Conclusion: The Sending Circle
Becoming Neighbours
On a Tuesday evening in September in the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, we hold a “sending circle” ceremony for Kanori and Mohammed. As the late-summer sun sets, I plug in the string of lights that zig-zag up the exterior staircase and along the pergola. While our world has shrunk to the boundaries of our backyard, our sense of family has expanded. Tonight, those of us who call Kinbrace home sit side by side, our chairs pushed back from the long table, stomachs satisfied with Egyptian kusherie: aromatic lentils and rice topped with tomato sauce, sweet caramelized onions, and tart plain yogurt. The flavours linger well after the meal, and so do we. I hold a baby on my lap and whisper in French to the North African woman sitting next to me.
Earlier this month, both Kanori and Mohammed found new homes and moved out of the community. This evening, they have returned for a proper farewell. We begin with Kanori, sharing memories and impressions. Kanori is stately and gentle, the kind of person whose voice and demeanour reassure you that everything is going to be okay. At the end, he offers a speech.
“I want to tell you how I came to Kinbrace,” he begins. “During my quarantine, when I first arrived in Canada, the officer told me if I did not find a house before the fourteen days were up, they would put me onto the street.” So every day, he tells us, he cold-called shelters around Vancouver. No luck.
“Each morning the officer would come and ask me, ‘Have you found a house yet?’ I was getting worried. Finally, I got a call back from Kinbrace. I thought I was coming to a shelter!” he laughs. “From the first moment I arrived, this community has been beyond my expectations. I have truly been at home here. Thank you.”
We clap and then together we say:
As you go from Kinbrace
We hope that God will
Guide you
Prepare you
Protect you
Surround you with love
And give you peace
Next we turn to Mohammed, who arrived at the beginning of May 2020 and spent his first two weeks at Kinbrace in quarantine. I remember preparing his room: making the bed; putting an extra blanket in the closet; setting out a bath towel, hand towel, and face cloth; putting some reading material on the shelf (Positively Canadian, a driver’s manual, a magazine with short stories); placing groceries on the counter and into the fridge; arranging flowers from the garden in a vase on the coffee table. Only one thing was missing.
“Do you have a Quran?” he asked shortly after the taxi had deposited him and his small suitcase in the back lane. It was Ramadan, after all. My friend Aila had one to lend, and Mohammed spent those first two weeks praying, fasting, and talking to his wife and children on Facetime. Despite being the most contented quarantine-er I could imagine, I also remember Mohammed’s great enthusiasm on his “freedom day,” as he called it. First thing in the morning, he and I left the property, crossed the street, and walked to our closest neighbourhood park. “It’s so green!” he marveled, comparing this new colour palette to the tans and burnt browns of the Arabian Peninsula.
I share this memory with the neighbours. Someone else remembers how later that same day, Mohammed had made his first trip to the grocery store only to discover that he had bought so many groceries that what should have been a twenty-minute walk home took him over an hour! There is laughter — most of it from Mohammed himself.
Mohammed speaks last, sharing his gratitude to Kinbrace and to his neighbours. “Really, thank you,” he concludes. “You have been family to me.”
Together, we say:
As you go from Kinbrace
We hope that God will
Guide you
Prepare you
Protect you
Surround you with love
And give you peace
We give Kanori and Mohammed pottery mugs inscribed with the word “Hope.” Then they disappear out the back gate and into the night. The rest of us wash the dishes, fold up the tables, and distribute the leftovers. Then I put in a load of laundry and head up the stairs to bed.
Kinbrace offers transitional housing. We live together, but only for a time. Two months, six months, a year at most. Each time someone leaves the community there is a familiar wave of grief, which is accompanied by an undercurrent of grace. As we prepare to say farewell, we are simultaneously and mysteriously being prepared to say “welcome” once again.
Buy a hardcopy | Donate Now | Contact the Kinbrace community
© 2021 Anika Bauman. All rights reserved.
