referred to as “big sister.” I delight in being
called “Auntie.” There were more greetings and
hugs and explanations of what happened to
the electricity. Bob, an elderly man who lives
alone, came out of his house holding a fistful
of Tootsie Pops for the kids. He smiled as they
each politely thanked him before tearing off the
wrappers and shoving the trash into parents’
pockets and the suckers into their mouths. And
that’s pretty much how the evening went. We
laughed and chatted and watched the children
play.
If we’ve lost our sense of
togetherness, it’s because we
have learned to rush from one
thing to the next, mind our own
business, and live a life “looking
out for number one.”
After a couple of hours, the sun was getting
low and the kids were getting hungry. We
slowly wandered back up the street to our own
home and fed the kids peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches for dinner. Later, as I was lying in
bed, I thought about the turn of events that
evening. We had all truly enjoyed leaving the
routine of our homes for a couple of hours and
simply gathering together to connect. Why
didn’t we do this more often? Why did it take
a transformer blowing to coax us out of our
22
homes and into each other’s front yards and
lives.
In all our day
to
day busyness, distractions,
and even complacency, we are missing out on
something vital: each other. We don’t know
who lives in our neighborhoods because we’re
too absorbed with what’s happening within our
own walls or on our screens to venture out. As
I considered this, I felt a bit like an ostrich with
her head stuck in the sand who suddenly looks
up and discovers what she’s been missing.
What did I actually know about my neighbors
and what is happening in their lives? Whose
heart is breaking a block away? Whose family
just fell apart? Who just took in a foster child?
Who had to admit their parent into a nursing
home? Who just went to the hospital?
Do we recognize the lonely among us when we
rush by them? Do we recognize the loneliness
in ourselves, or have we masked it with
routines, activities, and to-do lists? How can
we see people, understand them, and feel with
them if we’re constantly running past them or
jumping to the next event? Empathy, like love,
is patient. It takes time.
When we call out “Hi! How are you?” as we pass
each other on the street, in the store, or in the
church hallways, we can pause and turn it from
a mindless greeting into a sincere question as
we wait for the answer and linger long enough
to ask followup questions.
When we see someone looking sad, confused,
or downcast on the bus bench or in the office
breakroom, we can stop to ask, “Are you