It is late (or early morning perhaps) when I
write this. It's been in my mind for days now as I attempt to absorb the
tragedies that surround us. Eleven
people shot down as they prayed together in a Pittsburgh synagogue, two killed
in a Kentucky grocery store, all taken from their families and from all of us
because they were somehow different from their killers, thus targeted.
I am thinking of what it means to be
neighbors. Is it necessary to know the
politics of those with whom we live?
Does it have to make a difference if those who live next door believe in
a different god, think differently about politics, have skin that is a
different hue? If they nod to us
politely or smile when we pass on the sidewalk, is that not enough to believe
that we inhabit the same space and are thus interdependent?
I wonder what makes us neighbors. Is it just the proximity of our homes? Or is it that we share this city, this
country, this planet? How do we grant
each other the respect and the kindness that allows us to live together despite
our differences? How do we find the gift that is, in fact, our differences,
those unique qualities that we contribute to the overall quilt of humanity?
When I think of neighbors I remember two little
girls who came to live next door to us and allowed us into their lives. I see their faces as they sit on the hearth in
our living room and tell us about their day, words falling out so quickly as
they tell us about their dreams, one imagining a life as a marine biologist,
the other more reticent, but sure that horses are in her future. I cherish these memories and remember their
glowing faces as they sat on our hearth and spun their dreams like webs into
the future.
I think of the neighbors that shared our
cul-de-sac and celebrated holidays on our driveway because ours was the only
flat one in a hilly neighborhood. I
remember shared hot dogs and hamburgers and the time we set the neighbors' bush
on fire with a bottle rocket gone astray.
They were not angry, just grimaced, then laughed because we were neighbors
and there was no harm intended.
I think of the neighbors who cooked dinner for me
and my voracious young son when I was a single mom, taking us into their
family, teaching us their secret to cooking barbecue pork so that it melted in
our mouths, comforting us when we were burglarized, always there for us. They were open-hearted, protective and
loving, the epitome of the neighbors one would always hope to have.
I remember the neighborhood of my childhood, when
we shared home-grown tomatoes and eggs from backyard chicken coops that were
common in South Georgia in the 50's. We
were not in lock-step, but attended different churches, came from different
places, yet accepted one another because we shared a street and an alley,
played as kids in each other's yards, understood our interdependence.
It's a powerful concept, this definition of a
neighbor. It can be unfortunately
exclusionary, shutting out those who are different. Alternatively, it can be the glue that binds
us together in a way that benefits us all.
When we look beyond our individual hopes and fears, embrace our
differences and find the common good, a neighborhood can enrich and strengthen
us all. When we expand that concept to
include the broader neighborhood of humanity we will find the best of us in all
of us. I dream of that day when we lose
our fear of what makes us different and embrace what makes us neighbors and
enriches our lives, our humanity.
"When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news,
my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers.
You will always find people who are helping.'" Fred Rogers
