ON ALLYSHIP - ASHLEY'S STORY

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As a Canadian peacekeeper in South Sudan and Palestine, I had seen firsthand how water shapes survival. I remember the long lines of women and children waiting in the heat, clutching empty jugs, hoping there would still be enough when they reached the front. I remember the guarded wells, the cracked earth, and the arguments that broke out when scarcity pushed humanity aside. Water was never just water—it was security, stability, and hope. Those memories carved themselves into my mind.

Years later, in Thunder Bay, I recognized the same quiet desperation in a very different setting. Here, too, people waited—not at guarded wells but in the shadows of encampments, under bridges, and in alleyways. They were required to find water, and while away from their temporary shelters, they risked everything they had: tents and sleeping bags stolen, food taken, and the indignity of starting over from scratch. They were not standing in lines but enduring the same thirst, the same indignity of being forgotten. The geography had changed, but the lesson remained the same: water is life, and the way it is offered matters. There are no easily accessible, safe water points in Thunder Bay for homeless and vulnerable people—nothing as simple as turning on a faucet in your own kitchen. The challenge of accessing enough water for cooking, keeping their bodies clean, and simply quenching thirst meant people had to travel to collect it, often bearing the disdain of others who, mostly inadvertently and on occasion intentionally—and, sadly, all too often in outright cruelty—expressed their hatred. Expletives were spat at us, at the encampments, and at the vulnerable and marginalized. That year, the “not in my backyard” debate had reached a stalemate at city council and remained unresolved as summer became fall, leaves fell, and winter approached without temporary shelters or sustainable resources being built. Whether through ignorance, willful indifference, or outright malice, the outcome was the same: here, in my home—not thousands of kilometres away in some distant land—access to safe water had become a privilege, not a right.

In the summer of 2025, after retiring from my reserve force service in the Canadian Armed Forces, I found myself with time on my hands and an ache in my heart. I saw the same water insecurity in Thunder Bay’s encampments that I had once witnessed during peacekeeping missions overseas. The need was urgent, but so too was the spirit in which that need must be met. That summer, I Was Thirsty was born. Delivering water to homeless encampments and to those most vulnerable was the practical part of the mission, but it was never the whole story.

I rallied some friends as volunteers, spread the word through our church, donated our startup funds, and began purchasing and delivering water to encampments, alleys, and makeshift shelters where heat and hardship pressed in from every side. We had safety vests made and hats embroidered, and magnetic signs boldly announced our arrival—I WAS THIRSTY Outreach Mission—affixed to the rear passenger doors of my truck. Facing my fears of technology, I built and maintained a website to track both qualitative and quantitative data, logging volunteer hours, bottles delivered, and kilometres driven. Alongside this, I began a daily blog, recording not just the numbers but the stories: the moments of triumph, the small victories, and the profound hardships of the people we served.

The script was flipped. I stood in line for water at grocery stores, often balancing sixteen cases on an overloaded shopping cart, purchasing wherever I could find them for less than three dollars a case, fielding puzzled looks and questions from other shoppers. Each interaction became a chance to tell the story, to share the mission, and to remind people that this work was about more than bottles of water—it was about respect, presence, and human connection. Over the course of sixty days, we delivered more than 18,000 pounds of water—just under 15,000 bottles—and drove almost 2,500 kilometres, relying on a network of volunteers that included students, church members, friends, and family. Together, we carried water to people where they lived, where they struggled to survive, and where the most vulnerable simply existed, often unseen and ignored by the wider world. Each delivery was a small act of solidarity, a moment of acknowledgment, a reminder that the people we served were not invisible. Every bottle was more than hydration—it was a gesture of respect, a spark of human connection, and a way of affirming that their lives mattered.

That summer was filled with a mixture of joy and heartache. There were countless smiles and moments of genuine connection, but also growing pains and tears—sometimes mine, often the volunteers’. Having spent nearly 31 years in the police, I had seen the extremes of human experience, but observing the world through the eyes of these volunteers was another story entirely. I remember one day as we drove through the Victoria Avenue and Brodie Street area. One of the volunteers froze, staring out the window, disbelief etched into his face. On the ground lay a man, unconscious, partially dressed, in his own urine, barely surviving the effects of injectable street drugs;

“Lorne,” the volunteer said, his voice trembling, “Lorne… that guy has a needle in his arm, right there. He’s right there! What do we do?” His words were steeped in concern, fear, and the shock of witnessing such raw human suffering. In that moment, I realized the mission demanded more than logistical planning—it demanded presence, courage, and a willingness to confront vulnerability, both our own and that of the people we were serving.

The people we encountered were not defined by a single challenge. Many were living at the intersection of poverty, homelessness, addiction, and mental health struggles, and in Thunder Bay, 78 percent of the unhoused population is Indigenous. Others had been pushed into homelessness simply because they could not get or maintain stable work. These were regular folks—parents, siblings, neighbours—falling on hard times. What made the work meaningful was building real, lasting relationships with them, seeing them as whole human beings rather than cases or problems to solve.

From the very beginning, the mission was never only about hydration. Water was the gift, yes—but respect was the greater gift. To arrive not as rescuers but as neighbours, to hand over a bottle of water with eye contact and a question of someone’s name, was to restore something deeper than thirst. It was to restore dignity. Each interaction became a reminder that the true measure of service is not in the quantity of bottles delivered or kilometres driven, but in the way we show up for others. For the volunteers, every encounter carried a lesson: compassion is lived, not measured; humanity is recognized, not assumed; and human worth is restored in moments that are small, intimate, and profoundly human.

At first, people were cautious of the navy-blue truck that pulled up to their encampments. But after a few days, wariness gave way to welcome. By the fourth day, they ran to meet us—not because of the water alone, but because they recognized what arrived with it: presence, respect, solidarity. Charity wrapped in dignity became our standard. It meant offering presence before pity. We did not come as saviours but as neighbours. We showed up not from a position of superiority, but from a place of shared humanity.

This posture redefines charity. Too often, models of service strip people of autonomy—food banks that scrutinize clients, shelters that enforce humiliating rules, donations that foster dependency rather than empowerment. These practices meet material needs while eroding the spirit. By contrast, charity wrapped in dignity insists that how we give matters as much as what we give. It is not charity as a handout, but charity as a handshake. Not transaction, but relationship. Not pity, but kinship.

In Matthew 25:35–40, Jesus says: “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.” This passage is often read as a call to charity, but it is more than that. It moves us from scripture to practice. Jesus is not commending a program or project; he is pointing to the posture of the heart—the instinct to see another’s humanity and respond with compassion, without judgment, and without delay.

This teaching is universal. In Jewish tradition, tzedakah is not simply giving alms, but practicing justice. In Islam, zakat is an obligation of care that preserves respect. Indigenous teachings remind us that respect and relationship are the foundation of community. True charity, across traditions, is not transaction but recognition. It is in service where humanity is restored.

One afternoon on North Court Street, the temperature climbed past thirty-five degrees with heavy, choking humidity. I pulled the navy-blue truck to the side, flicked on the four-way flashers, and blocked a lane of traffic. Leaving the comfort of air conditioning, I stepped into the heat that pressed down like a weight. Bottle of water in hand, I walked toward a young woman sitting alone on the curb. She was thin, frail, her hair tangled, her hands unwashed, her shoulders slumped forward as though the day itself had become too heavy to carry.

I held out the bottle and paused. Looking directly at her, I asked, “What’s your name?”

She froze. Her eyes welled up with tears. Then she whispered, almost in disbelief: “You want to know my name? No one asks my name anymore.”

That simple moment captured the essence of the posture of the heart. It was not just about quenching thirst. It was about seeing the whole person, not just their need. It was about valuing relationship over resource, presence over transaction. It was about choosing to dignify, even when the world had stripped self esteem away. Ashley reminded me that dignity is not found in grand gestures; it often rests in something as small as a name spoken, a story heard, a moment of recognition.

Simple charity is often criticized because it can reinforce inequality. But when charity is wrapped in dignity, it looks different. It preserves agency, because the person receiving aid remains the decision-maker in their own life. It builds relationship, because giving is not one-directional—both sides grow and learn. And it carries respect, because no one is reduced to their need; their whole humanity is acknowledged. This is the difference between dropping water bottles at the edge of a camp and carrying them in, looking people in the eye, asking their names, and returning the next day. One is charity; the other is dignity. Ashley’s name was not just a detail; it was the difference.

When dignity is missing, allyship turns into saviourism. People become projects, and the ally becomes the hero of their own story. The result is that communities feel patronized, stripped of power, or worse, used. Trust erodes. Real change stalls. Allyship without dignity says: I know what’s best for you. Allyship wrapped in dignity says: I’m here to listen and walk alongside you. On that humid afternoon, I was reminded that the water mattered, but the question mattered more.

Wrapping charity in dignity requires practice. It means seeing the whole person and never reducing them to their circumstance. It means asking names and listening to stories, because in doing so humanity is returned where it has been denied. It means offering choice wherever possible and sharing space—doing with, not for, partnering rather than presiding. It means returning again and again, because dignity grows through consistency. And it means receiving as well as giving, allowing ourselves to be changed by the relationship. That brief encounter with Ashley changed me as much as it changed her.

When allies carry this posture into advocacy, it transforms the work. It prevents us from speaking for others without consent, and instead positions us to amplify the voices already calling for justice. Advocacy with dignity is not about being the loudest voice in the room. It is about making space so the right voices can be heard.

I learned from my service in the Middle East of the Jewish tradition of tzedakah that offers a deep framework aligning beautifully with this idea of charity wrapped in dignity. The medieval philosopher Maimonides described eight levels of giving, with the highest forms preserving dignity and empowering independence. At the lowest level is giving unwillingly—an act born of guilt, pressure, or resentment, where need may be met but dignity is absent. A step higher is giving less than one should, but with kindness, where the inadequacy of the gift is softened by the manner in which it is given. Then comes giving only after being asked, which may provide help but at the cost of forcing someone to plead for it. Higher still is giving before being asked, anticipating need and offering support without waiting for the humiliation of a request.

The levels continue with greater care for dignity: giving when the recipient knows the giver but the giver does not know the recipient, giving when the giver knows the recipient but remains unknown themselves, and then giving when neither knows the other, preserving mutual dignity and privacy. At the highest level of all is helping someone become self-reliant—providing education, work, tools, or opportunity. This form of giving transcends charity altogether and becomes empowerment.

Ashley’s story lives somewhere in the middle of those levels. It was not anonymous. It was not self-reliance. But it was deeply human. It was value restored in a moment of recognition, a reminder that charity at its best is not a transaction but a relationship.

The lessons for allyship, advocacy, and action are clear. Dignity rises with each level. The higher the giving, the more the power imbalance is reduced. Even at the lower levels, posture of the heart matters—respect and kindness change the experience. Advocacy itself is level eight work: creating systems that reduce the need for charity in the first place.

This requires a conscious shift. It asks us to move from transaction to relationship, seeing people not as recipients of aid but as partners in change. It asks us to move from pity to solidarity, refusing to look down on others and instead standing beside them in shared humanity. And it asks us to move from performance to presence, beyond one-time gestures and into sustained commitment and trust-building.

The posture of the heart means showing up with openness rather than ego, curiosity rather than assumption, humility rather than dominance. It acknowledges that those most impacted by injustice are not passive beneficiaries of help but active agents of their own liberation. This posture matters because it restores value. No person should ever feel that their worth is diminished in the act of receiving support. It builds trust, because communities know when charity comes with strings or superiority, and they also know when help is offered with respect. And it transforms both sides: just as the one in need gains resources, the ally gains perspective, humility, and a deeper sense of shared humanity.

That afternoon on North Court Street continues to echo in my memory. The bottle of water quenched thirst for a moment, but the question of her name touched something eternal. If we can learn to ask someone their name—and mean it—then our charity becomes more than help. It becomes kinship. And that is where dignity lives.

Think of posture in a physical sense: it determines how we move through the world, how others perceive us, and how we sustain ourselves over time. In the same way, the posture of the heart is about how we approach people in need. The challenge is to notice: when you step toward someone, do you come as an equal, or do you lean over them in pity? True allyship calls us to stand upright, neither towering nor bending in condescension, but meeting people face to face. Reflect on the last time you helped someone—was your posture one of equality, or did it unintentionally suggest imbalance?

There is also the test of openness. The posture of the heart is revealed in whether our hands and minds are open or clenched. Do you arrive with rigid assumptions about who someone is and what they need, or do you leave space to be surprised, to be taught, to be changed? This is not easy; it means loosening our grip on certainty and control. Ask yourself: when I serve, am I ready to listen, or am I only prepared to give?

Finally, there is the challenge of balance. Allyship without balance can easily slip into burnout or apathy. Some lean too far forward, rushing with urgency until they topple under exhaustion. Others lean too far back, hesitant or passive, convincing themselves that silence is safety. The posture of the heart requires steadiness—a way of leaning in with compassion while staying grounded enough to endure. Consider your own rhythm: do you overextend until you collapse, or do you hold back when presence is most needed?

To reflect on the posture of the heart is to test not only our actions but the spirit in which we carry them. It is not about dramatic gestures but about how we stand, how we hold ourselves, and how we meet others in their full humanity. This posture shapes every act of allyship. It transforms charity from a handout into a handshake—from “helping the needy” into walking together in dignity.