When we bought our home several years ago, I was immersed in seminary culture, surrounded by people who were pretty much scraping by. Seminary students are not known for living with abundance. I felt guilty at the extravagance of owning our own home, and I prayed that God would give us opportunities to share what He'd given us with others.
In the years since, we've had many gatherings; parties, holiday dinners, barbecues, small group meetings, a high school girls Bible study, play dates, talks with friends over coffee, house guests. We have been able to open our home, and I've loved these moments. Consider my prayers answered.
Except that...we live next door to a widow. Several years ago, a single mom moved in to the house behind us. I am fairly certain the couple across from us are in the military, with the husband frequently deployed. I am positive there are other difficulties represented in other households on our street. But I don't know the names of most of my neighbors. I can probably count the number of significant conversations (i.e. more than a "hi, how are you" at the mailbox) I have had with these people on one hand. My natural tendency is to allow others to approach me, and in the absence of this initiative, I don't usually go out of my way to leap the chasm that busy lives and the fear of intrusion or rejection create.
But let's be honest, the bottom line is that my comfort zone is so very very small.
This all hit home this past month after I met a family at our neighborhood park. After learning they have a young toddler and newborn twins (Lord, have mercy), I found myself offering to bring them a meal. Complete strangers! The words were out of my mouth before I could think, and then it was too late. This was new territory. Scary territory, I'm openly ashamed to admit.
I agonized over it. I knew without a doubt I had to follow through. So about a week later I got up enough nerve (and let's face it, the Spirit was working on me), and sent a text. A few texts back and forth working around scheduling, and plans were still in process. And then one morning at the library, I look up and see the dad standing unavoidably across from me in the children's section. What the heck! It sealed the deal, and we set up a date. Papa Murphy's pizza, bagged salad, and store bought cookies delivered to this family for a hassle free dinner during a chaotic and exhausting season of life. (I did debate a home cooked meal, which is obviously superior to even Trader Joe's cookies, but as I told the couple when I delivered the meal, "I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable with some strange woman forcing weird food on you." I'm so neurotic).
Yay, me. Yet I felt strangely unsettled about what had been a delightful encounter. As I prayed, it hit me, these people are not really the "least of these" that Jesus commands me to care for. Honestly, they are just like me. I know it blessed them. I know it was generous and kind and good, and I believe it was a God-thing. And I believe it pleased God that I was responsive to the prompting He'd given me to reach out. But that fact that this had scared me, felt uncomfortable? Jesus has so far to go in convicting me of the need to love my neighbors, to love the least of these. If this was awkward, no wonder I struggle so much to interact with those who truly are "different" from me - the homeless, the teen moms, the poor. In graduate school I wrote some pretty nice papers about every person being made in God's image and the necessity of seeing the humanity and beauty in each living soul, regardless of economic status, age, ethnicity, etc. I talk about wanting to love people in radical ways, but I don't think I have much of a concept as to what that means. I barely even know my widowed neighbor, let alone the homeless population in our city. It's painful to see the hypocrisy in myself and to recognize the snobbery I've unknowingly harbored.
It's also freeing.
Jesus, give me eyes to see the real needs of people and make it clear where I can be a blessing. Tear down barriers that separate me from truly loving those who live such different lives than I do. Make it obvious, Jesus, because I am learning that I can be pretty blind.
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