On Neighbors

We currently live in a neighborhood with a little tiny house, a little tiny refrigerator, a little tiny stove, and little tiny bedrooms.  The house is poorly distributed, overwhelming cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and a carpenter’s nightmare.  The walls are paper thin, the wood stove is hardly worthy of the name, and for the first few months I was here, I hated it. I wanted to get the other house done and move.  Fast.

During the summer the kids went outside, met some playmates in the plaza and things started to improve.  More kids came out.  More playtime in the plaza – mainly for Lucas.  Then a little girl showed up and this gave Emma someone to play with.  Now, the kids are in and out of each other’s houses much like they were on 237th St.  But it’s a different world down here.

One of the moms warmed up to me and came over for coffee.  She said things were hard for them right now.  I believed her, but waited to ask.  Weeks went by and she came over every couple of days to chat, to talk about education in Chile, life with kids, and finally shared that financially they’re over the top strapped and don’t know how to make it. Winter was coming.

Someone who reads my blog donated money for wood and we delivered fresh wood to her house.

Some more time went by.

She finally opened up and shared that they’re in debt and don’t know what to do.  At the time she was dealing with a lawyer trying to reduce the ungodly and tragic interest rates, which more than doubled the debt, and keep her furniture from being auctioned off.  No such luck.  When I tenderly pressed her for more information, it turns out the debt was accrued during a time of unemployment and her husband took out a loan to feed his family and pay bills.  There aren’t the same unemployment services here. (The govt. helps the super poor, but the mildly poor have to figure out ways to make things work.)

They lost the case with the lawyer.  They can’t pay the debt, nor does she feel that amount of interest is even fair to pay.  The whole thing is tragic.  They’re coming for her stuff.  They are going to take her furniture, her refrigerator, even her wood stove.  The only things the law says they can’t take are the kitchen stove and the beds.  Something about kids needing to have a place to sleep. (Glad they draw the line somewhere.)  They can take everything else.

The day she came over to tell me her story, I was sitting at my desk, writing.  She stood in my door with a grim face and said they’re coming.  She doesn’t know when, but they’ll knock on the door and strip her house – even the damn plants.  I nodded, pinched my lips, touched her arm, and wept.  And wept.  She begged me not to cry.  She said if I started to cry, she’d cry.  And she doesn’t have time to cry right now.

I gripped her arm. “Bring it all to my house,” I said. “I’ll store it for you.”

She comes in waves with bags of things. Trinkets that hold no earthly value but are priceless to her. And her microwave, her paintings, her plastic flowers, her sewing machine, the kids’ toys, a guitar – doing what she can to hold her family together and salvage whatever dignity she can for her children.

One afternoon she sat in my dining room, sipping on a glass of wine, and glanced around. “I really like your house. I’d love to have a dining room this size.”

I gulped.  That shut my mouth.

We’ve all read the story of the good Samaritan. How Jesus said “Love your neighbor as yourself.”  I used to think it was a suggestion.  A good idea. A great way to show God’s love when it suited me, when it worked with my schedule.  I didn’t understand.  I had no idea.

The world is ruthless and cruel.  The winds of adversity blow hard against us and if I turn my face from my neighbor I join in that cruelty.  I participate with darkness, with injustice. The world is also glorious and full of compassion and good things, good people.  It’s a constant choice.  Will I love my neighbor?  Will I extend my hand to the hurting or am I too self-absorbed, am I too busy with my own life?

The wonder of it all is how simple it is.  The man asked Jesus how to inherit eternal life.  Love God. Love your neighbor.

And who is my neighbor?

So, Jesus told one of the greatest stories.  A story that touches deep places inside of us, regardless of religion, faith, or creed.  We all have neighbors.  I think part of why Jesus used the word neighbor is because it suggests we don’t have to go out and search for someone to help.  Our neighbors are the people in our lives, the ones we hang out with in the plaza, the ones our children play with, the ones who dare to tell us their stories.

And when we hear their stories, we are under obligation to do what we can.  To love.  To tend to, to extend ourselves for.  Does anyone care?  It is a terrible thing to feel alone in the world.

Neighbors come in all shapes and sizes and one of their gifts is that they help us feel less alone.  My neighbors know my comings and goings.  They know what’s happening in my life, they know certain things because they see me get out of the car, or I see them walk to the store with their grocery list and take the bus.

And when we can, not when it’s comfortable or convenient or even easy, we open wide our hearts and our doors… and say “Bring your stuff here. I’ll store it for you.”

Tell me about your neighbors. I’d love to hear.

Much love,

Tina