My Street

During the Lockdown, I started to get really depressed and feel trapped, as we all did.  One night the proverbial straw broke me and I wallowed in all the negative emotions.  Hardcore. 

I couldn’t even write because I was sick of my own negativity and turmoil.  (As was everyone else in my house)  I decided to pray instead. 

I walked my cul-de-sac and prayed over my neighbors.  Every house and all the occupants in it; even the ones I didn’t know lived there. (And yes, I wrote about this.)

And then the next Sunday night I did again.  And then I did it again.

And then I did it again.

And again.

Every Sunday night for a year I walked my street and prayed over the people on it. 

And something amazing happened…it truly became MY street.  The people became MY neighbors.  Even the ones I didn’t know, they were a part of my community.  That phrase took on new meaning, MY community.  

That’s what it had become.  MINE. 

So I started praying for opportunities to meet the people I didn’t know. And opportunities to get to know those that I did know, better.  And I asked that my eyes would be kept open so I wouldn’t miss them.

And those chances started showing up. 

And I DEFINIETLY took advantage of them.

We’d be in the front yard.  I’d look over and gasp, saying, “Look!  They’re outside!”  And off I’d go.  NOT sprinting, definitely not sprinting, but certainly not walking either.  And I’d start waving and loudly saying, “Hi!” from too far a distance.

But I couldn’t let them get away!  This was a window!  I had to take it! 

I’m sure the impressions I made were…interesting.  That descriptor probably doesn’t cover it. 

But this was my community now.  And that had totally snuck up on me.  Every week I prayed and every week a love grew a little more and every day I felt a little more protective of this place and these people. 

That’s the power of prayer.  It creates a love in you for the subject you’re covering.  If you already know the person, it deepens the love.  Like with two of the women on my street and their families. But if it’s new, it creates it and solidifies it. 

You can’t pray for someone and not start to fall in love with them. Which I’m pretty sure is why Jesus says to pray for our enemies.  It’s pretty impossible to hate somebody you’re covering in prayer.

But then that wasn’t enough.

 I didn’t want to just pray for them, or to simply know them.  I wanted a relationship.

So I got to work.

I started baking and sending my children to every doorstep with goodies.  We started with the people we knew.  And then we branched out. 

(Side note: Did they argue?  Of course they did.  But I knew they needed this too.  For this to plant itself in their memories, as well as to be a part of their spiritual education too.  That’s my job as a mom.  To teach them and train them and help them grow even if it doesn’t make them ecstatic.  In fact the older my kids get, the more I realize that me making them happy isn’t in my top three job descriptions.  Safety, health, and formation are all above it.  And by the way, it turned into something they ended up loving too.  They would argue over which houses and it wouldn’t be for the people we knew really well.  Okay, back to the point…)

Then we started planning events.  We set up outdoor movie nights.  A neighbor I didn’t know very well borrowed a projector from work.  Another neighbor I didn’t know very well built a screen. 

Then THAT neighbor started using that screen as a backdrop and doing concerts in his driveway.  And they’re great!

We planned an Oktoberfest.  We were all socially distanced and even had decorations.

We had a weekly Driveway Happy Hour.  Sort of weekly, we held as long as we could till it got too cold.  And then we had fire pit happy hour.

We had a few outdoor birthday celebrations. 

And know what happened then?

Everyone started feeling the love. 

This was OUR street now.  These were OUR neighbors.  Everyone started keeping an eye out for the reclusive ones and being so excited when they decided to take part.  We even started keeping track of and celebrating as each house was vaccinated and helping others find where to go. 

We had built and then claimed this as our community. 

At the beginning of August I was driveway sitting with one who is now a dear friend and we talked about how we didn’t want to lose that.  We had established it and we wanted to keep that going. 

So we got out our calendars and planned something for every month till January.  One movie night and maybe something else. 

In August we watched Labyrinth with LOTS of snacks and goodies. 

The Sunday before Labor Day we had a cookout with another Driveway Concert.  This Friday is Movie Night and I’ve already bought stuff to make a fall sweet snack.

Next month we’re doing Oktoberfest again as well as another Movie Night. 

If you can’t make it, cool.  We’ll see you at the next one.  But we will make a point to try and see you  because this is our community now.  Even when it’s hard…

Last night was the first interaction with a neighbor that left me sad and nervous.

Her name is Helen. 

That’s not her real name.  That’s the name she has adopted so that the American tongue has a name that we can easily pronounce. 

She and her husband, Frank, live two doors down from us.  

They are both in their 80s.

They are both rather short and very thin.

And they are both incredible.

They’re from Cambodia and fled to Thailand.  Then got religious asylum here in the states back in the 70s.

Helen’s English is a little difficult.  And to further complicate things, she has dementia.

Last night, she came to our house at dinner time with a STRONG walking stick that she was thumping in irritation.  

Immediately she started saying that she had heard the children crying.  That she was scared that they were hurt.  That I didn’t care and wasn’t taking good care of them.  I brought her inside to see all 3 boys sitting at the dinner table, eating, safe as can be. 

She was still very agitated.  But in no way a threat.

My husband and I calmed her down and she walked home muttering to herself, feeling a little embarrassed and confused. 

Turns out she had heard one of my sons screaming and yelling as they jumped on the trampoline with each other and a friend.  Nobody was hurt, but her brain flashed back to when someone she loved was.

When they were fleeing Cambodia, their family got separated from Frank’s mom and their oldest son.  They were both killed.  He was around 8 at the time. 

Around the same age as my sons.

At this point, many of you may be thinking that this isn’t safe.  That this makes you uncomfortable. 

Far too often, when things get hard or uncomfortable, we cut and run.  We do it with friends.  Or with family.  Or with schools.  Or with churches.  Or with neighbors.

Sometimes it comes from a place of not wanting to make something worse because we have no idea what to say or how to act.  But I think this is much rarer. 

I think we cut and run because we don’t want to put ourselves into a place of vulnerability with not knowing how to act or what to say. 

This is a tragedy.  Especially if you’re a person of faith.

A hard truth is that when you care, when you love, there is always the potential for pain.  There is always the potential to be seen as…well, to be seen in a way that you don’t want to be seen.  There is always the potential for embarrassment, for discomfort.  There just is. 

But part of our job as humans, ESPECIALLY as sisters and brothers of faith, is to decide that it’s worth it.  To not run from pain or places of discomfort.  Because usually, that is exactly where we need to stand. 

We need to hold the hand even if we don’t speak.  We need to cook the meal even if it makes our day a little more complicated.  We need to listen to the tears without platitudes.  And sometimes we need to comfort and provide reassurance when a past pain and a past trauma rears its head.  We need to be the respite and place of comfort and safety.

Helen cares for my children.  She cares for me.  (And she sort of likes of my husband when she isn’t convinced that he’s actually my boyfriend trying to take me away from my marriage.)  Her reaction last night was out of fear that harm was coming to my boys, while in a way reliving the harm that came to one of hers.

This still might be too much for some of you.  And I think that’s okay. 

But I asked for this.  I prayed over and claimed this community.  I prayed to know her and her husband and now I do.  I’ve enjoyed the meals she has shown up at my door with, unexpectedly.  I’ve loved every random banana and piece of cake that she brings over “for the kids”, even when it isn’t really edible.  I smile at every wrapped Asian treat she hands them and smile even bigger when they smile and say, “thank you Mrs. Helen” and then when she’s back inside they quietly whisper, “Mom, it doesn’t taste good but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings”.  And I love every laugh we’ve shared when she’s told a joke that I have no hope of understanding because none of the conversation is in English but I laugh anyway because she’s laughing and it’s infectious. 

And I will continue to smile.  I will continue to wave.  I will continue to take her and her husband baked treats.  I will not drop her simply because things are harder now.

Yes, I’ll warn house sitters not to answer the door because it might really confuse and scare her that it’s not me answering.  Yes, I’ll continue to talk to my boys about how to talk to her and how to run to me if they don’t feel safe.  While knowing that all of this will continue to grow their empathy and life knowledge, hopefully storing it away for any future experiences that may come up.

Know what’s funny? 

Even in Helen’s pain and confusion, she sought to show how much she cared.  After she had been reassured and had calmed down.  She plunked a bag of jelly candies on the table in front of my boys and grunted when they smiled and said thank you. 

Despite the disease that’s after her brain, that instinct was there. 

And I’m honored and glad that I get to be witness to it.  I love it.  And I will continue to pray.  For her and her household.  And for every other house on my street. Because it’s MY street.   MY people.  MY community.