Do you know your neighbor’s name?
I recently moved into a new neighborhood and realized last night that I still refer to the guy across the street as ‘motorhome man’. I don’t know his name. I think we’ve been introduced now a couple of times, but he doesn’t appear to want to be neighborly, and his house is always dark, so I haven’t pushed the friendship. Neighbors on one side are friendly, and I’ve met neighbors all around us, but I can’t tell you most of their names. Does this make me a bad neighbor?
Well, yeah, it does. It makes me not the kind of neighbor I’d rather be. I expect myself to be better.
Today, I’m baking a lemon bundt cake with blueberries and powdered sugar topping for the neighbor across the street. They have a herd of children in their drive way each night playing basketball.
I’ve noticed motorhome man sits on his step sometimes with a cup of coffee, so I’ll put together a gift bag with coffee, chocolate chip cookies, and a new ‘Best Neighbor’ cup, and maybe add a Starbucks Card. I know he’s alone, maybe he needs a reason to get out and about?
Another neighbor will get a platter of cookies, maybe another bundt cake, or perhaps a pie?
But the thing is, I need to be a better neighbor. And I can be. It doesn’t take much, and I love to bake.
I’m going to make the connection. Because that’s what I expect of me.