Thursday, November 25, 2010

Toronto's Restaurant for the Poor: Over 1 million served

One friar, one cook, one Queen Street West storefront, a dozen or so daily volunteers and 1, 000, 000 meals served: this is the math behind St. Francis’ Table in Toronto.

It’s really as simple as that. The rest flows as naturally as stories from the heart of a Newfoundlander. And for our purposes, the Newfoundlander in question is Brother John Frampton.

Brother John is an unexpected hero of the Parkdale neighborhood. Having moved to Toronto six years ago from Newfoundland to take over the post at St. Francis’ Table, Br. John is a friend to all. He has all the time in the world for stories, whether he is telling a colourful tale or lending a supportive ear. In his line of work, it tends to be the latter.

“There’s a story waiting to be told in every face we see here,” Br. John told me during our visit yesterday at St. Francis Table. Our Salt + Light crew was too early for the millionth meal by 80 servings and 4 hours (the actual millionth meal was served at dinner that night) but decidedly, we knew the millionth meal would not change anything. It would be business as usual at St. Francis table; they would serve whoever came to them with cheerful hearts.

Our team caught wind of the upcoming “commemoration” a few weeks ago and I happily took on the story. When I first called Br. John, I betrayed my distance from the cause within the first two minutes of our conversation: “We’d like to come film as you celebrate your one millionth meal,” I had said. “We don’t celebrate hunger,” came Br. John’s solemn reply, “I wish we didn’t have to mark such a milestone”. It was a sobering (and humbling) moment, as you can imagine.

As I stood off to the side waiting for the doors to open for the lunch-time influx, I took a moment to examine the friar. After taking in his black and silver “skater” sneakers and the U2 earring dangling from his left ear, I arrived at the conclusion that without the conspicuous brown capuchin habit, he really was a regular guy; a regular guy doing God’s work.

The people at St. Francis’ Table have been in operation since 1987. At that time, it was decided that the establishment would be a “restaurant for the poor”; not a soup kitchen. The difference? The patrons pay a loonie for their meal.

“It’s all about dignity,” Br. John explains from behind his desk where he welcomes the incoming crowd each day, Br. Andre-style, “paying gives them the right to complain. Their waiters are volunteers and if there is something they don’t like, they tell us. It is rare that this happens, but they have the option.”

The patrons at St. Francis Table are bursting at the seams with life and experience. At one table, I sat listening as the philosophy of democracy was being discussed in earnest, at another Christmas purchases for loved ones were being appraised. Among those present were world travelers, Ph.D. students, writers, laid-off business executives, single dads with their kids and a contingent of Tibetan immigrants practicing their English, to boot. All in a day’s work!

As we were packing our equipment into the van on the street, a passerby approached Brother John as he was seeing us off. The man asked Br. John how he could make a contribution to his work. Brother went inside to get a brochure with donating information. While he was inside, the man told us about how one day not too long ago, the streets were gridlocked because a man was threatening to jump off of the overpass. He didn’t end up jumping. In the meantime, Brother John took it upon himself to go outside and help the police to direct traffic…in his Franciscan habit. “This is the kind of guy Br. John is,” the man said, remembering the scene with a smile “he shows us that helping people should just come naturally”.

Friday, November 5, 2010

"Write a book" she said to me

and so I answered "yes".

I am writing a book. Not so much a book as a chronicling of how a heart is formed.
I am writing about what my 26 short years on this earth has afforded me in the way of lessons so far.

I'm not even sure if anyone reads this anymore because I've been so lax. I haven't given up, though. I plan on writing into a vacuum if such is my lot!

Each one of us has to be faithful to the whispering voice we hear from the moment we rise until the sun sets. when we listen, the voice is no longer faint but instead it becomes integrated into our heart. The union of the Wills. So often, we already know what it is that we have to do.

Listen to the messengers He sends to you. He loves you and He is trying to speak. In everything. Love Him by listening. You will do well to do this.

Meanwhile, I am going to write what He tells me to write. And I will not be satisfied until it is finished- whatever it is.

----
A sneak peek:
(I'm only several thousand words in):


5


I lived the life of a writer before I knew I was already slotted as a writer. I find myself thinking in novels and speaking in only single words. This makes for the loneliest of lives because one is able to dream up the most, romantic, intellectual, artistic relationships that have ever existed between two human persons but yet is incapable of building one such relationship, and thus, everything and everyone seems to fall short. I am continuously in utter stupor as I behold relationships that weave through time and eventually evolve into the very thing I have created in my mind but could not bring to flower in my life. I suspect that since there are many books in the world, there must be many equally lonely people. This is my attempt at vulnerability.

But, on with the story.

I had a roommate in university whom I align perpetually in my memory with lilacs. Emily spent her summers making soap with essential oils. And even though this might be completely inaccurate, I feel like she left a river of memory and smell wherever she went. It felt as though she was a girl “who was” and not “who is”. I remember a few such people crossing my path throughout the span of my life. It seemed as though she had given up on fully embracing life and was resigned to the fact that her dreams would not be realized. She seemed like an old soul, a memory. She had stopped setting goals, she had stopped seeing her own beauty and the mysticism of her story.

At one time, I remember coming into her room in residence and sitting on her bed. She was perched there without any kind of occupation keeping her there. She had no book, she was not listening to music or watching TV. Her room was bare and spotless, a black cotton comforter was spread over her bed. The window was open and a sharp fall breeze was terrorizing her room. My eyes were drawn to the pictures neatly lining the edge of her bulletin board. I couldn’t picture her putting them there. It seemed too delicate a way for Emily to expend her energy. I couldn’t picture her gingerly affixing them, her mind brimming with nostalgia. As I knocked and entered, I realized that for the first time in my life, I had interrupted nothing. She was ready for me. She merely shifted her gaze to me as if she had been waiting all along.

Maybe I should have been creeped out by Emily, but I wasn’t. The other people in our residence either didn’t get her or they were scared of her. Either way, I knew there had to be a reason because Emily was one of the most unique attractions in our building. She listened to the Smashing Pumpkins with her black finger nails and a rosary around her wrist.

I found myself drawn into Emily’s world.

“I’m scared my Dad is going to die,” I managed to stammer before breaking down.

In moments of high intensity, I was never that gifted with keeping composure and maintaining a steady flow of words with appropriate explanations and pauses for well, breathing. In grade 12, I caught wind that an undesirable date for the prom was mustering up the courage to approach me. I knew that something had to be done because saying “no” was not a valid option. So, without skipping a beat I took my best friend at the time and corner a guy I had been crushing on since my childhood. The moment that ensued still makes me feel nauseous when I call it to mind as an adult. I literally cornered him with my best friend staring in disbelief and proceeded to blurt out-“will you go to the prom with me?” No preface. No conclusion. Unflanked inappropriateness. I can imagine his mother (whom I knew well) sitting him down and saying: “now dear, think of all that she’s been through over the past few years.” In hindsight, if I wasn’t sure then, I’m positive now that it was out of pity. I was the textbook charity case. Tall, awkward and diseased. And my father had cancer. Good ol’ terrified Carter ended up listening to his solidly formed Catholic conscience and saying yes after a few days’ consideration.

But Emily, unlike Carter, was undaunted by my inarticulateness. I instantly saw warmth roll onto her face like a comforting fog and her features softened. She warmed the room.

Our relationship sprang into existence with force in our first year of university and burrowed deeper from there. In our first conversation, Emily told me that her mom had died of cancer when she was a little girl. She never told me anything about her mom. All I remember is that she was artistic like Emily and that one time, her father bought her mom a pant-suit with a matching skirt. She put on all three pieces; the skirt over the pants. She didn’t see a problem. People would stare at her because she was an eccentric brand of beautiful.

“Have you talked to your parents since moving here?” I asked her on the way out of the meal hall in an effort to make conversation with my newest friend.

“My mom died of cancer when I was a little girl…” Emily said with not a little disappointment. I was never one for details, even those details that were more than details.

The next time I saw Emily was a year after I had graduated, at my father’s funeral.