Like A Good Neighbor, _______ Is There

On the phone in a focused conversation with a friend who walked me through her skin care business website, I vaguely heard the brief sound of a siren, but thought nothing of it.  Our conversation completed, I finished an e-mail to my publisher and clicked “send” just as our doorbell rang.  Twice.  I wondered who would be coming to our house at dusk.  My husband, Dave, and I went to the door together, and it was our neighbor who lived to the left of us, saying that Brad Olsen, who lived to the left of him, had just committed suicide forty-five minutes earlier.  So that was why I heard a siren.  I was aghast, and stared at my neighbor, who looked down at the floor and said softly, “I just talked to his wife and granddaughter outside this evening at 5:30.”

I felt a tragic sadness, even though I had never met Brad and Marge Olsen.  How does suicide happen?  All the “if only” thoughts ran through my head: if only we had befriended them; cared more about our neighbors; if only he’d had a friend to talk to; if only he’d opened up about his depression and let people help him.  Our news-bearing neighbor related the fact that Brad's daughter, a psychiatrist, couldn’t reach him; he refused to talk to anyone or come out of the house.  He also related the fact that the Olsen’s had moved into their house the same year Dave and I moved into ours twelve years ago. 

Why hadn’t we gotten to know our neighbors better?  My mind thought of a number of reasons.  We’d had our own challenges at the time: Dave in depression and recovering from prostate cancer treatment; my own clinical anxiety-based depression that lasted two years after moving into our new home following the death of my father.  But we came out of that and were fine.  How is it that we didn’t know our neighbors?  These thoughts swirled around in my heart with the news that stared me in the face.  Perhaps if Brad Olsen had met Jesus with skin on, the siren would never have sounded on our street that night.  His wife wouldn’t have had to be taken to the hospital with a panic attack because he was found hanging by his neck.  Perhaps…if only…what if…why…  The thought of anyone spending an eternity in hell greatly disturbs me. 

Which brings me to think differently.  What would the Holy Spirit have Dave and me do in our neighborhood? 

A photo of our house in 2011

I’d not walked the three blocks and back on our street for over a year because of sciatica and low back pain, but yesterday morning I decided to walk two blocks and back, and pray again, like I used to do, for our seemingly peaceful neighborhood.  My walk took me past the Olsen house with overgrow shrubbery and a lawn that was in desperate need of mowing.  A man, talking into a blue tooth phone device attached to his ear sat slouched on the tailgate of a truck amid a line of cars parked outside the house.  I smiled and said “Good morning,” as I walked by. 

Up ahead I saw a Muslim woman in full garb start down the street toward me, then turn and go down the sidewalk at the corner toward her house.  I remembered seeing her there two years ago, mowing her lawn in full Muslim garb on a hot summer day.  How would I relate to a Muslim woman? 

I crossed the intersection, and heard a steady “click, click, click, click” on the sidewalk behind me on the opposite side of the street.  I looked back and saw a Mexican man, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, pulling a piece of carry-on luggage with a bedroll strapped to it.  He waved, and I waved back as a car passed between us on the street.  He sat down to rest on a low brick wall under a shade tree in front of someone’s house. 

I walked past the house where I knew a godly pastor lived, and wondered if he interacts with our neighbors, or had ever reached out to Mr. Olsen.  But why should I expect pastors to do the reaching out?  

As I walked back the way I came, the Mexican man was still sitting on the wall, and the Muslim woman was nowhere to be seen.  I smiled and said “God bless you” to the man still talking into his blue tooth device, still leaning against the tailgate of the truck at the house of death.  I looked at the brick church on the corner of Weir and Weems across from our house and wondered what that pastor’s relationship was with our neighborhood.  But again, why should we look to pastors to do all the fishing?  We are all to be fishers of men.  (And don't get picky and politically correct with me here; I don't have the patience for it!  By "men" I mean the human race in general -- male and female mankind.  If the Bible uses the term, it's good enough for me.)

What would the Holy Spirit have Dave and me do to reach out to our neighbors on Wilson Avenue and Weems Road?  Since I like to write, and have a greeting card ministry of sorts, the thought occurs to me to begin by sending each household a greeting card introducing ourselves, include a prayer of blessing, offer to pray for any needs they have, and include our telephone number and e-mail.  Of course, I’ll have to walk by and get the house numbers on both sides of the street.  No one said it would be convenient.

“Then He said to them, ‘The harvest truly is great, but the laborers are few; therefore pray the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into His harvest.”  Luke 10:2 NKJV

Lord, here I am; send me.

(Note: names have been changed)

Copyright © 2015 Elaine Beachy