Fifty of us invaded their driveway on Tuesday night.
Card tables and ice chests and camping chairs decorated the pavement, along with stacks of paper plates and plastic silverware and Red Solo cups. The grill sizzled, red and gray coals in wait for chicken apple sausages and hot dogs from the local butcher. We scrawled our names in Sharpies and affixed them to our shirts. My three-year-old zoomed his fire truck over sidewalk cracks, eager for his friends to join him.
As the clock struck seven, nearly every door of every house on our block creaked open: neighbor after neighbor left the comfort of their living rooms for the potential discomfort of shaking hands and greeting those who don’t look like them and act like them, for interactions with those who aren’t them.
Soon the card tables were filled to overflowing, with Sherry’s World Famous Mac and Cheese and Kaleo’s chicken and veggie stir-fry. Ellen, who sports an extra chromosome, beamed with pride as she offered a casserole dish of brownies, and Pierre smiled shyly, beaming over blueberry custard.
We came together, practicing hospitality with those who live within a stone’s throw. We dove into conversations with each other. We asked questions and we gave answers, we let it be awkward and we laughed at the children. We made connections and we practiced being what we already were to each other: Neighbors.
As I’ve gotten older, I like to think that I’ve become just a teensy bit wiser, mostly because I’ve eaten my fair share of humble pie—with every bite of that wisdom-filled dessert a result of the wide variety of humans I’ve interacted with along the way.
For all these humans, regardless of race and age, gender and religion, hold one unifying truth in common: We all just want to be known.
We want to be known and understood.
We want to hear our name spoken from another person’s mouth.
We want to be asked how we’re doing, for someone to take the time to look us in the eyes and really mean it.
And we want to gulp down thirsty mouthfuls of hope and healing when that sacred “me too” is whispered in reply.
I think that’s what made Tuesday night so perfect and holy and downright lovely to me: I experienced the hope that comes with being known.
You see, we’ve only lived on our block for the past five months. A year ago, my family and I lived in a little bedrock community on the California coast. Nine months pregnant with our second son, I felt engulfed by the fog that surrounded us daily. While the gated community we lived within made us feel more-than-safe, feelings of isolation and loneliness came along with it.
We wondered if there was a better fit for us.
Two months later, my husband landed his dream job, but along with it came a two-and-a-half hour daily commute. With newborn in tow, the isolation and the loneliness and even the fog seemed to increase. Day by day, it began chipping away at my marriage and at my family’s ability to actually be a family. Hope in and of itself seemed the farthest thing from our minds, a word we merely breathed aloud on Sunday mornings but didn’t seem to grasp the rest of the week.
Maybe that’s when we knew something had to change, when we let ourselves explore the possibility of a move. So we began to dream and pray and seek out where we might land.
We knew we desired a walk-able, urban environment within twenty minutes of my husband’s office. We wanted a racially diverse community with people who looked like Mama and Daddy. And, although we questioned whether or not we could ask Old Man Suitor about the weather, we asked for sun.
Three months later, after numerous rental applications and rejections alike, we felt like we struck gold with this particular neighborhood. And, as evidenced by Tuesday’s gathering, the bounty only seems to be growing.
For we’ve found hope, and Hope—who’s actually been there all along—has returned with holy exclamation points for his daughter who simply needed to experience the joy of being known.
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17 thoughts on “When We All Just Want to Be Known”
This sounds just beautiful! So rare – this kind of community. It’s takes bravery and hospitality and a lot of effort. Keep it up!
Oh, thank you, Nicole! We have been absolutely blown away by the connectedness of our block …it’s exactly as it’s supposed to be, and it feels like every house (well, most every house) is just as “in” as the next one.
Yes, we all want to be known! There are some lovely lines in here — “gulp down thirsty mouthfuls of hope and healing” is my favorite. Thanks for sharing your stories Cara. So glad you’re here.
Thanks for encouraging me to submit a story, friend! I probably owe you a vox …but in the meantime, here’s to continuing to gulp down thirsty mouthfuls of hope and healing in each of our respective new cities!
I love imagining this scene, having visited your wonderful block! So glad you’re finding community in your new home, such a gift!
Thank you, sweet friend. And I loved getting to show it to you, spilled coffee and beautiful lake included!
The “sacred ‘me too.'” I love that. It’s so powerful, isn’t it? Thank you for sharing.
The sacred “me too” might just be my favorite …because sharing that moment, finding that commonality matters. Thanks for your encouragement, J.L!
I’m happy you have been to your space. We are in a similar phase of our lives, coming to the possible end of just dreaming about a move. Every Saturday we sit and look at houses in NC, about 10 hours drive from the Chicago suburbs. I long for trees and neighbors who talk to each other and a garden. Your writing brought me right into your neighborhood gathering for a lovely moment. Beautiful Cara!
Oh, thank you, Amanda-friend! We were so scared to make the move, because the other side of the bay seems like an entirely different world ….but it’s been the best fit of a place for us. We’ve been amazed at how “us” it feels. Good luck on NC dreaming and MOVING!
Thank you, Cara. We are in prayer mode and off for a scouting expedition in October. 🙂
I was told once by a very wise mentor to stay in neighborhoods where the economic factor was middlin’. That the more exclusive the neighborhood, the less people cared. He told me about cocktail parties filled with useless chatter. He missed their starter home and neighbors who brought chicken soup after babies. Something to be said for that:).
Amen to that, Kristine. I know I want it and miss it when I don’t have it. A couple years ago we lived in San Francisco, and there, it wasn’t until we experienced a huge break-in that community happened. But I don’t think it’s selfish anymore to want it and need it and desire it from the beginning.
Even though you moved away from Terrifica, it sounds like you found a home where you truly belong, a neighborhood that fits your family well. Belonging is a longing to be, and that takes being with people who also want us to be. Sometimes it’s hard for me to return the favor, but worth the effort.
“Belonging is a longing to be”: BOOM. I think that is one of my favorite sentences you’ve ever written, Tim! Here’s to returning the effort, even when we’re tired and just want to hole up in our abodes. 🙂