Martha, Higgins, Princess, Logan, King, Henry are the arteries of the heart of Winnipeg's inner city. On the evening of December 12, 2006 a rusty little delivery truck loaded with knitted mitts, toques, scarves and kneehighs slowly crept down Henry Avenue toward Princess Street. On either side of Henry Avenue was a tall pagewire fence protecting flat roof buildings and vehicles. Several streetlights on tall poles lit up the street and cast shadows at various angles in front of the truck.
On the evening of December 12, 2006 a rusty little delivery truck loaded with knitted mitts, toques, scarves and kneehighs slowly crept down Henry Avenue toward Princess Street. On either side of Henry Avenue was a tall pagewire fence protecting flat roof buildings and vehicles. Several streetlights on tall poles lit up the street and cast shadows at various angles in front of the truck.
Eight young adults wandered toward the truck.
Quick questions flashed through the driver’s mind: threat or opportunity, fear or compassion, danger or safety. He breathes a prayer,
"Dear Lord Jesus, I'm convinced you sent me on this mission. But I need your protection, guidance and a lot of grace. I thank you that I can count on you. In Christ's name."
Finally, peace. He opened his window, above throat level, and beckoned the wandering crowd toward his truck. The doors were locked.
“You don’t have any mitts?” asked the driver.
Half a dozen bare hands emerged from pockets and extended sleeves.
“Your hands must be cold. Here, I’ve got some new mittens for you. My friend Joy knit them for you.”
He reaches for one of the bags and extends the open bag toward them. Cold hands start rummaging through the bag and they help themselves. The driver hears some say thank you and sees a few surprised smiles. Some of them wander a few feet away but one couple stays very close to the truck window.
“We’re alcoholics, not sniffers,” a woman says candidly. “Can I have that thing over there?” she asks, pointing to a brass horn.
“I can’t give that away. I need it to play songs,” replies the driver.
“You can play that?”
"Yeah."
"Would you play us a song?"
“Sure,” he says. He puts it up to his mouth and plays Amazing Grace.
“Could you play us another one?” asks the woman.
“Okay. I’ll play you a song about my best friend.”
He starts playing What a Friend We Have in Jesus.
As he is playing the driver overhears some voices joining him. After the song is done the woman says, “We’re hungry.”
“Didn’t they feed you at the mission over there?”
“We were too late. The door was locked. We couldn’t get in,” she explains.
“What would you like to eat?”
“Weiners,” she replies.
“You just wait somewhere around here and I’ll go to a convenience store for some food,” says the driver.
I’ll be back in a few minutes. And oh, you really need to get help with your drinking problem,” he adds.
She replies, “We tried over there but they didn’t help us.”
“I know someone who would really like to help you,” he tells her.
“Oh, you do?”
“Yes, can I ask him?”
“Okay,” says the woman.
He then asked his best friend to have compassion on them and help them. They seemed okay with that.
“I wish I could help you more,” was the driver’s parting comment.
A slender man with frosted whiskers spoke up as they parted. “You did.”
That’s a glimpse into the heart and soul of Winnipeg.
What is in the heart and soul of Winnipeggers? God only knows.
The driver is getting hungry. Tim Horton's sounds really good. But that might use up an hour with travel time. There's more stuff to give away and this mission here might feed him. He enters, asks if there would be an extra plate of food, offers to pay, and asks if he can bring some knitted things in to give away. Oh, yes, to all the questions.
Several men, already eating, offer him a disposable plate already loaded with a pile of white rice, hamburger hash and stir fried vegetables. After brief introductions the driver asks one of the men at the round table which of the foods on his plate is his favourite.
"The rice," says the Filipino man.
Their new guest slides some of his rice onto the Filipinoâs plate, in exchange for some hamburger hash. Then the men ask the visitor what his favourite is.
"I like the stir fried vegetables," he says.
Immediately three men get up and offer him their remaining vegetables. He accepts and they all dig in and enjoy their favourite foods.
After lunch is done they chat and the driver asks, "Have you ever been really cold?"
Micheal responds by saying, "One evening after everything was shut down, I started looking for a shelter, any kind of shelter. After searching a long time, I finally came upon an old wagon, with only three wheels left. The snowdrifts were piled up about four feet around it. I crawled under the wagon and dug myself a hole about two feet around. Then I entered my little shelter, curled up and wondered if I'd ever come out alive. Early in the morning something woke me up and I crawled out as stiff as I was. I was so cold it drove me crazy, but I didn't lose my mind. Somehow I got to a bus stop and got into the bus. The bus driver let me off at a restaurant where the good people there let me warm up. I'm happy, I'm alive," concluded Michael, and they all slowly went their separate ways.
That night the driver, lying on a makeshift mattress on his sonâs office floor asks, "Why me Lord? Why am I so blessed?"
Unlike some he cuddles under a feather quilt, ponders his fortune and their fate. He keeps pondering. What a privilege to bring a little bit of âJoyâ to their world!
What else did I see? Rows of mattresses on the shelter floor; lineups for food at lunch time, extending onto the sidewalk; little groups of people smoking and shivering outside building doorways; some blank looks; some grateful smiles; winter footwear, runners and a few high heels, cramped feet, hurting soles and yes, hurting souls.
What else did I hear? "Thank you God for Joy. I was at Dieppe, I'm 87, in pretty good shape. I saw 1500 of my comrades mowed down by the Nazis."
"I came from Southern Sudan. I was in a refugee camp in Ethiopia."
"I'm from Southern Sudan also. I came through Cuba. Weâre not related."
"Thanks buddy."
"May Joy be blessed with miracles."
"I'll write my name: Ricardo. I'd write her a thank you note, but all I can write is my name. He laughs. "Isn't that crazy, I can't read or write?"
Three separate thankyous and hand shakes from a grateful, smiling, toothless new owner of size nine Nike runners. And a thank you note from the Main Street Project:
Dear Joy,
On behalf of the staff, management and most importantly, the clients of the Main Street Project, please accept this quick note of thanks for your recent donation of knitted items, including much-needed socks and toques. Some of the items youâve invested so much time in were quickly put to use by our clients, with some of the socks going to Herbie, Leonard, Collin, John and Kim and toques to Zahir and Herbie.
Donations such as your own play a key role in our ability to continue to offer the range of basic services our clients both need, and deserve. As such, we want to sincerely thank you for thinking of the Main Street Project, and for contributing in such a meaningful way to the work that we do, and to the clients who ultimately benefit.
Your generosity truly does make a world of difference!
Sincerely,
Michael Foster
Acting Executive Director
Main Street Project
Adapted from The Guide, Killarney, MB March 16, 2007
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