Do you ever think about the strangeness of life — love and hate, joy and sorrow — and wonder why we as human beings don’t support one another better? I think about these things a lot. Maybe it’s because I was a shy child, awkward and uncomfortable, afraid of my shadow yet yearning always to fly free. For my entire life — though a short span of 46 years is nothing in the face of eternity — I have felt the weight of sorrow, the sting of hate, more heavily than the airy joy of love, compassion, and peace. It has not been a pleasant experience. But I’ve come to realize that brokenness breeds depth, and moments of great sorrow make those occasional glimpses of joy all the more ethereal. It is in these brief moments of otherworldliness that I have discovered what I believe to be the heartbeat of God. But moments of joy came at odd times, unexpectedly. When I was four years old and slinging my foot through the rapid waters sloshing down the gutter of my childhood home. For a brief instant while showing my two-year-old daughter her first rainbow in front of our small condo in Virginia Beach. Singing hymns together as a family on our porch September 11, 2001.
But there is one snapshot I want to share with you that has remained with me forever.
It was about ten years ago. Our children were still all very young. We decided to go caroling one Christmas, as a family, just around our short cul-de-sac. The children were particularly excited because they each got to take a turn carrying the tall candle as we walked. Their faces shone by the glow of the candlelight. The air was crisp and cold, their noses red and dripping. Wearing scarves and mittens, hats and bulky coats, they trudged through the snowy street, leaving tiny bootprints in the snow. We walked up to the first door, rang the bell and began to sing. Awkwardly at first and a bit shy. But we were warmly received.
We soon discovered there was great sorrow behind every single door. One woman was fighting a losing battle with cancer. She had four children and was frightened out of her mind. Standing at the door with a scarf loosely wrapped around her bald head, thin and frail, tears flowed down her cheeks. Our singing seemed to soothe her for a few moments. We offered to pray for her, too. She accepted, and we did pray. Hopefully, we lightened her heavy burden if only for a little while. She died about seven months later, leaving a despondent teenaged boy and three grown children to wrestle with the whys and what ifs and to mourn, desperate and alone. Her husband, Ibrahim, left for work each morning after that with slumping shoulders. We might never have known.
At the next house, we learned that the smiling single mom we occasionally greeted with a wave while getting the mail had been struggling, too. Her older son had started dealing drugs. She knew all about it but was unable to persuade him to turn his life around. Her younger son, only 14 years old, was now following in his big brother’s footsteps. She was devastated. The pit bull that all the neighbors complained about was really her son’s dog — he used the ferocious beast to keep him safe from an occasional deal gone bad. But that wasn’t all. This dear woman had been dating our mailman for several months. Things were getting serious. He was supposed to come for dinner one night shortly before Christmas, but he didn’t show up. After a couple of days of worrying and heartbreak, she phoned the police. Her new love had dropped dead of a heart attack while still at home. She was beside herself with grief. Not only was she brokenhearted, she worried that there would be no father figure for her sons now. We stayed in her home, listening to her and praying for her for so long that our youngest son fell asleep on the floor while he waited for us to finish. Why hadn’t we visited her sooner? How could we live so near one another, yet never know the depth of one another’s pain?
Across the street, three children were about to be removed from their parents and placed in foster care. They were suffering from neglect. I had seen their son climb onto the roof on several different occasions. I didn’t realize he had also punched holes in the walls inside the house out of anger and frustration or that the dog had defecated everywhere and no one had cleaned it up. I knew they had head lice because once the little daughter had come to our house with an itching scalp. Instead of offering to help, I shuttled her home to her mom as quickly as I could, scowling about the amount of laundry I would have on my hands if my children got lice from these unkempt neighbor kids.
We had lived in that house for seven years before we ventured out to the eight other homes with our candles and Christmas carols. In all that time, we never knew the heartbreak that was unfolding around us. We were not there with love and support, nor did we offer shoulders for them to cry on, and we were living within a few feet of their pain.
This should not be so.
No matter what your religion, race, political affiliation, or favorite flavor of ice cream, with a deep breath and a little courage, you, too, can reach out with a helping hand — even if it’s only to grip the desperate hand of a neighbor whose problems you are powerless to solve.
God bless you and have a safe and happy week!
Megan and Steve
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