Neighborly Love

I can sum up my whole childhood in two words: the block.

In the 12 years I have lived in my house, the block has become more than a group of neighbors that share the same nine letter street name as me. These people have become my family. They have become the people that welcome me with open doors, open arms and occasionally open refrigerators. It is through them that I have learned what it means to “love your neighbor as yourself.”

Three years ago was the first time I realized the impact of that statement.

Sobbing on my bedroom floor, I half haphazardly dialed the numbers that had been ingrained in my head since I was six. Caroline picks up and I tell her I’m coming over.

“Peeks, I’ve really messed up this time.”

“Oh Em, what have you gotten in to this time?,” she asks casually.

I wipe my tears and step outside.  Ten steps later and I am on her driveway typing in her garage code without thinking. I run upstairs to her yellow European style bedroom and collapse on her floor and begin to explain to her my predicament. I had just recently gotten in an argument with my mom and was convinced I was going to have to move out of my house. For good.

Before I can finish my story, Caroline is rolling on the ground laughing.

“You really believe you are going to have to move out?” she said. “Just because of one fight? It’s not like you are going to be put up for adoption. You’re being a drama queen again.”

She reaches over and hugs me and I stop my hysterics for a second to consider what she had just said.  I had done plenty of wrong things before and my mom had still loved me. What made this one different? Before I can continue to be upset, I reach over to punch her for calling me a drama queen. She knows I hate that.

Within a few moments Caroline, with her easygoing charm, had completely calmed me down. She didn’t judge me for my dramatic scene that had unfolded on her carpet or love me less because there were now tear marks on her white rug. She just listened and loved me anyway.

That’s what families are for. That’s what neighbors are for.

Fast forward to Spring Break this year.  My family was skiing in Steamboat when we received a call that would forever change our lives. My Aunt Katie had come down with a mysterious skin infection. After many phone calls back and forth and unanswered prayers, she passed away. For the next two days we did nothing but hold each other. Through the silence. Through the tears. The feeling was unreal.

I didn’t immediately call my neighbors because I didn’t want to talk about it. I couldn’t comprehend what had just happened, let alone compose enough sentences to explain. I wanted to wait until we were back on the block. Where I could do nothing but cry into their shoulders. Where I could do nothing but feel their arms around me. Where I could see nothing but the comforting blues and beiges of their houses.

When we got back to Kansas City, the response from everyone was crazy. We had 17 messages on the answering machine, dozens of bouquets of flowers and countless sympathy cards and lasagnas exploding out of our freezer.

Almost all of them from the neighbors.

It was as if they had all banded together to form some super army whose mission was to make sure we were okay. They completely dropped everything they were doing and focused on us. For a period of about two weeks, not one appliance in our kitchen was turned on. We had everything from homemade tortellini to delicious enchiladas. Although no food or kind gesture could fill the empty feeling inside of us, they sure helped to make it smaller.

A couple days later the funeral was held. Grasping my little cousin’s hand, I walked down the aisle with a heavy heart. Almost instantly I felt that weight lifted as I looked into the rows and saw my neighbor’s faces dotting the pews.

The looks on their faces whispered, “We are here for you.”

I couldn’t help but smile inside as I felt completely encompassed by their support.

That’s what families are for. That’s what neighbors are for.

It is through these experiences that the line between neighbor and family begins to blur. There is no favor too big to ask. There is no problem too personal to tell. Heck, there is even no house key hidden somewhere that we couldn’t find. They have been here through tears and laughter, thick and thin. Because these relationships run so deep, no change in address will ever change this family.