I don't even know how to describe these neighbors. It's going to sound uncharitable. And me, in my error and out of my comfort zone, is where I very often begin. And from this spot, I am challenged and taught to grow in love for others. To put it simply, there is a woman on our street who is an addict. Picture the neighborhood "cat lady," talking to and feeding stray cats. On top of this, she verbally assaults her husband in front of our kids. Cars with strange plates pull up in front of her house and she makes her transactions. It brings a bizarre and unsettling tone to our otherwise idyllic block. She looks like Cruella de Ville sans the Dalmatian stole. And he looks like Andy Warhol dressed in a flower-delivery guy's uniform.
When we first moved to Philly, my next-door neighbor advised me that on this block, the key is to keep to yourself. Since that time, I have applied this advice. Until I noticed cars rolling up onto our street at all hours, which is when, I began to write down the plate numbers, and get really concerned for our block. It is one thing to see dealers' cars but something else to find tiny bags and something else entirely to try and explain to the children.
I feel lame, my list of makes and models. My repressed confusion and anger every time I see them. Then our dear neighbors who not only keep an Eden-esque garden but model sanity and compassion told me that this same couple had lost a child to a motorcycle accident many years ago. Standing in my backyard, this information wedged into my heart. This is what tragedy can do, this woman is not simply an addict, she is a mother completely undone.
So at Geoff's lead, I began to say, "Good morning." I began to make eye contact. Maybe it's been a year now. Then just after we got back from Cambridge, the husband stopped Geoff outside and confided grave news. He said that his wife is sick. She had been bleeding for eight months and has been diagnosed with late stage cervical cancer. That she will start chemo in a week. Just after Geoff comes inside, we hear footsteps on the front porch. And Francis has left roses. Not like supermarket roses but pristine white ones, the size of Bordeaux goblets. They are arranged in a perfect globe. I ask him, "What are these for?" He says, "They're from a wedding from Old St. Joseph's Church."
Bowled over by this news, and from these particular folks, we did what we always do when overwhelmed, we pray. Geoff asked for wisdom. I asked for my fear to ease up. We both asked for her healing, body and soul. And then I did what my Dad always does when overwhelmed, I cooked. The sloppiest, cheesiest mac and cheese, a tomato soup with sausage and basil.
It gets better. We continue to find flowers. And not wildflowers but a 32 inch wreath of Baby's Breath with silk organdy ribbon on the porch. I always try and chase him down but it's so awkward. I'm like, "Francis, what are these? " And he never answers my question but replies, "Wedding at Villanova Chapel!" or "Banquet at the Palm!" It is the strangest kind of grace. And I'm talking grace both ways: The grace to regift ostentatious flowers as thanks for food. The grace to look into their eyes and see the battle that they are fighting against this illness now and fighting against the looming tragedy from their child.
When she thanked me, she said, "I've gained three pounds and I know that it's because of your food." So much grief, complexity, and beauty in the mix. In my ignorance and fear, I had such a guard up. When I began to cook for her, the threat of what I thought she could do to our block or to me withered. And something blossomed in its place.
