It had been a long, stressful, and difficult day, and my heart was not in the best shape. To make matters worse, I was arriving at the Wednesday drop-in later than usual, and I dreaded entering the large, crowded atrium in the middle of dinner time. The room would be packed, every seat filled, and conversations underway. And, although I knew I belonged here, I suddenly felt like an outsider arriving for the first time, anxious and a little intimidated. I didn’t want to go in. Even though I normally felt at home and comfortable at Sanctuary, I found myself praying: “God, give me courage…”

Entering the room, I crossed quickly between busy tables, wishing to be invisible for a moment. The room buzzed with dinner activity and chatter, and I had trouble feeling at ease. I headed for the refuge of the kitchen, but before I could get very far, I heard someone yelling my name, and then saw Jake waving at me. “Over here! I saved you a seat!” Jake came to our drop-ins every week, desperate for friendship and support. He’d been struggling with anxiety, depression, and loneliness for months; it took every ounce of his focus and energy just to keep himself together and above water, let alone help others. Yet, today, he had thought of me.

And as I sank into the empty chair beside him, I immediately began putting away my own anxiousness and hurts from the day, so that I could care for Jake. But to my surprise, he had a different idea. Giving me a big heartfelt smile, he somehow sensed my need, and was completely ready to care for me.

“How are you?” he asked, handing me a plate and cutlery, and welcoming me to the table. “Would you like some lasagna?”

“Yes, thanks,” I said, feeling surprised. He leaned over and asked the next table if they would share what they had left. When they handed him the glass dish, he served some hot lasagna onto my plate.

“You want some juice?” I nodded, and he filled my glass. “Salad? A napkin?” Again, I nodded, and he quietly and gently served me, giving me a kind look every now and again. Glancing around, I took in the familiar faces of my friends around the table—they were talking, laughing and sharing stories, and I finally relaxed a little into that feeling of knowing I was ‘home’.

Later, after supper was over, Jake came with dessert, and brought me some tea. I felt so grateful for how he loved and cared for me through these seemingly small gestures. Though to be honest, my pride tempted me to swing back into the predictable pattern, where Jake was the vulnerable one, and I was the one he turned to for help. That way he could need me, and not the other way around. That seemed easier; more what I was used to. But God spoke insistently to my heart: “All you need to do right now is let yourself be cared for. Let Jake love you, and let me love you through him. Just receive this love.”

Suddenly in that moment, I understood that in Jake was Jesus, washing my feet. And there was nothing to do but receive. I was reminded of something a good friend had said to me the week before: “We need to be a sanctuary for you, too.” These words came true as God showed up in Jake, giving me a space to be weak. Even with nothing to give, I was enough.

There is a song we often sing on Sunday nights during worship: “Lord prepare me, to be a Sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true…” What does this mean exactly, to be a sanctuary? Perhaps becoming God’s dwelling place for one another, a beautiful place set apart and made holy. A safe place to be honoured in our weaker moments. A place where someone says, “You have cared for me. Now let me care for you.”

When I finished eating, Jake gracefully took my dishes without a word. “Thank you for your kindness,” I said. “When I arrived tonight, I was feeling…” I hesitated, not wanting to admit how anxious I had been. He gave me a knowing nod. “You felt awkward. Out of place. I get it.” He knew that feeling all too well. And as we kept chatting and hanging out that night, there was no more rich and poor, strong and weak, helper and helped—no ‘one above the other’. There was only genuine friendship and understanding, both of us caring for each other, and walking together in the same direction.

Ever wonder what we are up to Mondays at Sanctuary? This photo story will give you a closer look into a typical Monday drop-in. The fun, friendships, community, support, meal… but most of all, the togetherness and belonging, and walking through life with friends beside us. Please visit us anytime at our drop-ins. We’d love to meet you and spend time with you! We are learning to be a healthy and welcoming community — will you join us?

 
Before the drop-in even begins on Mondays, members of our community gather to prepare the lunch meal. Everyone is welcome in the kitchen, as we hang out, talk, joke, catch up on our lives, and get to know one another better — all while slicing bread, preparing sandwiches, cutting tomatoes and pickles, and making coffee and juice. For many of us who live alone, we feel blessed to prepare meals together as a family. And of course… depending on the day… there is always a little bit (or lot) of off-key singing! Any requests?
 

We keep the Monday meal simple… sandwiches, and sometimes a side of soup, rice, or hot chili, especially during the winter months. We are grateful that we partner with churches and community members who bring us snacks and dessert treats, which are always deeply appreciated by our friends. We’ve also been lucky enough to have a volunteer who has been baking bread for us, which means the sandwiches are delicious, the bread is hot from the oven, and the drop-in smells like home.
 

Every week, in the bright atrium with windows from floor to high ceiling, we set up enough tables and chairs for a large crowd. Usually 6-8 people per table, because we love to eat together, play cards, and spend time just hanging out and being present with one another. We love it when everyone gets involved in set-up and clean-up, because it means contributing and participating together as a community. Through the atrium windows, we’ve seen sun, rain, snow, wind, storms, and all the seasons. No matter what the weather, season, or holiday, the drop-in is always open!
 

We don’t serve our friends from behind a table or counter. We would rather sit with them, eat with them, and be around a table with them. This eliminates the power imbalance of ‘server’ and ‘served’, and lets us all be on the same level, as people in need and children of God. It means that no matter what our struggles, barriers, or different walks of life, we get to be sanctuary and receive sanctuary. We find healing. As we share our stories with each other, we also find our place in our larger community story and in God’s story. 
 

If you ask us how you can help with lunch, we will tell you where we need you most: sitting with our friends and getting to know them. We recognize at Sanctuary that poverty stems largely from a lack of social connection. Many of our friends are homeless — not in the sense of lacking a physical structure where they can sleep at night (though many of them lack that too), but lacking a place where they have friends and family, a place where they belong and feel cared about. The more we get to know one another, and the deeper our relationships and connection, the more we find home together.
 

We are the same. We are different. We all want to be wanted. As you sit down with our friends, you might be surprised to find how much God meets you through them. How his truth and grace is for everyone. Many of our friends have been lonely, hurt, and excluded from community in the past. At Sanctuary, we get to make mistakes and we get to mess up, and we are always welcomed back and loved no matter what. We are learning what community means and what forgiveness means… and the learning never ends.
 

Most importantly, we love to have fun together! We love to laugh together, and relax together. We love to be ourselves. If you swing by a drop-in to visit us, you might find yourself caught up in a friendly game of euchre, crazy eights, or crokinole, doing a crossword, or learning to knit. While our community has experienced much sorrow and pain, we also find joy! We want to celebrate together the healing and good times God gives us, the amazing things he is doing in our midst, and his light that comes in darkness: “Behold, I am doing a new thing. Do you not perceive it?”
 

Children are very important to us in our Sanctuary community. They allow us to be present and feel joy in the simple moments. They teach us about vulnerability and trust and faith. They teach us to see the world through new eyes, through the eyes of Christ. They love us unconditionally and remind us that we are all children of God. They bring smiles to the faces of our friends, and allow us to be a part of a family that some of us have never had before.
 

Every week, at the end of our drop-in at 2:00pm, we gather together for an hour of informal bible study. We love to ask questions, wrestle with hard topics and truths, and share our worries and burdens. With God’s grace, we seek to know and love Christ together more deeply, to become more like him, and to pursue his love constantly, just as he pursues us. Each of us come with different backgrounds and levels of understanding, but we learn from each other, and everyone is always welcome.  As we gather at the feet of Jesus, the gospel comes alive, and we realize we are the Samaritan woman, the tax collector, the blind man, the paralytic, the bleeding woman, Martha, Mary, Jairus… it is in them that we find our identity and value in God.   

It was an early spring day, rainy, mid-March, and the drop-in was crowded with people coming in from the damp cold, stamping water off their boots, and gathering around tables for warm soup and sandwiches. Luke and I were sitting by the piano away from the crowd, chatting about his week, and the piano reminded me of the songs we sang during our worship service the night before. I asked him if he was happy we’d sung Amazing Grace, remembering how he had told me he loved that song more than anything. I began to play a few of the piano notes absentmindedly: Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. Suddenly, taking me by surprise, Luke became upset and began to yell, his eyes turning red with tears: “Stop it! Stop playing! I can’t stand hearing that f—ing song right now. I hate it!”

I tried to understand what was upsetting him, as he threw his most honest and challenging questions at me: “Why would God ever love me?” he asked. “I’ve made so many mistakes! Why would he ever forgive someone as stupid and screwed up as me? Where is his grace?” I tried to reassure him that God loved him so much, that his grace was pouring over him at that very moment.

“No!” he said. “Stop saying that! God’s grace is for everyone else, but not for me… ” After some time of sitting in silence, he finally told me that he loved that song because he wanted so much to have God’s grace, but he hated that song because he didn’t feel he deserved the grace he so longed for. And the more we talked about grace, the more I became aware of the feeling that God’s grace was pouring over me too, in the middle of this very conversation—and it was pouring over me through Luke. I felt a space opening up inside me where my own hurts could more freely emerge, and I felt blessed that Luke trusted our friendship enough to be so real with me. His brokenness made room for my own brokenness.

Then, very slowly, I became aware of something else lingering deep down–something I didn’t like and didn’t want to admit to myself, something I felt embarrassed about: the realization that along with those feelings of blessing, were much deeper feelings of envy. Envy that Luke could just pour it all out so easily… I was frustrated with myself. Here I really wanted to respond with love, and instead, found myself envious of his honest outpouring, his blunt way of sharing, his comfort with saying exactly what he felt while trusting I wouldn’t walk away from him. I envied the space he had to really be himself—and I longed for that.

A couple of weeks later, Luke and I were at a coffee shop with another friend, celebrating his birthday, and I was reminded of our earlier conversation. I told him what a gift he was to me through his honesty, and I thanked him. “You are one of my teachers,” I said. He looked at me, beaming, but also confused. “I am? Really? Why?” I explained how sometimes I, like so many others, hide behind a mask, and that he teaches me to take it off.

“A mask?” he asked. “What do you mean?” As I shared how so many of us wear a mask to hide our pain and convince the world we have it all together, Luke looked at me in total disbelief, astonished that anyone would do this. “But why?” he asked. “Why would you do that? Why??”

Some of my friends at Sanctuary have been my best teachers, because they are not afraid to really be themselves—to be weak and vulnerable, and to fully express their needs as they come. I learn from them that God’s glory is found in our weakness. That heaven and earth overlap in the very place we don’t think the Kingdom would ever want to show up in us. In what feels like an ugly mess, God’s grace is waiting. When Luke lets his weakness shine into my life, he gives me a beautiful gift: a safe place where God finds me and tells me that my own weakness is also loved by him. Luke teaches me that the cross is found in our moments of trusting that when we reveal our brokenness, God will not leave us nor forsake us, and that maybe, just maybe, neither will our friends.

I love you… You matter to me… I will not leave you.We long to hear these affirmations, but when they come, we struggle to believe them. We push them away. That’s impossible, we say, I’m not good enough… why would someone want to love me?

I am standing with Claire behind a small house where some of us have gathered for a day of relaxing community time. Poplars graze the blue-grey sky and a steady April wind rushes through the leaves… normally a peaceful sound for me, but this afternoon, tension is high. For the past hour, Claire’s emotions have rollercoasted up and down, unleashing her pain and her paralyzing fear that the bright promise of love has, once again, gone and disappeared…

“Leave me alone!” she yells at me, her eyes dark and frenzied. “You’re not my f—ing friend after all. I thought I could trust you, but you don’t care about me!”

I am lost for words. So many people have abandoned Claire in her life – why would she believe I’m any different? Somehow I need to convince her that I will keep loving her no matter what…

I reassure her again. “I care about you very much. Nothing will change that.”

“I was stupid to come here today,” she yells. “No one wants me around!”

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

She wrings her hands together. “No, no, no you’re not! You’re not even my friend. You only care about Stephanie!”

I look her deep in the eyes and wish like crazy I could convince her. “I am your friend and you matter to me.”

Stephanie is a friend of Claire’s at Sanctuary, and despite their difficulty trusting, they have become close over the months. This morning, however, they got into a heated argument and said some hurtful things. Now, as Claire fears losing Stephanie’s friendship, she tells me she is scared she will also lose me, us – that her friends and community will choose Stephanie over her, and she will be forgotten. Or no longer wanted. Like so many of our Sanctuary friends, Claire is afraid there isn’t enough love to go around. She is caught in something called the zero sum game of love, and her fear of rejection has shaken her deep in her core.

In game theory, the zero sum game is a situation in which a gain or win by one person must be balanced with a loss by another, to equal zero. It assumes there is a fixed or finite amount of a particular resource that two or more people must compete for. When applied to love, this kind of thinking assumes there is not enough love for everyone – that if someone gains love, someone else must lose it; for example, if our close friend gives love to another friend, there might not be enough left over for us.

And haven’t so many of us experienced this same fear and wondered, why would someone love me when there are so many better people to love? Or, how could God possibly love me as much as he loves others, when they are obviously more blessed than me, more together than me, more loveable than me? How could I, with all my mess-ups, also be his beloved?

By the end of the afternoon, I am sitting with Claire in the deck chairs. She has calmed down, and stares out at the trees, sighing. “I guess you probably love me,” she says. “I guess I was just mad because I thought you only loved Stephanie. But I guess maybe you love me too.” Yes, yes I do.

Claire has told me before how the people in her past caused her indescribable hurt. She knows first-hand the devastation of love promised and then taken away: never a place to call ‘home.’ For many of us, we have searched so long for a place of home, that when we find it, we hang onto that love as tightly as possible.

But we are learning together that God blesses us with an abundance of love, a love that stretches as our community grows – not so we can keep it for ourselves, but so we can invite others into that same love. Our need to protect love is slowly being transformed into an ability to release love. We are a community working hard to figure out our place in a very large story of love – a story so human and real and close to home we barely dare to believe it, and a story so all-encompassing that it takes our breath away. As we live it out together, sometimes we get it right, and sometimes we don’t, but the process is always beautiful, always courageous, and always worth it…

One year ago, at our Wednesday Christmas drop-in, one of our Sanctuary friends gave me a small Christmas cactus. Pete is a very kind and soft-spoken man, with a spirit of love and generosity. He had shared with me that he didn’t have family, had lost his wife years ago, had very little money, and lived alone in a small bachelor apartment – a life that became very lonely sometimes. And yet, despite these struggles, he was bringing gifts to his friends! To me! The cactus was a beautiful blessing, reminding me that I was loved and not alone.

Two weeks ago, as our Sanctuary community headed into advent, I was stung by mixed emotions: sadness and grief of hopes laid down and dreams let go, together with the wonderment, anticipation, and deeper knowing of God bringing his own dreams to life with us – how a small candle of joy would be a big and bright light among us. I thought of many joyous moments when we saw God’s face and celebrated his healing; I also remembered the fears we carried: were we really God’s beloved? Would we really have good friends to walk through life with?

A few mornings ago, as I felt the weight of these thoughts, I walked into my kitchen to make a cup of tea, and there was the Christmas cactus Pete had given me one year ago, blooming bright red for the very first time. One large blossom had already reached completion, but there were a few tiny red buds still waiting to open into the fullness of the image God had made them to be, waiting on what was to come.

I thought about the Lord’s prayer: Your Kingdom come… on Earth as it is in Heaven. I knew what I desperately wanted it to look like. For hurts to be healed, broken relationships reconciled, hope renewed, and healthy love to blossom. Why were things still so messy, and when would they be set right? And what could I possibly offer my friends as I stood among them?

And then as I chatted with Darryl, he reminded me that this was exactly the thing we could offer: standing among one another, being with one another – so that none of us are alone in our struggles. Emmanuel. God with us. This, I realized, was the direction towards joy.

At Sanctuary, one of our favourite things to do is spend time together. In joy and celebration, and in hard times. Hanging out together at dropins, playing cards, telling funny stories, laughing at silly jokes, sharing our stories and hurt, and just being ourselves. Being home together. Being for each other a little bit of advent light. At our Wednesday dropin this week, we will share a Christmas meal – twelve tables of friends together – twelve families combined into one very large family. Thursday night, we will gather for another Christmas meal at First Baptist church, where almost 200 friends will gather from Sanctuary and Streetlight. All kinds of people with all kinds of stories – with homes and without, with family and without, with children and without, with healing and brokenness, with joy and with sorrow – and all having one thing in common – a desire for connection, togetherness, and home.

Last Sunday night, Gil reminded us that God looks at each of us with so much love – that we are already wonderful in his eyes. He is already pleased with us! He rejoices over us! And this is what I hope we can be for each other this Christmas and all year long: standing together, and reminding each other that we are God’s beloved, that he loves us, and that with us, he is well pleased. This is the good news born in a manger!

We pray that this Christmas, as friendships blossom and we walk together in love and community, God’s Kingdom will come just a little bit closer, and our dreams will meet his, just a little bit more.

Henry has been helping out in the kitchen here at Sanctuary for two or three months now.  Every Wednesday he is there at 3pm sharp, ready and excited to tackle whatever cooking adventure we have lined up for the day.  His heart to serve is not easily conceiled.

My conversations with Henry until this past week were mostly small talk.  I know that he is new to London and that he came from Toronto.  I know that he is a big football fan, although I can't quite remember what team he cheers for.  I also know that he is currently unable to hold employment because of a car accident that has done some severe damage to his back.  But beyond these few things, I don't know much about Henry's life.  He seems to rpefer to work silently.  A few weeks ago he single handedly peeled 50 pounds of potatoes without so much as a word of complaint.  And he is great with our community as well.  He's always encouraging, never belittling. 

I could tell that he knew his way around the kitchen, and when we were making apple crisp for desert, I watched in amazement as he peeled and sliced at least half a dozen apples by the time I was able to peel just one!

Until that day, he never let on just how much he knew.  So I had to ask, "Have you worked in a kitchen before, or is cooking just a hobby for you?

"Ya, I enjoy cooking," was his nonchalant response.  It took some pretty serious digging on my part before he would admit to me that he spent over 30 years in the hospitality industry before his accident.  He first worked as a prep line worker, and most recently as manager of a number of high end kitchens in Toronto!  And even with all of these years of experience, this trained professional was taking orders from me….  From me!  The guy who recently added four cups of corn starch to help 'thicken up the gravy a little' (instead of a few teaspoons…… who knew the difference?).

I can't believe that Henry never once tried to take over, or at least try to show me a better way of doing things.  Instead, he always asked me what I would like him to do, and how I wanted him to do it.  This is the kind of person I strive to be like.  A heart completely filled with humility.  One who empowers others by serving in complete submission, even when I think that I know a better way of doing things.

One thing I can tell you for sure.  The next time Henry comes to help in the kitchen, I think I'll let him slice the apples the way he thinks they should be sliced.

Here in this kitchen with my Sanctuary friends,
we are learning to make bread. Adding the yeast,
kneading the dough, rest fifteen minutes,
rest and repeat, rest and release, love and release.
My bread is rising. My prayers are rising
into the warm room like a flutter of birds
into hope. I want to stay here, where I can do nothing
but watch the bread rise, here in this kitchen
of order and knowing, with its recipes
and predictable outcomes, smooth cupboards,
cool glide of stainless steel, bright lights steady
as the humdrum of rain outside.
Because everywhere else, things get messy.
There are so many people hurting out there
on the streets, and so many questions
without answers. There is a brother or sister
we keep running from, a family falling apart,
a constant fear that love won’t last.
And I want to be there, fully present in the midst
of what is not yet fully risen—
in the waiting for the rising that comes
when the darkness of Saturday is over. But I also
want, for this one hour, to just make bread
with my friends, where I can rely on patterns
of measuring and pouring, of kneading and folding
the dough over and over again. Where I can be
sure of the outcome and pretend I have some control
over the world by loving things
enough to make them love me back.
Where I can pretend to myself
there is a recipe even for this: for stopping someone
from leaving me by loving them enough.
And where, mostly, I am learning the deeper truth
of the matter: that love can only be given as a gift,
that love cannot make anyone do or not do anything—
just as in the warmth of this kitchen,
where things that are measured are also spilling
over, the bread rises freely
simply because it wants to.

On August 10th of this past summer, I joined eighty thousand other fans from around the world to cheer for Oscar Pistorius as he ran the final leg of the 4x400m final at the London Olympics. Yes, I was at the Olympics in London England!

Earlier this spring, my ten year old son Isaiah was nominated by his hockey coach for an award through McDonald's for leadership, sportsmanship, fitness level, and community involvement. According to the essay submitted by his coach, he was a stand-out on his hockey team. We included in Isaiah's "community involvement" component his participation in Sanctuary London — where he joins us regularly, and even brought his whole hockey team to a drop-in meal last winter. The prize — a trip for two to the London Olympics. And Isaiah won! We flew out for an amazing four day experience in London, England. We saw Sherlock Holmes' house at 221B Baker St, the London Eye, Parliament buildings and Big Ben, as well as two Olympic events – bronze medal match for women's court volleyball (Japan won in 3 sets over South Korea) and the second last night of track and field at Olympic Park (saw the 4x100m women's final won by the American women in world record time, pole vault, hammer throw, 4x100m men's qualifying, and a few other races). It was an experience like no other.

That one moment struck me. Oscar Pistorius — his lower legs amputated at age 11 months and since then has been walking and running on artificial legs — ran right past us. By the time he received the baton as anchor, his team from South Africa was far behind the eventual leaders from Bahamas. But he ran with perseverance and determination. And we cheered. Eighty thousand of us cheered. We did not cheer out of sympathy. We cheered (at least I did) because Oscar had not let any one or any thing get in the way of his dreams. His struggles to compete in the "able-bodied" Olympics has been well documented. Too many people thought his artificial legs may give him an advantage. In the end, he qualified for the men's 400m semi-final and his team ran in the 4x400m final. And we cheered. What gave him the strength to keep going beyond all odds? What gave him the courage to compete not just in track but in the courts? I'm convinced that comes from one place — hope. Hope comes from love, and love comes from HOME.

Home is that place of connection and acceptance. Home is the place where you are allowed to mess up and still feel loved. In other words, home is where you cheer for each other. Home is missing for so many people I know in downtown London. They are "homeless."

I sat with Carl on a bench in the morning sunshine just outside of the Covent Garden Market. He recalled his past — his family that moved around many times because of dad's job. "I never really settled down." He shared how he hit the streets at 15, made his way to Toronto and been "pretty much every where" since. He ended up in London because he met someone online and came here for the promise of a relationship. That promise like so many things in Carl's life faded. "What's the plan?" I asked him. The words hung there. The wind picked up — with just a taste of the autumn cool. "The plan? – this is the plan…I do this" motioning to the bench, "…that's it." No home. No love. No hope. And I wonder how it would be different to just have a few of the eighty thousand cheering for Carl.