When I heard this as a child, it sounded utterly ridiculous. I grew up in a small Midwestern town, and my only neighbors were family. I had visions of Aunt Lola lying in distress on the side of the road. Of course I would help my neighbor!
Through those early years the expandable definition of “neighbor” gradually became clearer. I remember the day the concept crystallized; it was the time I discovered my grandfather washing and folding mountains of children’s clothing. I asked Grandma what he was up to, and she explained that on weekends Grandpa would ride his bike to yard sales, buy clothes and send them to missionaries in foreign countries who would distribute them to children in need. Suddenly, “love your neighbor as yourself” acquired a somewhat exotic appeal for me. Strangers in need were out there somewhere; I was eager to start loving them.
A family trip to New York City when I was 13 offered me my first opportunity. So many folks in need of spare change! A homeless man in Grand Central asked for my SnoKone, and I couldn’t believe my luck. I remember the thrill as I handed it over.
I didn’t know at the time that my parents were planning a move to a bustling city in upstate New York. My world was turned upside down when we moved into our new neighborhood. Aunt Lola would never have left an empty bottle of vodka and a MoonPie wrapper in our yard. She wouldn’t have blared the car radio so loudly that our windows vibrated as she drove past. And I knew she would never be caught dealing drugs across the street. But some of our new neighbors apparently had no qualms. I began rethinking this whole loving-your-neighbor thing; there must be some exceptions… loopholes or something. Perhaps in some situations merely “putting up with” might suffice.
I hoped things would be different when I went to college. The dorms offered their own challenges, but I managed to fall head over heels in love with one neighbor in particular. We married and headed to an apartment in West Philadelphia. I’d heard of the area’s rough reputation, but figured that with the two of us working together, we could surely manage to like our neighbors. That was before one man shot another outside our building and someone began using our garbage can as a toilet. I began feeling sympathetic toward the bad guys in the parable who turned up their noses at their fellow citizen.
A visit to my grandfather once again put things in focus for me. Alzheimer’s has taken its toll, and Grandpa doesn’t remember me. Several times during the hour he turned to me in surprise, shaking his head at his befuddlement. Then, with a generous smile, he exclaimed, “Hello! Who are you?” I was amazed that even though he didn’t know who I was, he was ready to extend kindness.
On my way back to Chicago, where we lived at the time, I thought about how I whined about my neighbors when they honked at 4 a.m., how I scorned them because their dogs barked while my baby slept, how I suspected them all of being the thieves who stole our car–twice. I realized I, too, am a neighbor. I force my habits and problems on other human beings. My infant wails loudly in the middle of the night. My parallel parking stinks. I drive too fast and listen to music nobody else wants to hear. If I were lying in a ditch, would I want my hypothetical and next-door neighbors to love me? Yes.
So these days I look people in the eye as I pass, and smile at them too. I don’t know who stole my car, but I forgive them. I remind myself not to look for loopholes. This is how I would want to be treated.
A couple of months ago my family and I moved to a small Midwestern town. I find myself missing Chicago. In my mind’s eye I can see George, a guy who lived down the street. He’s walking around the neighborhood greeting folks and introducing families to each other, the way he did for us when we moved there. I see him smiling as he talks about the block party he’s planning. I’m sorry I’m going to miss it.
