remembering

I forget sometimes.

See, the kids are generally happy at our house or on outings, and that is where we interact with them for the vast majority of the time. They play, they laugh, they chow down food and go through gallons of milk. Likewise, their parents are generally pleasant and fun to chat with when they stop by to get a kid or to say hello. It is much the same if we happen to catch them as we walk past their trailers on a walk to the mailbox. Just a bunch of neighbors we love and enjoy, that group.

And so I forget. Until the reminders come.

A few weeks ago, as I weeded our yard, I heard an all-too-common argument going on next door. Then a break in the shouting, tears, and "I hate my life", followed by the distinct sound of footsteps headed toward the bedroom to weep over a life that is not as she had hoped it would be. Later, from the same household, I listened to the sound of an angry father speaking far too harshly with his 4 year old daughter.

On a Wednesday night, Leah and I came home to find Kim sititng in the living room with a neighbor and her little boy. She was bruised from blows delivered by her live-in boyfriend. Her six year old played with our huge pile of legos a few feet away, pretending to be oblivious but clearly afraid. He is stuffing emotions that most people 5 times his age could not handle well.

One day as I sat on the porch, patching a bike tube while kids ran around the trailer, I saw one of the kids' rather drugged-up mom come walking his way. She lives in a different trailer in the same park as the kiddo and his dad. She looked at him, pointed to the athletic shirt that he absolutely loves, and told him it makes him look like a girl. When she walked away, I called him over and asked about the conversation. I told him that it was a really cool shirt and looked super cool on him. He smiled half-heartedly. This particular boy usually carries on with more bravado than most of our kids, a show-off and a tough guy. But that day he simply stood in front of me, hung his head, and said, "My mom is really mean."

When the subject of stealing came up a few weeks ago (we were trying to discourage them from nabbing a bike that seemed to have been abandoned), I found myself speechless. In the midst of mentioning something about stealing not being ok, one of our kids cheerfully piped up that her mom had stolen gifts in order to have something to give them for Easter the year before. "But they were in a car that was left wide open, so it was ok." This is her mother she is talking about. What do I say to that?

I pray that God will remind me of these things often, no matter how sad they may be to think about. Our home is a place of joy and safety, and that is beautiful. But it is the broken places of our neighborhood to which God has called us. May he help us not to forget.