We Forget Our Neighbors

Just a Doorbell Ring Away

Since 2018, he’s been my next-door neighbor. I call him “Super” Mario, the carpenter, engineer of broken things, my Spanish teacher between socket wrenches. We’ve shared more late-night meals than I have with my cousins in five years. From busted pipes at midnight, solder smoke under the kitchen light, prayers for each other to edify, and check in. The two of us are the unofficial handyman team of a building that never asked for one (my background in architecture and construction, his in the contractor world). Today we’re replacing roof tiles, and I’m picking up more Spanish from him, “mañana otra cosa” (tomorrow, something else), and that’s just how it goes when you actually know the person on the other side of your wall. It’s perplexing to me that we long to be witnessed in our lives (feel seen) and to connect with others, yet I keep going to friends’ houses and find out they don’t even know the first name of their neighbor who’s sharing drywall with them. Maybe a simple hello and a how are you as they pass by like ships in the night. Maybe I grew up differently in the 90s? My parents were open to talking to their neighbors, even though they had limited English at the time, since they were immigrants and needed help learning about America (especially the public school system). But I don’t think the problem is distance. It’s not the 405 south to the 10 east to the 110 north in Los Angeles. It’s not East Side versus West Side when it comes to event locations. I believe the friction is ego, the uncertainty of rejection, not being intentional about reaching out, and the door you won’t knock on to say hello because you may have preconceived notions about the person next door. The friction is pretending you’re too busy for the person already right there, while you drive an hour to feel close to someone else or scroll to get that dopamine hit from a timeline in your cozy bed.

“Love thy neighbor” isn’t a metaphor. “Love thy neighbor” looks like something. It’s a doorbell ring. It’s a plate of egg rolls and spring rolls passed across the hallway, or an invitation to go on a neighborhood walk. It’s praying for the family on the other side of your wall. It’s looking out and getting looked out for. It’s witnessing and being witnessed without scheduling it three weeks out. So I encourage you, go knock, say hello, and learn their name. Ask what they cook on Sundays and break bread together, potluck style, or let them teach you a word in a language you haven’t learned yet. Remember, your neighbor is not a stranger. They’re just waiting on you to stop making them one. I pray they’re open to you, too. Keep going and stay heartFULL!Do everything with “nothing less than love.”