For the last 5 years and 7 months, I have made my home in a yellow 5-4-and-a-door house on Mountain Brook Way. Black door. Black shutters. Yellow house. 2,075 days, give or take.
To the right of my house live my neighbors the Heerins. Their daughter babysits for us. Their son rides the bus with my son and daughter. Stacy and I chat at the bus stop in the afternoon and the occasional morning when we get up in time to make the all-too-early bus pickup; Paul and Ryan chat in the afternoons while the kids are outside playing, burning off the last bit of energy before bedtime.
To the left of our house live our neighbors the Magruders. Their children are grown; their grandchildren too. They have taken us under their wings and have “adopted” our family, remembering each birthday and celebrating every holiday with a surprise gift left at our back door.
If you stand in our yard and look across the street, you will notice a house that sits on top of a hill. An off-white house that dates back to the late 70’s. The sloped lawn is perfect. A lush carpet of green rolled out of the house and down the hill to the street. Healthy, not a blade of grass out of place. Its appearance born out of the meticulous care of its owner: an elderly man who wears a straw hat, long pants, long-sleeved shirt—regardless of the season, temperature, or humidity—while pushing his lawn mower rhythmically and purposefully on the slant.
This, I’m afraid, is all I knew of the man; it’s regretfully taken his death yesterday for me to know more. I understand now his wife passed away years ago, and, having had no children, he lived alone. In his house. Across the street.
2,075+ days I have called this house my home. I have known my neighbor to the left and to the right; yet, I only watched Mr. Worley from afar. I never crossed the “great divide” of Mountain Brook Way. The distance itself is small—the distance from my front door to his, maybe a 60 second walk—yet, I allowed for so many things to come between the two points that the distance was never crossed. And, in my ears, heart, and mind, the words now, too late, ring loud and clear: “Love thy neighbor as thyself”. “Love thy neighbor as thyself”. “Love thy NEIGHBOR as thyself”.
Yes, the second greatest commandment (one of which Jesus said all other laws hang) seems to be one, in this case, I didn’t keep. Or attempt to keep. Why? I keep asking myself, “Why? Why, Robin”? And, embarrassingly, I’ve come up with the standard excuses: too busy, too preoccupied, too uncomfortable, too lazy, too quick to say I’d do it another day, too focused on other “neighborly” activities or just other neighbors, too…, too…, too…. And, consequently, I missed opportunities to love my actual, literal neighbor. “Love thy neighbor as thyself”.
This piercing conviction of the truth that I missed the ball so drastically has led me to ask this: what if I had loved my actual, literal neighbor? What if we all did? What if we took the neighbor bit of “Love thy neighbor” literally? What if we didn’t immediately qualify “neighbor” in the Scripture as someone on the street we pass (well, yes, let me hold the door for them), or a fellow parent (well, it’s not convenient for me, but yes, I’ll switch Book Fair shifts with you), or a child across the world who needs a sponsorship to attend school and to eat, or a migrant traveling hundreds of miles to cross the border into America? Do these neighbors need love? Absolutely. But what if we started closer to home? What if we started with our actual neighbor?
Shortly after I learned my neighbor passed away, I had the privilege of participating in the funeral service for The Honorable Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Georgia Harris Hines (or Justice Hines as I called him, but he preferred Harris) in my home town and home church in Marietta. Trying to describe Justice Hines is like trying to suppress a giggle in a sacred church moment: you can’t do it. One simply felt they were standing in the warmest, most inviting, beautiful bits of sunshine when you were speaking with him (or rather, he was speaking to you); and, when he shifted his attention to another lucky soul, you smiled as you watched him be the man God uniquely made him to be and as you witnessed the recipient of his attention glow from the radiance he cast. Simply said, there is no one else in this world like him, and we are all grieving the loss of our Justice. He was his family’s, he was the State’s, but he was his neighbors’ too.
Time and time again, as he was eulogized, examples of his character, his love, and his genuine heartfelt interest in his fellow man surfaced. His son, Hap, in his eulogy recited one of Justice Harris’ mantras: “Be kind. Everyone has their struggles”…and kind he was. His kindness, in fact, delayed him on many a task as he could not help himself but to stop and speak to his neighbors in every arena of his life. On the way to the courtroom, he would visit with multiple people in the hallway, remembering their names, and the names of their family. A waitress would begin as a stranger, but leave as a friend. He asked penetrating questions because he wanted to know and to understand someone; he wanted them to feel seen and valued. He took time. He laughed at your jokes (and laughed at his own). He made himself available despite his demanding schedule. He was eager. He was joy. He was a kind, southern gentleman. He was everyone’s neighbor, and everyone was his.
Justice Harris loved his neighbor. As a Justice and Judge for 40+ years, he listened to his neighbor and sought justice on behalf of him. As a friend, he poured into you until your cup just flat-out runneth over all over the place. He loved his neighbor in the macro-sense of the word, but he loved his neighbor down to the tiniest micro too. And lives were changed. Eternity experienced.
What if we loved our NEIGHBOR not only as thyself, but as Harris loved his?
This world is full of people who are lonely, who need to be valued, and seen, and heard, and remembered, and honored, and loved. Yes, some of these people are living in downtown Atlanta in a shelter. Some of these men, women, and children may be in your church or school or in Africa or on a march from Mexico. But, geographically, our neighbors who need us (and who, in turn, we may need) may be much closer than we thought. Some of them may be living across the street. In a house on a hill. With a beautiful green carpet of grass.
God has placed each one of us where we live on purpose. For His purpose. And though it may not be *convenient* to love some of these individuals or convenient for our schedules, I don’t believe convenience was mentioned by Jesus as a loophole.
What change might we create in our homes and neighborhoods—even in our world–if we refused to allow the temporal things of this world to delay us from walking across the street and from knocking on our neighbor’s door? Harris would knock on the door again….and again…and again–much like his Savior.
In Revelation 3:20 the Word reads: “Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me”. Jesus. Even Jesus, crossing the great divide, and knocking on our doors. And if Jesus does this for us, how much more so should we be willing to do the same for our neighbor? Perhaps in doing so, we will catch a glimpse of how God loves us. Perhaps in learning to love our closest neighbors, He will equip us to love all of our neighbors better. And perhaps we will experience a bit of eternity on our very own streets. I’m praying for that this morning, here in my yellow house with the black shutters and a black door. Across the street from Mr. Worley’s old house.
We are settled where we are by design and on purpose–for His purpose. Remember that. And remember this: “Love thy neighbor”. “Love thy NEIGHBOR”.
Now, go. Go put your shoes on, and say hello. Harris would.
–in honor of Mr. Worley and P. Harris Hines.
Black Braids and Bread 