I’ve been walking by this house every Sunday morning for the past year, watching the river flow from the irrigation system out into the street, filling up the neighbors’ drainage swales.
Along with you, I’ve wondered, “Does anyone live there?” Answer: no. A German woman who used to wander up and down the street in her housecoat died a couple of years ago. I haven’t seen anyone go in or out since then. I haven’t ever seen a car in the driveway, either. But someone cuts the lawn.
Aren’t the neighbors concerned about the weekly flood that runs past their house? Some have called city code enforcement for lesser things. Why not this? It’s never bothered me enough to call.
This woman’s twin sister still lives a few houses up the street. She never drives by? She’s never noticed the water?
I’m assuming they have a well. I could be wrong, but I doubt anyone who pay for city water to run down the street. It’s not cheap.
So it’s a mystery. It has become part of the landscape, along with gaudy lawn ornaments, security system signs, and flags of various nationalities.
As the dogs and I finished up the first of two daily walks, I thought to myself, “I’ll bet some of my neighbors have never walked around the block.”
I’ve always had dogs that needed lots of of exercise. If we don’t want them constantly zooming around the house, we’ve got to put in the miles. I’ll bet we walk every street in our section of the community at least once a week.
But some have never even been around the block. They back out of the garage in the morning and drive off down the street. When they return home, they pause at the mailbox to collect all the daily junk, and pull back into the garage. Once the garage door lowers, that’s it. They’re in for the night. It’s kind of sad.
Some are out there no matter what. There’s Mr. McNulty, one of the few neighbors who has lived here longer than us. He has to use a walker, but he gets in his steps going up and down the street. The man across the street from him is blind. He’s out there once a week sweeping his white cane in front of him. I see many children walking to and from school bus stops in the mornings and evenings. I often pass Morris who always wears a bright orange shirt on his walks.
What do you miss if you never go for a walk?
There’s another wave of new roof installations this spring. I had no idea there were so many colors and color combinations of shingles! Some homeowners have waited a year to get new roofs after a tornado passed through. For this, I’m thankful.
There’s a new collection of used furniture out on the curb. A lot of folks have been getting rid of old sofas and chairs. I find this entertaining. When I see the fabric colors and patterns, I can’t imagine why anyone would buy something like that for their home!
It’s easy to tell who has the good parties. Vacant lots are littered with small liquor bottles. Tuesday’s recycling bins overflow with beer cans.
Rental properties have turned over this spring, so I’ve met the new neighbors. I find comfort in knowing which cars belong in our neighborhood – and which ones don’t. When neighbors watch out for each other, it’s a free extra layer of security.
Fresh air? Vitamin D? Get your steps in today? Pet a few dogs? Walking around the block is filled with good stuff.
It feels strange to call a house “lonely,” but every time I walk by, I think, “What a lonely, gray house.” Maybe it’s the signage that has scared everyone off. There’s not just one, but three of these signs on all sides of the house, announcing Private Property: No Trespassing.
Why would you put a sign like that in your yard? It’s not like we’re in the middle of nowhere and someone might wander through and decide to hang out for a while. This is a residential area. All the property is privately owned. Random door-to-door sales people may walk up, but I’ve never thought of that as trespassing. And if someone did want to break and enter, they wouldn’t pay attention to a sign like that.
When I’ve gone to visit some folks who live in the rural, unincorporated parts of the county, there’s often a sign like this on the front gate of a long driveway. Out in the woods or among hundreds of acres of farmland, it’s hard to tell where one property ends and the next one begins. If you don’t know where you’re going, you don’t belong here. I always called ahead to make sure they knew I was coming. There was a good chance I’d be met by someone with a shotgun if I just showed up.
Actually, a sign like that makes me wonder what someone is hiding in that house. I’m curious. What are they making or distributing or storing up in that house? Who was the last trespasser? Whatever happened to them? It is a little creepy. There isn’t much landscaping.
Such a sign doesn’t add to the curb appeal. Along with signs like No Soliciting, No Pooping (even though dogs can’t read), and a sign about who just repaired the roof, it makes the neighborhood look trashy.
But what are you going to do. It’s their property. It’s their private property.
I’m embarrassed to admit that he’s lived there for about three years. We’ve waved at each other pulling into and out of our driveways. We’ve both been working out in the yard at the same time. But for whatever reason, we never took the time to shake hands and talk.
What made the difference? My dog. She’s only three months old and shy. Each day I take her out in front of our house a little longer and a little further to get her used to leash walking and the sounds of the neighborhood.
Yesterday, my neighbor and his friend were talking in a foreign language and my dog was very interested. It was as if she could understand what they were saying. With wagging tail, she pulled in their direction, determined to join the conversation.
My neighbor, who had also been power washing his driveway, came over to see her, and we got talking about dogs. He’s got a gorgeous light brown and white Australian Shepherd who runs freely around his backyard, but never leaves their property. Of course, when I explained that Willow was a Great Dane, his eyes got big and he chuckled, “Oh. She’s going to be huge!”
So I found out that his name is Ricardo. He’s from Portugal and his wife is from Brazil. He’s got a handyman business and he gave me his business card. I let him borrow my surface washing disk to finish up his driveway. And just like that, we knew each other.
It’s about time. I know most of my other neighbors on both sides of the street and talk to them all pretty often. But this family eluded me for the longest time.
Knowing the neighbors has given me a great sense of security. We all watch each other’s homes and keep an eye out for unfamiliar cars that drive by. When a door-to-door salesperson tells me all my neighbors have bought his product, I know they haven’t.
I wonder why it’s easier to get to know some neighbors than others. Is it a cultural barrier? Age difference? Lives that are too busy to pause for a moment and say hi? Did Covid make us withdraw so far into our own little worlds that we forgot how to get back? Maybe it’s a little bit of all those things.
The solution? Talk a walk. And take a dog with you.
One person’s yard ornament is a neighbor’s eyesore.
As the days lengthened with the advent of spring, I noticed what looked like a pig in my across-the-street neighbor’s yard one morning. By the time my dog and I returned, there was enough daylight to confirm the sighting. Yes, this five-gallon pig can greets me every morning when I open the kitchen blinds.
Our neighbors have faithfully treated us to a rotating display of horrendous yard art, including a green glow in the dark alien, sexy-legged frogs, and a satanic goat head. They truly believe this enhances the curb appeal of their property as they try to sell their house.
Oh, that’s right, I forgot to mention their house is on the market. I’m of the opinion that any real estate agent would immediately insist, “You need to get all that stuff out of the yard!”
My wife and I have already been plotting ways to help that process along. There is a large dumpster outside a house under construction just a few houses up the street. As soon as it turns dark, we’ll just toss it in!
Another neighbor just had a yard sale. Maybe we could take it up there and add it to their inventory when no one is looking.
We thought about putting a “free” sign on it. Someone cruising the neighborhood for curbside junk would pick it up.
On a whim, I put the photo out there on eBay and Google. Nothing like it out there. Maybe it’s one-of-a-kind. Priceless. If so, make me an offer. I’ll figure out a way to get it to you.
This is my response to a question recently posed to me. It came via email: ” I know I have to love my neighbor. But do I have to like them?”
That’s a tough one. The phrase “love your neighbor” is in the Old Testament law, is affirmed by Jesus and later quoted by Paul. It’s all over the Bible.
In the context of Leviticus 19:18, it’s all about provision, honesty, integrity and justice for our “neighbor.” Vengeance or nastiness are off the table.
When that phrase, “love your neighbor” appears in Paul’s letters or James, it supports the commandments which protect life, relationships, property and reputation. The motivation for those laws is the other person, not God.
Jesus mentions it to those who wanted to be righteous and obey the law. His words makes us realize that it’s not just about the rules, but the person.
But the go to passage is probably the parable of the Good Samaritan, which Jesus told to those who wanted to be righteous and wanted to know who their neighbor was (Luke 10:25-37). Here, the neighbor is obviously the one who showed mercy. If one were to imagine the aftermath of this story, I doubt that the Samaritan and the victim became good friends and went out for coffee. Love for the neighbor was the action of having mercy and meeting a need. Feelings are not mentioned. Just the compassion.
That doesn’t let us off the hook, though. Hatred and anger make us murders and fifth-commandment law breakers. I’ve struggled with this. I can barely talk to my neighbors across the street with civility. They are my second-worst neighbors ever! When they tried to sell their home a few years ago, I was, quite frankly, pretty excited. But they didn’t sell. Boo.
First, I believe people like this in our lives are there to remind us of how hard we are to love and how amazing Jesus’ capacity to love is. I mean, think about it. Jesus loves me.
Second, I can beat myself up for not loving my neighbor or I can flee for refuge to his infinite mercy. I know he would have me do the latter. Part of the reason Israel went into exile was because they had turned away from God and their neighbor as the rich became richer and the poor became poorer. But that was to teach them that God’s way was better. I want to learn from them. I’ll turn to him.
Third, there are a lot of people in the bible who don’t get along with each other. The disciples fought among themselves, Paul wasn’t especially fond of Peter, Paul didn’t like Mark either, and Jews and Samaritans generally ignored each other. It’s the rule, not the exception. Two thousand years into the history of the Christian Church, we still can’t get along with each other. This is what we and every generation are like.
So can we just ignore our aggravating neighbors? No. Can we avoid them. No. Can we hate them? No. Can we love them? Yes. But only with a lot of help! We only love because he first loved us.
I believe the answer is to simply be obedient. Most of the time I don’t feel like doing what God wants me to do. I do it because I know that his way is best for me. We walk by the Spirit, not the feelings or desires of our flesh.
Who knows, maybe God will change your feelings toward that person?
“You are a priest, so you have to give me a place to stay.”
Those were the first words out of the woman’s mouth when I answered the door one evening just before dark and found her standing on our front step. We had only been at my first parish for a year to two. Even in the rolling rural hills of eastern Connecticut, a variety of people quickly found out that we lived in the parsonage next door to the church. So we got the usual procession of people looking for food or gas money, but till now never a demand for housing.
Inge introduced herself with a thick Swedish accent. She hadn’t been in America very long, found herself abused and estranged from her husband, and had nowhere to go. I think at some point we actually met her husband, but there wasn’t going to be any reconciliation. She was also Lutheran, actually a pastor of some sort herself. We were a combination of naive, compassionate, and new at this, and we had a huge house full of rooms we weren’t using, so we took her in. Our family was small, just my wife and I and our infant son — and now a boarder.
She didn’t bring much with her. Inge had little money, just a few items of clothing and personal items in a small suitcase. Her habits were a little different than ours. She liked eating bread slathered with mayonnaise and tomato sauce. On many a pasta night we found ourselves with no sauce. She also like to make sweet rolls with lots and lots and lots of butter. I seem to remember that she showered and shaved only occasionally, taking more of a continental approach to hygiene.
Inge found a job at some kind of small manufacturing company in our town, one she could walk to. She did attend worship and bible class when she didn’t have to work. She used some of her income to buy things like a VHS player, which she wanted to take back to Sweden with her. Since she was “buying American” for the moment, we saw a glaring flaw in her plan. She wasn’t actually saving anymoney to go back home.
After a few months, we decided we would help her out. She didn’t have a bank account, so we cashed her paychecks for her, withholding some and saving up for a flight back to Sweden. Within a month, we had enough for the trip. I purchased a ticket, drove her to La Guardia, and dropped her off. I don’t think we ever heard from her again.
I have helped a lot of people in a lot of different ways over the years. This was the only time we actually took someone in. It’s been a memory-stretcher to recall this story. I wasn’t journaling my life then as I do now. I definitely remember it being a less fearful and more innocent time, before the Persian Gulf conflicts, 9/11, Internet, wifi, and smart phones.
I’m not sure we would do this again. Were we foolish or faithful? Hard to say. Following Christ seems to be a mixture of both sometimes.
OK, it’s really a love seat. But it is really red. And I see it every time I leave my house or come back home. Because it sits, faithfully, on my neighbor’s lawn.
If you ask me, it shouldn’t have a place in someone’s yard. It shouldn’t have a place in someone’s house, either. Three weeks ago my neighbor put it out on the curb, assuming that the garbage men would pick it up. Nope. They didn’t want it either. It has now been soaked by the rains, ignored on bulk pick up days, and endured the intense heat of the October Florida sun. Passing dogs have baptized it, bugs have taken up residence in it, and mold has begun to thrive in it.
It doesn’t seem to bother my neighbor at all. He cuts the lawn around it. He stacks weekly trash against it. It has joined his unsightly array of halloween, occult and just plain ugly lawn ornaments.
I suppose there are times in life when you need a red sofa. Like when you’re going to murder someone in your living room. Or you’re bleeding from some orifice. Maybe you’re addicted to ketchup. Think about it. Someone actually made this love seat. Someone actually bought it. And yes, now someone has set it out in the yard for all to enjoy.
Just wait — I’m going to come up with a story to go with it.
“You are a priest, so you have to give me a place to stay.”
OK, it’s really a love seat. But it is really red. And I see it every time I leave my house or come back home. Because it sits, faithfully, on my neighbor’s lawn.
Waite for it... 