He was a quiet man. Stern. Gruff. Piercing eyes. He didn’t often smile. He kept his lips pressed tight together but even that couldn’t extinguish a glint of humour, or perhaps it was mischief, that shone in his eyes. I always thought he knew some secret about life I didn’t know. The reality is, in his sixty-three years, he had learned lessons about living true to who you are that I still struggle to understand.

No matter his gruffness, however, everyone knew that beneath Russ Orum’s tough exterior there beat a heart of gold. A heart that would do anything to help his fellow man. A heart that drove him to quickly jump into any situation where he could lend a hand, make a difference.

He’d been a client of the DI for quite some time. It was the 90s. A time when labour jobs were bountiful. He’d work and lead his quiet life, coming back to the shelter at night to crawl onto a mat and grab some sleep. He didn’t ask for much. Always had a lot to give. He’d share his last cigarette if someone asked. A beer. His blanket if he thought someone needed it more than him. And always he’d volunteer.

As time moved on, his body grew weary, the harsh reality of work suited for a younger man mixed with the life of being homeless took a toll on his ability to sustain hard labour. At night, when he would drag his tired body into the shelter, he would move more slowly, with less confidence in his step. Eventually, he couldn’t do the work anymore, but he always volunteered. Always asked if there was something he could do to give back, to make a difference.

I knew him mostly from our kitchen, a place where his heartfelt giving kept the place humming. He would volunteer for eight to ten hours a day, seven days a week.

“It keeps me out of trouble,” he told me when I’d asked him about the long hours he put in. He paused and added, ‘And I like it here. They’re nice folk to work with.”

He was always there when I needed something. Always willing to pitch in to put together a food hamper, or a tray of meals for a workshop on the sixth floor. He didn’t care about requisitions or paperwork or even if the kitchen was swamped and staff and volunteers were running off their feet.

He always had time to help. “What d’ya need?” he’d ask whenever I appeared in the kitchen.

“I’ve got a course upstairs in the board room. Would it be possible to get a tray of snacks? Please.”

He’d stand with one hand on his hip, the other on the door to the walk-in cooler. He wouldn’t smile. Just look at me with those piercing eyes. “How many people?”

“Eight.”

He’d nod his head. Up and down. Up and down. “Hmmm.” And he’d open the fridge and pull out a tray of donuts or muffins or cookies. “Do you need coffee too?”

“No thanks. I made some upstairs.”

He’d hand me the tray. I’d give him a big smile and thank you and he would nod his head in response. But, before I could turn and walk away he’d say, “Wait.” And he’d step into the pantry, pull down a box of chocolates or some other tasty tidbit and say, “Here. The guys will like these.”

He wasn’t much on acknowledgement. Pushed away thank-yous and words of appreciation and gratitude just as he pushed away touch. I gave him a hug. Once. He stood still. His arms by his sides.

“Thanks for all you do Russ,” I told him. “I really appreciate your support.”

Slowly he reached up with one arm and touched my back. For just a second. “Harrumph,” he murmured before quickly stepping back. “I’ll get you those snacks.”

I like to think he stayed a bit longer in the cooler that time before coming out laden with sweets the guys would like. I like to think my gratitude touched him as much as his helping hands touched my heart.

He was a man who made a difference. Determined. Proud. He didn’t gossip. Didn’t grumble. He simply went about his work. Quietly. Efficiently. Without any fuss.

He loved being in that kitchen. He loved the certitude of his role within it. He loved having a place to make a difference, to be of service. He loved having a placed that counted on him to turn up.

In his consistency of always being there, he taught the younger clients and staff the meaning of commitment. Of the importance of doing a good job, no matter what your circumstances, no matter how you felt. “You gotta always do your best,” he told me. “Always give your all. Never give up. Never give in.

Russ Orum never gave up. Never gave in. Until April 18th when the cancer that was eating him up from the inside took him from this earthly realm. Some say to a better place. Some don’t know. No matter where he’s gone, in his passing, Russ has left behind a better world and a legacy of caring in the thousands of lives he touched with his ‘how can I be of service’ attitude. He has left behind the commitment he brought to turning up every day and the memory of a man who when asked, always reached out to help.

In his passing, Russ leaves behind the truth about what it means to be a great man. Commitment. Passion. Generosity. Caring. He leaves behind the realization that greatness is not determined by status or title or wealth, it is determined by acts of service that make a difference.

You made a difference Russ. In my life. In the lives of everyone here at the DI. In the lives of all those you touched on your journey. You will be missed. You will always be remembered.

There he was, the old man with the wire rim glasses and the walker. His thin, hunched frame shuffling along. I recognized that face. It was etched on my mind.

It was 12 years ago and I was a new employee at the DI. I had been told that he was barred but I had never met him before. I had been told to watch for since he always had a knife but I had never seen it. Then there he standing tall, wearing new cowboy boots & hat that gleamed in the morning sun silhouetted against the open doors behind him. I asked him his name, and he would not tell me. Something twigged in my mind and I asked him if he was Fred (not his real name) and he did not deny it. I asked him to leave, and he refused and watching me with his legs planted firmly in a confident stance. He held something behind his back and I asked him what it was not approaching him. He laughed and refused to tell me any thing. I asked him if it was a knife and he suggested that I come and find out. My co-worker went to call the police as Fred and myself continued to face off in the front entry of our old building. When my co-worker came back he said the police were on their way, at which point Fred showed me the knife he had been holding behind his back. He then left before the police could come.

That was the first time I met Fred, the second time was a few weeks later at the end of the laneway where he had been selling drugs behind the dumpster. It played out almost the same way except that he showed me his knife as he was leaving but did not wait for the police to be called.

That was 12 years ago, and today when I saw him, I saw a 52 year old man who looked to be in his 90’s. I know that the streets are hard on a person but I was shocked at how the last 10 years have taken their toll on Fred. I wondered if I should go and talk to him about old times, and decided not to, at least not yet. I hope to be able to do this someday, but for now I am glad that he is safe and out of the cold.

His bar has been lifted and he is now coming back to us time for food, shelter and a safe place from the harsh reality of life on the streets. I do not know his story, only the small part that I played in it. But the history doesn't matter. Today he is a human in need of compassion, forgiveness and help and that is what we at the DI are here to do.

Written by: John R.

I recently received an email informing me that some residents of the East Village are concerned that since the creation of the cul-de-sac at the bottom of 4th Street S.E. where the Calgary Drop-In & Rehab Centre is situated, they’ve been observing more open liquor and congregations of people in the area. What did they expect? It is common knowledge that creating a cul-de-sac is a crime prevention no-no. A cul-de-sac decreases legitimate traffic and in crime prevention, legitimate traffic flow-through is key to deterring crime.

Another resident called to ask, “Why can’t you keep those people in there?” I didn’t want to ask who ‘those people’ were. I was pretty sure his answer would not reflect well on him or the people we serve. I explained that we are not a prison or jail. We do not ‘own’ the people who use our services, as he suggested we might. As long as they follow our rules, I told him, they are welcome to come and go at will. “Well, I think you should keep them inside,” he said. “It’s not safe for everyone else when they’re outside.”

I was saddened by his sentiments of ‘those people’ we serve. ‘Those people’ come to us because they have nowhere else to go. They come here to be safe, to feel part of a community, to find shelter and food and hopefully, to find the support they need to move away from the label homeless, or the even more derogatory, “Bears” as ‘those people’ were called in an article in the May issue of Bridges, the Official Newsletter of the Bridgeland Riverside Community Association. In his article, Jeff Keet provides simple advice on how to keep ‘homeless persons, panhandlers, bottle pickers and vagrants’ out of the community. “Don’t feed the bears”, he writes.  “…we will only be encouraging their presence in our community and fuelling the problem.”

I had another call from a man who was frustrated because we had made an outcry about a ticket one of our clients received. "He broke the law," the man told me. "Everyone else uses a washroom to urinate. Why should he be so special?"

The man of whom he was speaking is in his sixties. Needs a walker to get around and has diminished mental capacities -- partly due to the impact homelessness has on the elderly, partly due to a condition he's struggled with all his life.

He had urinated against a fence that borders the property and the construction zone that is the East Village where we are situated. He had gone for a walk and couldn't get back before the call of nature overcame him. He'd maneuvered his way to a corner of the fence and relieved himself. There was no traffic. The road closures and cul-de-sac insured that there was no one to witness his act -- except for a by-law officer who was standing by to impose the law.

I listened to his voice on my phone and watched a big truck maneuver through the Road Closed signs on 4th Street below. I listened and wondered about double standards. Just the day before, I'd driven along Fourth Street and witnessed a construction worker relieving himself at the far edge of our property where dirt movers are digging into the earth around us. There was no by-law officer to ticket him. No public outcry or phone calls complaining about unlawful behaviour or bear sightings.

On one hand, an old man with diminished capacities and no prospects. And a ticket he cannot afford to pay.

On the other, a working guy who found it more expedient to use the great outdoors as his toilet rather than walk the hundred yards to the Johnny-on-the-spot.

Part of me wants to hate those who are so vehement in their opposition to the presence of homeless individuals anywhere in our city. Hatred, however, will not change the opinion of the man who called me to complain about an old man urinating in a cul-de-sac or the anger of those who want us to keep ‘those people’ locked up.

Hatred will not abate without an invitation to lean into tolerance and understanding. As the Buddha says, “Hate is not overcome by hate; by love alone is hate appeased. This is an eternal law.”

It is the challenge for every person who carries the label homeless and for all of us who work in the sector. How do we convert hatred to love when intolerance and judgment stand between us?

We surrender our opposition and fall in love with acts of kindness. We surrender our anger, our hatred, and our intolerance of intolerance.  We surrender and embrace those who condemn us as we treat those who support us, with love, peace and understanding.

We may not change their conviction that they are right to be offended by ‘those people’, but our journey will be less fraught with peril, our minds less consumed with anger and our hearts less unsettled by regret.

And in the end, those we serve will be better served for our conviction that everyone deserves dignity. Everyone needs love, even those who stand behind hatred and do not understand the imperative of serving their fellow man, no matter their address.