It started with a small, seemingly insignificant wave. A few days later there was a gentle knock on the door. William called out, “Cecelia? You have visitors.” I could hear the smile in his voice. Puzzled, I walked to the front of the house and saw 4 brown eyes looking through the black steel cage. Two eight year old girls stood smiling and held out a bunch of purple flowers picked from my yard. They asked if I would like to play with them, and said they thought I was nice because I waved to them. They spent the afternoon with us raking up leaves, talking about what they wanted to do when they grow up, and laughing at William. Later we both posted how sweet it was on social media because, well, that is the type of thing one posts.

Living worthy lives looks good on Insta, but the filters take away the hurt, pain, and hard work.

Truthfully, being intentional neighbors is not always social media-worthy smiles and stolen flowers. Most days it is muddy foot prints scattered through our house, breaking up fights, and picking up trash. You cannot filter or edit hardships, poverty, violence, or disparity when the ones affected have a name. You can’t ignore it, like scrolling past a photo, when dinner gets interrupted by children needing help with homework. Storms bring frightened children into our living room and loud dance parties break out. I had my hair pulled out in our impromptu beauty salon on the front porch and I still have the headache to prove it. We’ve mourned lives, prayed over sickness, and worried anxiously with a neighbor about his impending future. We have given away money. We have turned others away. We’ve have had children literally peak through our windows to try to get us to come out to play. We've handed out bandaids and ice packs after brawls. We have driven away from a sobbing lady asking for more money than we could give. I have been yelled at and mocked. We've been on the receiving side of charity and watched a mission team take a "tour" of our neighborhood. We’ve heard countless number of gunshots. And sometimes I struggle to go to sleep because I am afraid.

My heart is always burdened. I never know what is the best way to respond to others' needs. Our life is like an ethics class, rethinking the lessons and “rights” we were taught in childhoods that were much different than the ones around us. I’m researching and praying and reading more than ever and I’m still lost most days. Doing this, living here, is not glamourous. It just isn’t. Jesus never said it would be.

And I have been convicted that to post or say otherwise is not only a disservice to other Christians to whom God has given the command to “Love your neighbor,” but it also minimizes the lives of those who are currently our neighbors.

The more we open our lives to others, the more messy it becomes. When we make room for another at the table, we make room for more dirty dishes, more stories, more mess, and less food.

And yet, the truth of the matter is that we were not convenient for Jesus either. Throughout his entire life, Jesus came alongside the suffering, the ones who simply need attention, the poor and the oppressed. When He sought rest, crowds followed and begged for more.  He resided. He asked questions. He cooked fish. He repeated stories about God’s love over and over. He was mocked, ridiculed, and betrayed. And lastly, He died on a cross, taking His life and offering it to the rest of us.

The cross was more than a messy inconvenience, and yet Jesus willingly took on death’s burden, understanding that loving others always comes at a great cost of oneself.

The same is true for Christians’ instructed to love insiders, outsiders, and neighbors with compassion, kindness, gentleness, and patience. (Colossians 3:12-14) 

We’re learning to live in the inconvenience that comes with making room. We are learning that to truly love someone else as ourselves, we must change our thinking. My time becomes our time. Their problems become my problems. Joy, laughter, mourning, and anxiety are shared when we gather our lives at Christ’s table. It requires more vulnerability and extrovertness than I am usually comfortable with, but we know that a God who can change a wave into a relationship can transform our time, energy, and hearts, if we make room.

So, for now, we sit on our porch, working from home in the evenings, and wave. We encourage our neighborhood kids to bring their homework over. We let them help build our fence, no matter how crooked, and now they know how to use a power drill. We take Magnolia for evening walks and pick up trash while they take turns taking the lead. We leave the chicken eggs in the coop to see their joy of discovering today’s newest treasure. We drink beer and swap stories with our (adult) neighbors on our front porch. We hold hands and pray through the gunshots. We mop our floors every night (you wouldn't believe how many Swifter Pads we've gone through!) And we rest in the beautiful chaos of our lives, thankful and hopeful.