We thought our neighbor’s house was on fire last night. We drove into the neighborhood after dinner out with our girls, and there was thick pungent smoke everywhere, tangible.
A pillar of gray white smoke came from our neighbor’s backyard and we called out for them. We couldn’t see beyond the trees and fence.
That’s when we met the helpers. The nicest family in a pickup truck stopped in front of our house and they saw our distress.
“How can we help?”’ they asked. “Let’s knock on the door and make sure everyone is ok.”
For a few minutes, we were frightened because no one was coming to the door. The gate was locked. And then, the neighbor answered the door. He said he didn’t hear the doorbell because he’s playing some tunes.
“It’s not a real fire,” he reassured us. He was burning meat off of his barbecue grill, which by this time looked like flaming Inferno.
The kind helping family from down the street said they understood, and asked if anyone needed something. They were willing to stay as long as we needed.
That moment of horror and suspended disbelief, hoping our neighbors were safe — it was just a misunderstanding. But he was grateful. I hope in our divided country, that neighbor sees us as safe people.
Today, I’m so grateful for that new family who just moved in a year ago and lives 10 houses down. In a moment of unexpected angst, sometimes the beauty of humanity emerges.
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