I absolutely love my neighbors. Here at Green Lake, where I am surrounded by trees and water, where evenings bring a panoramic glory of setting sun, and eagles fly past windows so close you might reach out and touch them. Here, like Eden, it’s the people who are the crown of all this creation. It’s the people who anchor our hearts.
A half dozen years ago when we moved from our house in the suburbs, we loved those neighbors, too. I remember thinking, “There’s no way we’ll have this, ever again.” Twenty-three years we’d been there watching babies grow all the way up, including our own. Over two decades our hearts had been knit to people who knew us and loved us incredibly well. Side-by-side we trained for half-marathons, and studied Scripture, and traded plants to set in gardens. Lavish with blessing. I never thought it could happen again. But it did.
It did, and here we are coming back from our month away, flying home from California, and I’m thinking about my own bed and my dog and my lake. But mostly I’m thinking about neighbors.
A husband died while we were away. He’d been sick for a while, his wife caring so hard, it was taking its toll, and now she’s grieving. But she’s not alone. Goodness. She’s got a whole family of neighbors checking in and answering texts and saying prayers. She is not alone.
It’s crazy how many have out-lived spouses, here on this lake. Women mostly, but also a couple of men. That’s how much they love it here. Enough to stay alone, maintaining homes, which is no joke out here on the water.
Our next door neighbor is one of them. “Marlyn, like the fish” is how she introduced herself the day our lot purchase was final, and my husband knocked on her door, introducing himself. I’d been shy, with no reason. Goodness. She invited us right in for a toast, and immediately we knew we’d won the prize.
We have won the prize, when it comes to neighbors.
Someone once asked Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?” And he went on to tell a story about a vulnerable person, and the one who helped him. The one who helped was the neighbor.*
Which is to say—my neighbor is Barb and Amy and Pat and Todd and Cory and Chip—and I could go on and on. Because these are people who drop everything to come to your rescue when the neighborhood text sends an SOS. These are people who love you.
It’s here, in my neighborhood, where life is real and community is authentic and we get to be our truest selves. It’s here we are most vulnerable and most available and we are honestly willing to learn from each other. And it is here, too, where life is just GOOD.
Good because of art days at Amy’s and meandering walks through Larry’s woods. Good because of bonfires at the Hage’s. Popcorn with Corniea’s. Watching The Chosen at Rick and Joy’s. Good because of the Lokhorst’s, where Maple never fails to put on the brakes until we knock on their door, because even our dog knows these are friends who will love us forever.
So here we are, after our month away. Back just in time for days growing longer and ice melting slowly, and trumpeter swans announcing their arrival. Soon our gardens will sprout and the docks will come out… and so will our neighbors. And we will give thanks. thanks. thanks.
*Luke 10:36-37—
“Which of these three do you think proved to be a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?”
“The one who showed mercy to him,” he said.
Then Jesus told him, “Go and do the same.”
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