Who Is My Neighbor?

On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he asked, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

“What is written in the Law?” he replied. “How do you read it?”

He answered, “‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”

“You have answered correctly,” Jesus replied. “Do this and you will live.”

But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

 —Luke 10:25-37

Who IS my neighbor? Well...there's the couple next door with the cute new puppy. The older gentleman whose wife volunteers at a local food pantry. The mom I always see at the bus stop with the purple hijab. The woman with the contagious laugh whose adult son owns a Triumph motorcycle.

I live in a small townhouse development, and I am fortunate know many neighbors, their kids, and their dogs on a first-name basis. As I took my daily walk and passed by the rows of houses, I thought about the neighbors who have come and gone; I thought of the families that sought to move up to something bigger and better as their families changed and grew.

A few people who were out and about with strollers or walking their pets stopped to chat. As much as I try to be a good neighbor, it seemed like the bare minimum at best, compared with another community I call "home:" a homeless encampment in Howell that I've begun to visit weekly.

Today we were gathered in the chapel for fellowship after the Sunday sermon, and I listened as one resident mused about how grateful she was to live in a place where she was never alone, where everyone helped one another, and save for the occasional disagreement or conflict, for the most part everyone gets along. In turn, their neighbors in the community - locals with compassion and generous hearts - would come to the camp and give what they could.

That, to me, sounded like a real neighborhood - at least the ones I'd seen in those golden-age TV sitcoms. And there was a time in my life when all the kids on the block played together until the street lights came on, and we left our doors open so neighbors could just walk on in for coffee and company. We weren't just neighbors; we were friends too.

In Luke 10:25-37, Jesus answers the lawyer's question with the parable of the Good Samaritan. And he reveals that the man who showed mercy to a stranger was a good neighbor.

As much as I marvel at technology, I also believe it has a way of making us less neighborly. As a species, we're already inclined to stay within our respective comfort zones, which seem to grow ever smaller with the passage of time. With new gadgets to occupy our attention, we grow increasingly disconnected from one another, even within our own homes. Like many parents, I've adopted the "no electronics during family meals" rule in my house without exception. It's beneficial to everyone, parents included, and it's necessary. I for one have a lot more to learn from connecting with my kids than I do from Google.

As of late, I'm also seeing social media driving friends, family, and neighbors further apart. Facebook, for example, is a hotbed of inflammatory political comments, relationship and family drama, and time-wasting nonsense. We forget that it's merely a tool, and we treat it as a lifestyle, replacing real-life interaction with the virtual variety. Meanwhile, the impersonal nature of online communication allows civility and basic decorum to be swept aside. We are so determined to make our virtual voice heard that we forget there are living, breathing, feeling human beings on the other end of the keyboard whose emotions are just as valid as our own.

We're not going to change the mind of a stranger, folks.

But we can - and should - reach out and touch the hearts of our neighbors.

I know who my neighbor is. Some of them know who I am too.

I want to be a better one. How about you?

Just A Little Patience

My world feels a lot more empty as of late.

Throughout my childhood and teen years, my maternal grandmother, Nanny, was my rock. She lived with us on and off from the mid-80s up to 2005, when she moved into her apartment. The last time I'd visited her, she was happy and alert. She gave Julia and me boxes full of clothes and shoes and assured Julia that she would inherit her collection of little angel figurines. When we left, I hugged her goodbye and told her I loved her and we talked about meeting for lunch. She said she would order Chinese food and I could come to her apartment on my lunch break or the weekend.

But she went into the hospital a few days later, where the doctors discovered she was terminal and gave her six months to live. She didn't even last six weeks. I was supposed to see her on a Sunday, but she died on Saturday morning. My mom had seen her the day before she passed, knew she was suffering, and told her it was OK to let go. Mom wasn't in the wrong; Nanny was tired and ready to leave this life. But, perhaps selfishly, I do wish she would have waited just one more day.

The weeks immediately following her death were a whirlwind: coming to my aunt's house immediately after the phone call, just before the coroner took Nanny away; the wake with the gathering of friends and family I hadn't seen in ages; the funeral where I'd sung her favorite song; sorting through photos and belongings and memories; wondering if mental paralysis was completely outside the realm of normal grieving; constantly reminding myself that the world wasn't about to grind to a halt to mourn along with me, as much as I wished it would at least slow down.

On Sunday, I was digging through a pile of papers, and I found a birthday card Nanny had sent me. I paused to read it, recollecting a time many years ago when I considered myself blessed that I'd never lost anyone close to me. I pondered how many experiences I've been forced to relegate to the past tense: having a father, having perfect health, being someone's true love, and now, having a grandmother. But, I thought, such is the nature of growing older. I put the card in my purse, and headed out to where I knew I would find solace.

I was a few minutes late, but undeterred, I ducked inside and sat in the back. The sermon centered on Esau selling his birthright for a mess of pottage, and on the notion of instant gratification - how often we choose to live in the moment, forsaking long-term gain for the sake of short-term satisfaction. Individuals who seek to mute their pain with drugs or other substances. Government officials who sell out human beings for profit and power. And I reflected on these things. I thought of all the times I'd found a smug sense of righteousness arguing with friends and strangers online about how ignorant I thought they were. I thought of the time I'd wasted on avoiding reality instead of confronting my problems, or ruminating on things I couldn't possibly change. When we bowed our heads to pray, the words of the Serenity Prayer seemed to whisper right to the core of my being: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."

I spent some time in fellowship with new acquaintances and familiar friends, then took a walk out to the prayer garden. The foliage had taken on drab winter tones; the pond bore crinkles of ice patches. I was greeted with the calls of chickadees and blue jays. I leaned against a nearby tree and took a deep breath, letting the calm of the afternoon settle into my soul.

Suddenly, a flash of red caught my eye. Two cardinals, a male and a female, had just landed in the brush on the left side of the pond.

I didn't have much time to activate the camera feature on my phone before they flew out of sight, but I managed to snap a picture as they were gathering branches and building what appeared to be a nest.

I marveled for a moment at how those little birds stood out from the gray of the sleeping woods, refusing to blend in with the scenery. They were, in the literal and metaphorical sense, the bright spot in an otherwise murky backdrop. Indeed, having appeared in the prayer garden, a little message from heaven.

I can't say for sure what it was, but it brightened my soul just as it brightened those woods.

Life indeed goes on.