The Man Next Door, Part One

I have the neatest story to tell you.

Shortly after we moved into our neighborhood, I learned there was a really interesting man next door. He'd lived in our town for his 90+ years and was filled with good stories about local history.

You would think I hurried over to introduce myself. Nope. I told myself if I bumped into him, we'd chat, but I wasn't going to extend myself. I'd come out of my last neighborhood feeling bruised, broken, and vulnerable. I was running away from something instead of toward something, and if my new neighbors didn't reach out to me, I pretty much kept to myself. Tim prodded me to meet him, saying, "I really think you would hit it off." But I resisted.

Finally, late last year a knock came at the door. A young woman introduced herself as my elderly neighbor's caregiver, and handed me a slip of paper with a phone number on it.

I'd been summoned next door.

I arranged a babysitter and headed out. I walked upstairs to the bedroom where George spent his days, unable to walk as a result of a bout with polio when he was a young husband and father. Now I knew why I'd never bumped into him in the yard.

Within seconds, my fears vanished, and I was enthralled by what my charming neighbor had to say. We hit it off instantly, taking about history, politics, and faith. And even though I was paying a sitter by the hour, I didn't want to go home. I realized how much time I'd missed out on getting to know a kindred spirit.

As things wound down, George told me why he'd invited me over. I'd been summoned because George's daughter and granddaughter had read Rare Bird. George had also written a book. He'd started writing a novel way back in the 70's and wanted my professional advice. Could we talk agents, publishers, and publicity?

A few hours later, I walked back across the lawn carrying a cardboard box with three black binders in it-- George's manuscript--that had been around almost as long as I had.

I was excited but apprehensive.

I loved meeting my new friend, and was looking forward to reading his work, but what if it wasn't any good?

Read Part Two Here

Read Part Three Here

In Deep

Two years ago I wrote a post about our potential new neighbors. Every night the kids and I would pray for the people who would soon move into two houses on our street, “Lord, help us to bless our new neighbors, and help them to be a blessing to us.” Those empty houses held the promise of play dates, friendships, and casual pizza dinners in the cul de sac. Maybe even future prom dates. They were ideals, pristine-- not yet marred by the hurt feelings, awkwardness or conflicts that often arise when living in community. You can read that post here.

The houses made me think a lot about myself as a friend. I realized that while I wanted to roll out the welcome mat and be an ultra- friendly neighbor, I had grown accustomed to being more of a drive-by friend than a steadfast one. I leaned away from people whom I considered “needy” or who pushed intimacy on me.  I also think I put unspoken, internal limits on how long it should take for people to “get over” things, and how much of myself I’d offer up to them if they needed me.

I realized I might be an okay friend to have during a sprained ankle, but chronic depression? Probably not.  Ouch. You could have described my friendship style as wide, but not really deep. I think, with the exception of a small group of friends, I kept myself a little closed off from others. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to let them see the times when our family was annoying, ungracious, and our lives were… messy.

 Less intimacy = less mess.

Seven months after the new families moved in, 3 young friends knocked on our door, and Jack and Margaret went out to play with them, huge smiles on their faces.

Jack never came back.

One new neighbor, Jane, whose daughter had been playing with my kids in the rain, held my hand as I knelt in the wet grass, cursing and praying as rescue workers tried to find our son. And the other new neighbor’s son, Joe, was the one who called out, “Let’s go look at the creek!” and led the kids into his back yard.

I can and do wonder about the way God chose to answer our sincere prayers about our new neighbors. He’s the same God I prayed to for guidance on buying this house 10 years ago.  What’s up with that? Jack is dead! This is not a blessing! I ask Him, “Why did you lead us to this neighborhood in the first place?” Why? Wouldn’t any other f’ing town, neighborhood, or even street have been a better call? I don’t have the answers.

But I do think it is interesting that the woman who avoided conflict and intimacy, and sometimes missed out on true community, the woman who wrote these words on her blog, “Of course in my shallowness, I must admit I want to be needed in the "Where's the grocery store? or "Let's hang out on my porch" kind of way, not in the walk with me through a major life crisis sort of way,”  is now immersed in a messy struggle for survival that is truly long-term and has left few in the neighborhood,  town, or our internet circles untouched. There is no clear-cut end date or exit strategy, and no evaluation form to complete when the healing is “complete!”

And I have been cared for by people who have bravely rejected the idea that surface level friendship is enough, including my friend Jane, who hasn’t quit holding my hand.

It’s all so very interesting.

I now need what I was reluctant to give, and that is humbling.

And I can’t wash off or run away from the mess, even if I try.

 

Love Your Neighbor, Brain Dump Edition

I went to work today and there was a power outage. A suicidal squirrel had run straight into a transformer. It took me about .03 seconds to decide to hightail it out and here I am, at 9:37 am, wondering what to blog about.

A lot is swirling around in my head, but here goes:

We have 2 houses on our street that have just sold. I've been praying for weeks that we will be a blessing to the new people and they to us.

We have a great street and neighbors, so I've been bubbling over with excitement about the promise of welcoming these new families to it.

So what am I looking for? I'm looking for neighbors who will love and accept my kids just how they are. Who will get a kick out of them the way I do. Who will invite us over for Friday night pizza and a few beers.

I want to be needed, so if the whole family, parents included, were orphans, that would be fine. Of course in my shallowness, I must admit I want to be needed in the "Where's the grocery store? or "Let's hang out on my porch" kind of way, not in the walk with me through a major life crisis sort of way.

And, at its most basic, I want to be LIKED, a la Sally Field at the Oscars.

But the reality is, they may not need me, or WANT me, or even LIKE me.

Why is it that I want so much to be wanted and to have my kids be wanted (not by the law, mind you) too? Is it because I'm never really sure where I/we fit in? Is it because I sometimes wish I could rewind and put my kids in public school from day one so we'd be more "plugged into" our town? What if my desire to be needed is less about serving others and more about wanting to be popular? Hello? I'm 41, am I not past this YET?

I mean really, do I want the hard work of LOVING MY NEIGHBOR? Do I want to love my neighbor in the biblical sense-- okay not THAT biblical sense-- but in the way that God would want me to?

Because that's more about when the honeymoon wears off.

That's about picking up the bikes and toys that have been strewn over the cul de sac for the umpteenth time by kids, not your own, who treat your carport as their personal Walmart.

That's about dealing with the fact that your kids aren't going to mesh with all of the other kids, all of the time, and that that can be super-awkward when you are friends with the parents.

That's about bearing each other's burdens when a neighbor is crashing and burning.

That's about being real, not pretending that everything is perfect in your own home.

It can even be admitting to yourself and your neighbors that with sports and homework and the relentless Race to Nowhere you are often too fried or too lazy or too blah to initiate the pizza and beer on Friday thing because your flannels have been on since 4pm and you can barely be nice to the people in your own home and you want to pull the blinds down, way down, except you don't have blinds and it's all just too too much.

Sounds exhausting, doesn't it?

But like a brand new baby, new neighbors have that promise of perfection. Of being wrapped in cellophane with a big shiny bow. Of weekend trips and margaritas and best friends and prom dates and soul mates.

But when Jesus calls us to love our neighbors, he meant in the day to day, in the awkwardness, in the disputes, in the whose dog is crapping on my lawn, in the hurt feelings of kid fights, and the late night calls of "We're on our way to the ER, come now!"

And I don't really know how to do that. Because I'm selfish. And insecure. And petty. And I want things to be FUN! and EASY! and NOT INVOLVE SO MUCH POOP!

So my prayer is that I can be a blessing to these new families. Not for me, but for them. And to realize if they don't need me, that's okay too.

Piles of Blame

I have a habit of playing the blame game. If something went wrong in my younger years, I’d want to pin it on my brother or sister. As a mom, when my kids act up, I often attribute it to the influence of other kids, the time of year, the cycle of the moon, barometric pressure—you get the picture.

So, I’m wondering what you would do if you let your dog out to go to the bathroom at night and she disappears. And after about 10 minutes of surveying the estate you still haven’t found her.

And then you discover she has let herself into the neighbor’s house and is ransacking their walk-in pantry, an orgy of Beggin’ strips, nacho chips and all manner of other food. And you see by her bad example that she’s leading the neighbors’ own puppy into a life of crime.

And when you realize that the neighbors didn’t even notice anything was amiss, you have to fess up and apologize for your dog. And they tell you this is the second time tonight she has helped herself to their kitchen.

And when you take her home, she promptly chucks up 2 huge piles of this on your floor?

I know, you ask yourself, "What’s wrong with those people?! Don’t they know how to lock their doors? "

Don't Bite the Hand That Feeds You

Shadow the dog has diarrhea. Dear husband had to get up 2 times a night for the past 2 nights to let her out. She doesn’t bark, just paces the bedroom frantically, filling it with noxious odors until none of us can take it any longer. We’re not exactly sure what has caused it, but we have our suspicions.

Our neighbor has been leaving food out “for the animals.” Now I have nothing against feeding the birds. Watching our favorite flock of downy woodpeckers, chickadees and tufted titmice outside the kitchen windows is one of the highlights of winter for our family. But I think Frank has something other than birds in mind when he dumps leftover meat, pans of pasta and the like on the ground outside his house. We’ve tried to keep Shadow away from the dumping area, but our houses are so close together, it’s almost like living communally. Whenever she goes out, she makes a beeline over there to see what delicacies await. Burgers? Rice Pilaf?

I asked Frank’s wife about this behavior, and she explained where it’s coming from. He is 75, a child of the depression. He grew up fatherless after age 2. In the country. In Kentucky. His mother supported 5 kids on a teacher’s salary, and they learned to waste nothing. Now that I read this, I realize what a jerk I sound like for even writing about this sweet soul. Who would rank on an elderly neighbor trying to feed the animals?

I guess my question is, what kind of animals are we attempting to save here? We’re not in the country; we’re in the heart of suburbia. The deer are vegetarians and they have my entire garden of hosta to eat. The birds have feeders, and the squirrels get plenty chubby eating what they steal from the birds. Are we feeling sorry for the rats? The raccoons? A wayward fox or two? Ugh.

The other day, Shadow came back with half a pizza in her mouth, which may have prompted this bout of diarrhea. I don’t have the heart to say anything else to our neighbors. In fact, as I write this, I think I’ve realized the best solution is to try harder to keep a tighter rein on the dog.

After all, what do I have to gripe about? The way these neighbors pick up our mail and newspapers for us when we are out of town, no pre-arrangement necessary? The way they laughed it off when Shadow pooped in their yard and took an uninvited dip in their swimming pool? The way they treat our kids like grandchildren, buying presents for birthdays and Christmas that reflect the kids’ interests perfectly? The way their warmth next door has helped our kids learn to hug, talk to, and interact with adults other than mom and dad? Perhaps I’d like to grumble about the homemade cakes for our anniversary each year? The more I think about it, I guess you learn about a whole lot more than just feeding animals in rural, depression-era Kentucky. Maybe there are some life lessons for me there too.