Thinking about Neighbors

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