715 5th Avenue

For 8 or so hours Monday to Friday (and 5 or so hours every second Saturday), it's where I work.

It is the 15th tallest building in Calgary.

And at 5:40 am, it is where a man whose name I didn't catch woke up.

I had two mandarin oranges in my pocket - my breakfast for the morning - and they became his breakfast. I didn't stay to chat - he was picking up his things to move, and seemed to be in quite a hurry - but I've been thinking about him all day.

Who is he?

Whose son is he?

Was he ever in love?

How did he end up here, smelling of booze and urine and shit, angry at everyone, including a rather ordinary man just wanting to share with him ?

Where was he going in such a hurry?

Does anyone miss him?

And some other, more heart wrenching thoughts . . .

When was the last time he was hugged? When was the last time someone took his hand in theirs, stared deep into his eyes, and told him he was loved for who he was? When was his last kiss? His last happy thought?

And, you know, you don't have to be homeless to be miserable - for all I know, he loves life deeply and was just bitchy that I woke him up. But what about those who live in these houses all around me, those whose laundry I do at work, who have never lacked for anything yet find themselves always wanting more . . . who are ever eating but never full, always drinking but always thirsty, who deny themselves nothing yet have nothing to show for it . . .

Sometimes I just want to give the world a hug.


My friend Ernesto died recently. When you're 27, you shouldn't have to worry about cancer, but there he was, coming to our little meetings every Tuesday night, with the kind of hard questions most Christians are too timid too ask. To be a part of his journey is one of the greatest blessings of my life, and I look forward to seeing him again soon. One of the last times I saw him, he gave me a sword, both because I had recently shared that it was something I wanted to have more than anything else (more on that later), and because he was letting go of things that he had treasured too much for too long. He got it, I think, and I'm trying to realize it more every day - the fullness of a life isn't measured by how much we can keep, how tightly we hold onto things. Rather, it's about how freely we let things go, how liberally we share.

And so, if tomorrow should find me with two mandarin oranges - my breakfast for the morning - in an alley near 715 5th Avenue, and I see my friend, then those oranges become his.

Oh, the things I think about at work . . .