verbingnouns

Loving My Neighbors

The entrance into my apartment complex is located in one of the most traffic-congested areas in town. Coming and going has to be planned around the time of day and how long it will take to exit the parking lot. I'm trying to work on my roadrage. Many times, as I come home from work, I have to sit through seven or eight traffic light cycles as I inch towards the entrance. "This is it," I think. "I'm going to be able to turn in this time." But no. "Please pull up just a bit! That's all it would take!" I say aloud to the person in the car ahead of me, knowing they are oblivious to my pleading. "Oh well, this is good" - I go back to conversing with myself inaudibly - "I can work on my patience." "Don't call them names. They're not doing this to irritate me...it sure seems like they are though."
I finally reach the entrance. Another driver cuts the corner, almost running into me. "Pay attention!" I tell them (out loud again). Then I see that truck. It's been sitting there for months: a red Ford that has obviously been in a terrible accident. The natural first reaction to seeing the truck is hope that whoever was in it survived - it's that bad. It's absolutely crushed. Though the first reaction is kind and sympathetic, months of seeing it everytime I turn in, has made me hate it. "It's so ugly," I think. "Please take it to the dump! What will people think of me when they see what kind of trash I live around?"
I continue driving. Small, unsupervised children are playing in the middle of the traffic areas. Older kids are teasing younger ones as their mothers are preoccupied with telephones and cigarrettes.
I pull into my parking space. The 15 men who live a few doors down (and apparently have no jobs, since they always seem to be standing outside by the door) watch me unlock my door and go in.
Ahh. Peace and quiet.
For a minute.
From inside my apartment, the noise seeps in: screaming children; someone honking the horn rather than knocking on a door; someone either assuming that everyone else wants to hear his music or is trying to impress us with his bad speakers; What? Is that an accordian? Yes. Someone is learning to play the accordian. Who knew people did that? Across the parking lot, a car alarm is going off, a competing stereo is blaring, and someone is working on his car which has a squealing belt. So much for peace.
Loving my neighbors is not an easy task. So many times it seems like people are blocking the entrance, leaving their crashed vehicles in plain sight, making noise and learning to play the according as a personal affront to me. Loving neighbors seems so easy in a Platonic way - we borrow a cup of sugar, maybe an egg, smile and wave as we head off to work - these people are supposed to be mere accessories to my life, right?
So many times, I've told myself that "love your neighbor as yourself" has not my physical neighbors as the object of my love, but my rommate and co-workers and my fellow church members and other people I encounter daily. Of course, that's part of it (and it's not easy, either), but I've failed to realize that by "neighbors," my actual neighbors are included. No one is learning to play the accordian to pester me (though he may be doing it to bother someone else). That truck is not parked there for the purpose of annoying me. Children aren't screaming to make my headache worse. God knows I need to learn to be kind. And patient. And humble. And charitable.
These neighbors have made an impression on me - for better or for worse. I never thought about the fact that I make an impression on them too. Rather than being the kind, Christian girl a few doors down, I'm probably the snobby, selfish girl who never speaks to anyone. I really need to work on loving my neighbors. I guess that's why God put me in this place that I never would have moved into if I had known how loud the neighbors are.