on the fourth concession.  It was a big white farmhouse that had been abandoned for a few years when my parents decided to move in.  The landlord kept the rent cheap and said that we could stay there, as long as we did the renos and refurbs.  At least, that’s how my memory plays it out.

There was a Christmas in the 1980’s that stands out.  We had three extra house guests.  Three men who were invited for Christmas from a London outreach centre.  I don’t recall their names, although one was called “Stretch.”  As gifts they were each given a bible, socks and a pack of cigarettes.  

I can’t really say why this stands out, but it is well embedded in my memory as a significant event.  Looking back, I think it spawned in me a desire to serve.  To serve those in need of material needs, basic needs, emotional needs, and need to know Jesus.

In 2008 I traveled on my first “missions trip.”  As a part of a team of 10, we went to Russia to do some construction work.  We spent the week working exceptionally fast at framing and dry walling an apartment for an orphanage.  We spent two weeks in Russia, tucked away between Mongolia and Kazakhstan, just above China.  There was a moment in time as I walked down the dirt road on a cold September morning that it struck me.  I was on the other side of the world.  Walking on a dirt road, forgotten, even unknown, by much of the world.  And in that moment, God knew where I was.

I took advantage of a day off to venture into the inner city slums with a group from the church that brought us over.  This area of town was known for heroin use.  There were needles on the children’s playground.  It was a world that I had never seen before.  I walked through the apartments with the Pastor and met with various residents.  They welcomed us in, knowing we were from the church.  One family was kind enough to put the bag of heroin in the small oven while we visited so it was, well, out of sight I suppose.

We met a man who was a sniper and daily relived the memories of the multiple lives he took in the name of service to his country.  He lived a dirty, tiny apartment with rotting floors that had deteriorated from leaking pipes.  But he saw the hope that was offered through Jesus.

In 2009 I traveled to Cuba with my son.  People were so caring, so loving towards us.  We blessed them with material goods for ministry, but left with far more in our heart and memory.  The efforts they took to make us feel welcome was so unnecessary, yet they poured our their love to us.

I climbed a homemade ladder to cut coconuts from a tree.  We helped paint a home.  We gave children animal puppets and watched their faces light up.  

We left with more that we came with.  We came home with a change in our hearts and attitudes.

Last weekend, we took a different sort of trip.  We loaded up the van and headed to Columbus, Ohio for the weekend.  The Ohio Central chapter of the Heaven’s Saints Motorcycle Ministry reach out to the homeless once a month with material supplies, food, friendship, and prayer.

I haven’t seen in our city what I witnessed in Columbus.  Men and women living in tents, some held together with duct tape.  Some living in plywood shacks, ones that they call home.  I expected to see a level of greed when it came to giving out blankets, clothing, and food.

But there was none of that.

These men and women were all polite, humble, and engaging.  They were a community, a sort of family.

Tattoo, Angel, Ron

We met a women, Angel, who lived on the streets and struggled with addiction.  She found salvation in Christ through the outreach ministry of the Heaven’s Saints who led her to a new understanding of Jesus.  Angel is now off the streets, living in an apartment, has a job, and has been clean from drugs.  She knows it’s still a struggle, but there was a genuine smile and glimmer in her eye that you just knew she was the real deal.  A success of sorts.

We met Dale, a homeless man who was cutting trees to make some money.  Last week he was cutting a tree when the chain saw kicked back and seriously injured his legs.  He received 181 stitches, a prescription for pain medication and sent back to his shack with a walker and a wheel chair.  Dale had no money for medication and was suffering excruciating pain.  The Heaven’s Saints came along side him to help carry his burden.  Together, we took him to the pharmacy to have his doctors prescription filled.  We prayed with him.  He later told us that he had been laying in his bed in the shack in the woods, praying that the Heaven’s Saints would arrive because he knew they would help out if possible.

We met Mike, a homeless man living in a tent by the railroad tracks under an overpass.  Mike lost his job last December.  He lost his home and was staying in hotels until last month when he was forced out to the street.  Broke.  Homeless.  Mike hasn’t lost hope though, he will keep looking for work.  We were able to bless him with a blanket, pants, batteries, propane, and food.

We met another man named Mike.  He was just a young guy with incredible art skills.  I looked through three of his books and papers that he had compiled.  Bob, who was ministering with us that day, has strong connections in the arts community and he was able to give suggestions and make connections for Mike.  We wish him the best.

Finally, we met Frank.  He moved to the US from Germany over 20 years ago.  Due to job loss and health problems, he has found himself homeless and living in a tent.  Frank has nerve problems in his back that his in undergoing surgery for in the coming month.  The procedure he is having costs roughly $1200 twice a year, and needs to be done repeatedly.  He has been able to get the cost covered for the first two years, but is then on his own.  Fortunately, he has a friend who recently landed a good job and is able to bring Frank on board to the company in two months, after his surgery.  I asked Frank if he would be looking to leave the tent community after he started his new job.  His response spoke volumes to the closeness of the community, the family.  “No.  Not for a while.  I want to stay and help the others out with their needs.”

Sharing another’s burdens.  Not taking them away, or carrying them for them.  Helping carry their burdens.

I believe that each of us who serves selflessly ends up receiving more than we give.  Whether we volunteer in social services working with young children, helping to mentor a young mother to build her skills, when we secretly give much needed money to a friend in need, or travel the world doing work on the ‘mission field.’ we are blessed with a satisfaction of doing the things that we know we should do.

Tattoo, Sam, Ron, Me

I continue to come back from these sorts of trips with a real sense of blessing.  And a better understanding that all of our belongings are just, well, just stuff.  We really need very little to get by and be happy.  Relationships are what sustains us, above our basic physical needs.

Relationships.  People who care about each other.  People who come alongside one another and help carry their burdens.  People who can sit and talk, and care, and pray.

Relationships.

What began in the 1980's in the old white farm house, has crept into the fabric of our family.  Missions.

Everyone has a story.  No matter how down and out any person may seem, everyone has a story.  Missions is a lifestyle, not an event.  Live your life on purpose, with a purpose.

Hitler? I don't see it.

This morning.  That’s when I decided I would vent a bit about this particular, shall I call it, “trend.”  For years, I have had a goatee, or a beard, or a soul patch, or some sort of facial hair.  Everyone has a preference to the look they choose, and certainly not everyone is accepting of it, nor do I necessarily expect them to.  Our appearance, that which we create is part of our identity and can be changed as we see fit.  If I shave it all off, you can see both chins and the main one feels funny, so I keep a little blanket on my face.

But over the past few months, I have encountered an increasing number of people who feel it is acceptable to make comments about my appearance.  These range from “What’s that on your face?” to “When are you going to shave that off” to “Are those pubic hairs” to “I don’t know if I should call you Hitler or what.”  Really.  Pubic hair and Hitler?  Understand, please, good natured ribbing amongst friends is entirely different than mere acquaintances making such statements.  It’s the dynamic of a relationship that changes the way a message is received.

I wouldn’t consider walking up to someone and saying, “Your butt is looking particularly large today,” or “That hairstyle really compliments the road kill you peeled it off of,” or even “Do you have a nest of baby vultures living amongst your follicles?”  I wouldn’t say it for a simple reason.  It’s rude.

I am quite comfortable with who I am.  I like the way I look, with the exception of a few pounds but I am working on that.  I am me.

Basically, I am sorry you don’t like the way I look, but I probably have a few comments to make about you too.  The difference is, I have the respect to keep it to myself and accept you as you are.

Everyone has a story.  I am the main character in mine, perfect for my own story line.

Memories

When someone dies, we mourn.  We mourn the loss of their life, but we feel the loss in our life.  It’s like a small part of us ceases to exist except in the recesses of our mind.  

It is said that scent is the strongest trigger for memories, and I suspect it’s true.  There are a few smells that bring me back to childhood, like the smell of the dump.  We used to live near the dump in Dorchester. My friend, Russell, and I would treasure hunt there all the time, before it was considered trespassing.  The smell of the swamps where we used to capture salamanders, frogs, and turtles.  The smell of cedar reminds me of an old trunk that my grandma had in her house.  The fresh aroma of harvest takes me back to growing up in the country and riding in the combine with the landlord.  Certain smells, specific memories.

Sounds also cause memories to creep back into history.  There are songs from the 80’s and 90’s that take me back to school dances and the days when my wife and I began dating.  Our wedding song takes me to a specific date with beautiful memories.  Sadly, these songs are now considered classics...and I didn’t even know I had aged that much.

But there are clear memories that have no mystic trigger, they are just memories.  When someone dies, the memories come back, for some it’s like a flood.  Some may feel they are drowning in the flood of memories.

What do you do with the memories?  If you happened to have grown up with someone who went on to fame, you have a direct connection to the sorrow that everyone is supposed to feel.  If you don’t feel the same sorrow, does it make you a lesser person?  Maybe a bit heartless?

In 2011 we have seen the loss of NDP Leader Jack Layton, Shawn Tompkins (MMA trainer at Tapout in Las Vegas), Amy Winehouse (Singer), Kelly Thomas (homeless man), Betty Ford (Former American First Lady), Saif al-Arab al-Gaddafi (son of leader Muammar Gaddafi), Serge LeClerc (Canadian pardoned criminal and politician), and Shrek (New Zealand celebrity sheep), as well as hundreds more.

Your level of mourning depends on your relationship and experiences with each of these people, even Shrek.  We live in relationships so we are inevitably impacted by loss and suffering, but context is required.  I was active in the local NDP and union issues at one point so I felt a degree of loss for Jack.  I went to school with Shawn Tompkins so it was closer to home and he was my age.  I didn’t care for Amy Winehouse’s music or the image she represented, but her family is left to carry on without her.  Kelly Thomas, well, that’s a sad story.  Saif al-Arab al-Gaddafi was a celebrated death by many in the journey to Libyan freedom. And so it goes.

Although we may not appreciate someone, may not agree with their political stripe or their past actions, we put aside the negative and understand that there are those who were close to the deceased who will have to move forward without them.  Yes, even Shrek.

Our memories will remain with us.  Does sharing the negativity of the past help in the healing?  I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think the celebration of someone’s loss and suffering is intended to be a positive experience.

Everyone has a story.  How will yours be remembered?