who you are to me

You’re the girl who won’t renounce
Though you wage a war within
You grapple with life’s obscurities
Wondering when life will begin

You implore and plead with God on high
To let your life expire
You yell and scream obscenities
But the Divine will not conspire

Your mind is ravaged by tormenting thoughts
Forever lurking in the shadows
They claw at your heart, they scar your soul
Disturbing thoughts penetrate - hijacking control

An Average Day

On an average day, in an average moment, in my average car, at any given time you can catch me singing. Radio blaring, bass bopping, I'm drumming it out on my steering wheel singing like there ain't no tomorrow.

Until I reach that stop light, that is . . . When I hit the stop light and a car appears in the corner of my left eye, I quickly regain composure, sit up straight, and rest quietly without motion until the light turns green and vroom out of eye view I go. . . Then it's back to: Radio blaring, bass bopping, drumming it out on my steering wheel like there ain't no tomorrow.

Last night as I came home from a coffee date with a friend things were different. As I rolled up to the stop light I didn't stop singing, I actually belted it out even louder! And when the black Ford pick-up peeked up beside me I turned my head, smiled a friendly smile and then sang right at 'em! They must have thought I was a whack job, and perhaps rightly so but I felt good! I didn't care! I was gonna sing!

I had a rough week last week. I saw someone I love so so very much hurting. I witnessed the shell of what had been a person with a desire so strong to end her suffering that she was willing to end it all. I saw desperation. I saw hurt. I saw ultimate sadness.

But God prevailed . . . and today I rejoice.


Today I sing my guts out!

185 Hope St.

I know four boys.

They tread with joy, and have big plans for the future.
Their friends are giants. Their bikes are small.
They never complain, but they have every right to.
When they get tired, sometimes they fall.


I know four boys.

Their bodies, they fail them.
They work twice as hard as anyone I know.
They live in a mansion, infested with insects.
They eat like kings, but never do they grow.


I know four boys.

Their backs are all twisted, not one can deny.
They take morphine like candy; the pain they can't hide.
The moment will past.
They will survive.
The place where they live reads: Hope St. 185.


They walk tall and proud . . . but only so high.

the salesman

For the past three months I have contemplated going to the gym. I've weighed the pros and cons. I've considered the realities of work and the constraints of time. I've thoughtfully asked questions like "Can we financially afford such a venture?" and "Am I committed to be still going to the gym in six months?" and have come to the conclusive conclusion that yes . . . a membership is right for me.

* * * * *

I've been going to the gym for about three weeks now and things have been going well. . . However, last week something happened that made me mad. . . and then got me thinking.

As a member of the gym you have to go through a physical evaluation. Not a test! but an "evaluation". An evaluation where doctors measure your height, weight, arms, legs, waist, and flexibility, examine your endurance, ask you very personal presuming questions, and then do it all over again. A lovely experience, really. (If you're into strangers poking and protting you, while simultaneously wanting to engage in conversations about your physical "strengths" and "weaknesses" as you prance around in what's suppose to be a garment that covers your "whole" self.)

Well, after my initial evaluation I was told that ANOTHER appointment needed to be set up in order to meet with a work out guy who would show me how to use the equipment properly and would help me set up a plan to reach some of my goals. Sounded not too bad.

Well, I showed up to my appointment on the set date and time. . . and I met Brad. The instant I met Brad I could tell we were destined to be new best friends. Brad listened. Brad understood. Brad Knew.

If I had a dog, Brad had a dog. If I liked working out, Brad liked working out. If I had trouble lifting freeweights. . . you guessed it so did Brad. If I was on my monthly. . . you get the picture. . . At one point I said I wanted to focus my time building and strengthning my core back area . . . Brad thought that was an exceptional idea he thought we should focus time building and strengthning my core back area too. Best friends. In that brief hour and twenty minutes we laughed, we joked, we cried.

When his tour was over we went back to his office to go over what we had talked about. . . He encouraged my present equipment abilities saying I had a good grasp on the importance of the equipment and blah blah blah. . . Brad laid out a work out plan in which he suggested I should invest (notice the carefully chosen word "invest") in a personal trainer. He suggested I start with a trainer 2 times a week for a month, then 1 time a week for a month, and then 3 times a week for a month. Brad thoughtfully said it would maximize my time at the gym, helping me see results quicker. (Notice again those carefully thought out words. . . Maximize. . . Quicker. . .) I asked if this was extra. . . He said "Yes. . . but Sharlene we like you and we're here to help you. We can help find a payment plan that is good for you." "How much is it going to cost me, Brad?" I asked. "$50 an hour 3 times a week".

What the *&^$#?????

I sat back slightly stunned by the realization that Brad really wasn't my friend. . . he was just another minion in an army of men trying to sell me another package, more stuff. . . I expected more from MY OWN GYM!! For countless minutes to follow Brad attempted to sell me on the importance of having a personal trainer, and the results I would see if I was willing to invest. ("Invest"! huh!!)

I finally told Brad I REALLY wasn't interested, and I couldn't (and wouldn't) afford anything extra considering my current financial situation. . .

I couldn't believe what happened next.

Brad gathered his papers quickly and abruptly, stuck them in his folder and left me sitting in the office. . . alone. . . alone and waiting. I waited a while and when I was certain he wasn't coming back, I left. As I left I passed him in the foyer. I said smiling, "Thanks for your time. Have a good day." Brad didn't lift his head from his papers. Brad didn't ackowledge me. It's as if I wasn't even there.

It was all a scam. . . work-out-dude was just trying to sell me more freakin' stuff.

I was so mad. I was livid. I was fuming. . . I wanted to have muscles NOW. . . I wanted to punch him in no-mans land. Brad was not my friend. I was just a toy in his evil game to sell more.

Well. . . when the "mad" left. . . I got to thinking. I hate being sold stuff! When Ian and I were on our honeymoon we got suckered into hearing a time-share presentation in Puerta Vallarta, Mexico. For over two hours a man tried to convince us on the needs and benefits of buying pre-paid vacations. I hated it, I hated feeling as though I had wasted two solid hours allowing some stranger to emotionally and mentally manipulate me into buying something I didn't want and didn't need. I hated knowing that our new "friend" had a hidden agenda. I felt bullied, and I was made to feel irrationally scrared about my future. . .

I got to thinking more and I think this is the way Christians make non-Christians feel sometimes. Christians can come across as being so darn nice, helpful, and all-around wonderful. . . but then there's always that hidden agenda. Christians can be overtly pushy, though, too. Sometimes in desperation they use the scare tactic to convince people that if they don't turn immediately they will burn. Christians sometimes toss non-Christians aside when they feel like they aren't getting anywhere. Christians can me manipulative. Christians can be so fake. . .


I'm a Christian. And I don't want to be a pushy salesman, anymore. I want to be real, but I'm not sure exactly how to do that.

Christmas Celebrations

It's Christmas.

My most favorite time of the year!

Good eats, good treats, family, friends, and so much love.

Thanks Jesus.

an eclectic christmas

My dad has always loved wandering the mall. As a man he remains in the pack as to his thoughts on shopping (he hates it) however wandering through the mall allows him to people watch (which he loves!). I think he must learn a lot by watching people. I know, for sure, it's entertaining.

People walking funny, talking funny, sometime even looking funny. Kids on parents shoulders. Women in a daze. Men on a mission. There's a lot to be learned.

This Sunday I went shopping and I watched. I was at the new H & M clothing store in the Eaton Centre, in downtown Toronto. For a Sunday afternoon the store was buzzing. There were lines for the dressing room. Display tables were now random chaos. Everyone was looking for the right size - but no one could find it. People were pushing by. Everyone looked n a hurry. "Christmas is here," I sighed.

When I had tried on my last piece of clothing and decided what to buy I headed to the cash register to pay. I knew the wait would be long but the shirts were on sale, and a really good deal. . . I'd wait.

While waiting I could only watch. What I saw touched me. There were two men standing about 4 people back from me. The way the line curved they stood right in front of me. Both men were what I would call: Artsy. They had funky haircuts, numerous piercings, and their clothes were somewhat eclectic. "What were they doing in H & M?" I thought. There style, although different, worked for them. They could pull it off, I thought.

A woman had finished paying for her choices and was preparing to leave by putting her wallet in her purse when the young man's attention was taken. I could see him looking at the woman and then at his friend but didn't know what to do. He looked excited, but trapped in shyness. He looked like he had something to say. I waited. He waited. The woman prepared to leave. Finally, he said something. His friend knew what was coming. I didn't. So I watched.

The man said in a soft yet still confident voice, "Excuse me miss? I was just noticing your purse. Can I ask you where you got it?" I could tell the woman was flattered. Slightly blushing she said, "I got it at an art show. A woman I met there makes these purses out of recycled material. This one is made out of old seat-belts, and car upholstery." I couldn't figure out how the artist had turned such every day items into such a lovely piece of art, but I had to admit it was beautiful. The man said, "Do you have a name and number for the artist? My wife would absolutely love these purses, and I'd love to surprise her for Christmas." The woman paused and smiled and said, "I think I do." She began to ruffle around in her purse but after a few minutes I knew she would not find it. The man said, "Thanks anyway," smiled, and the woman was on her way.

My turn was finally up. I proceeded through the regular purchase requirements, and was on my way. As I turned to leave, I notice the woman had come back. She was saying to the creative man, "I was walking down the mall still looking for the name and number and I found it at the bottom of my purse. I thought you might still want to have it. . . For your wife." They smiled, he took the card. . . and she said: Merry Christmas. And I was on my way. . .

As I left the store and met up with my friend I couldn't wait to tell her all about what I had just seen. I was touched by the simple act of love and kindness. . . The man for his wife. The stranger for a stranger.

This is what Christmas is all about. Merry Christmas!

love stinks

Routes, the drop-in centre I run, is a live wire. Friday nights, especially. Youth 14 and over running in and out, playing pool, table soccer, and air hockey. Youth demanding someone to listen to them, asking questions, telling jokes. Youth in crises; Break-ups, new found love, failed classes, new jobs, drugs, alcohol, familial feuds. . .

Sometimes I think I'm going crrrrazy!

This past Friday one of our volunteers said to me when reflecting on her night that she felt like she had at least 5 conversations happening all at the same time, for the entire evening. Someone was always in want. Someone was always needing a question answered, or a joke laughed at. . . She found it overwhelming to have to be constantly engaging all the time. And for good reason.

I believe that this buzz that we are feeling at Routes is a symptom of community. A beautiful thing really. Kids and volunteers are feeling connected and are thus journeying together! Wow. Youth are showing up on Thursday and Friday nights wanting desperately to share a piece of themselves with us. They want our opinions, reactions, and responses. They want our love and care. And the funny thing is: We want to hear it! We sincerely look forward to hearing the latest news, and sharing in our youths experiences from week to week.

Volunteers at Routes have been trained and encouraged to accept youth no matter what they look like, act like, or who they say they are. volunteers know that listening is a key component to being a successful volunteer. And they have been chosen to be a part of this program because they love youth and want to see them making good choices in their lives as they increasingly gain independence.

It gets tricky though. . . (Most things aren't as straight forward as we'd like). We have built a place that is warm and welcoming; A place where kids know they can come and be themselves. Routes is a safe haven from the rest of the world where youth can truly be the centre of the universe! The centre was designed for them. And it's jam packed with pool tables, air hockey, and foosball table, computers, video games, and cheap snacks. When youth come in there is always a volunteer ready to listen, play a game with, or answer a question. Routes is a place where when the doors are opened at 7:00 pm on a Friday night there is nothing more important than our youth!

It's easy for them to feel like the most important thing in the world when they step through our doors. And part of me loves that!

It gets tricky though when our youth are being what we want them to be - themselves - but we don't like the people we're seeing. Girls come in scantily clad because they feel like they can. . . and we hate it. We hate that they barely dress ultimately seeking male approval, and hate even more the way our guys treat them. . . like just another object, just another skirt. We want kids to feel comfortable making jokes and goofing around but sometimes when 10 John Smiths are all yelling and laughing and running around at the same time our heads hurt and we want nothing more than to yell "SHUT UP!!" (we of course want to yell this in love . . .) . Youth come in with another sad story, feeling comfortable enough to share it with us, and we hurt so bad for them we almost don't want to hear it. When our youth hurt we want desperately to take them home and tell them that life will now be better for them. . . It sucks when we can't. It sucks when we can only pat them on the back and tell them we care for them, and that everything will be alright.

Sometimes being in community hurts.