This afternoon’s meeting of the Richmond Homelessness Outreach Network left me with a renewed sense of both gravity and gratitude. Around the table were staff from the City, Vancouver Coastal Health, and community organizations who spend their days walking alongside neighbours who are unhoused or precariously housed. I continue to be the only clergy person in the room, and that reality shapes how I listen and how I learn.

One of the most sobering moments came during the update from Vancouver Coastal Health. They shared that our region has seen a recent rise in overdoses, and that medetomidine—a non‑opioid animal tranquilizer far more potent than xylazine—has begun appearing in the unregulated drug supply. The room grew quiet as the implications settled in. For those working on the frontline, this is not an abstract trend. It is a daily, lived reality that affects the safety and survival of the people they serve.

We were also joined today by two representatives from Narcotics Anonymous. Both spoke with honesty and courage about their own journeys—beginning drug use as teenagers, living through years of disconnection and hardship, and eventually reaching a point where they felt their lives had hit bottom. In that moment of crisis, each of them walked into an NA meeting simply because they knew something had to change. They described how a supportive community and a safe, non‑judgmental space became the foundation for their recovery. Their stories were real, vulnerable, and deeply human. They reminded us that healing is rarely linear, but it becomes possible when people are surrounded by others who believe in their worth.

After the meeting, I received a piece of good news from the outreach workers—news that felt like a small light breaking through the heaviness of the day. One of the homeless neighbours I have visited recently has secured housing. And there is promising progress in helping a senior move from the drop‑in centre into a stable place of their own. These are quiet victories, but they matter. They remind me that change often happens one person at a time, through patient, persistent accompaniment.

As the only clergy presence in the room, I often feel like I am standing at the threshold of a world many in our wider community rarely encounter. I do not bring clinical expertise or policy solutions. What I bring is a posture of listening, a desire to understand, and a conviction that faith communities have a role to play in supporting those who support others. My presence is small compared to the work being done, yet I believe it matters that the Church is at the table—bearing witness, learning, and discerning how we can stand in solidarity.

These meetings continue to teach me that caring for our most vulnerable neighbours is not the work of any single profession or institution. It is shared work. It is relational work. And it is sustained by people who refuse to look away from hard truths.

I left today with a deeper appreciation for those who serve on the frontline and a renewed sense of responsibility for how our faith community might walk alongside them. In the midst of complexity and crisis, I continue to glimpse quiet acts of grace—small signs of hope that emerge whenever people choose compassion over indifference.