I grew up in the best neighborhood for which a little boy could wish. A creek ran through the yard perfect for damming up and dipping in during the hot summers. Acres of woods and cow pastures began at the edge of our property teeming with every kind of wildlife and concealing fresh springs, clear creeks, muddy ponds, limestone caves, muscadine vines and blackberry bushes. Hine’s Creek, a little cove off the Tennessee River, was a thirty minute walk—forty-five minutes when chasing a Labrador pup which inevitably strayed into the underbrush in pursuit of some rodent along the way. The best thing about growing up in Cave Creek, Tennessee were the neighbors. And we had the best neighbors that I boy could ever want. I didn’t know that at the time, because all our neighbors were old. A few times a year my sister and I had some playmates when our neighbors’ grandkids “came to the farm” to visit. But usually it was just us and our black Lab, Bert, and our old neighbors, who taught us what neighboring is all about.

Neighbors care. Across the street from us lived Mr. Johnson. He was responsible for getting my folks interested in religion. We went with him for a time to the Cave Creek Primitive Baptist Church, and he was disappointed later when my folks became “Campbellites.” When I was twelve, I borrowed a sickle from him to mow the creek bank. He took me out to his tool shed and found the device along with a file. He gave me lessons on how to sharpen the blade, how to hold and swing the implement, and completed the tutorial by showing me the scar where he’d once clipped his hand. He patted my head and told me to keep the sickle and the file both. Mr. Johnson has long since passed, but I still have the tools he gave me.

Neighbors share. The widow, Mrs. White, was Mr. Johnson’s sister, and lived next door to us. I used to pick green beans for her and would sit on her front porch swing in the evening to help her string them. She had been the President of the Cave Creek Ladies’ Club for as long as anyone knew. She told me stories about how her father, the original Mr. Johnson, brought them to Cave Creek in a horse and buggy and built their farm including the big barn just across the street where the old buggy was still housed. When the apples began to fall in her yard, I’d fight yellow jackets, birds, and worms to fill several five-gallon buckets for her. The next day she’d call for me to “fetch a poke” and come “tote” two pies back to the house—one for me and one for my dad. I never eat an apple pie, that I don’t smile and think about Mrs. White.

Neighbors are nearby. Mrs. Harvey, another widow, lived two houses up in the two story log cabin that her husband had built when they married. Her place reminded me of the little nursery rhyme “The House That Jack Built”—there wasn’t a level place in the whole house. From floor to ceiling in every room were shelves and stacks of books—including every Reader’s Digest abridged anthology ever published. Mrs. Harvey had taught school in the two room school house that was now preserved by the Cave Creek Ladies’ Club’s regular fund-raisers. Mowing grass for Mrs. Harvey was a full day affair—not so much for the work, but for the pay. At lunchtime, she cooked for the two of us enough food for five. Too full to work without getting ill, we’d sit in the front porch swing and watch the creek and talk about books and learning. I always went home with an armful of recommended reading. I don’t go to the library or the bookstore, two of my favorite places, without thinking of Mrs. Harvey.

Jesus taught what it means to be a neighbor in his story of the neighborly Samaritan (). The Samaritan was on a journey, but when he saw the injured Jew, he felt compassion. He cared. The priest and the Levite saw the man like neighbors do through their fences or shades, but the Samaritan cared when he saw him. The Samaritan came to the injured man, anointed and bandaged his wounds, carried him on his beast to the inn, cared for him and paid for his lodging. The Samaritan shared. The priest and Levite, like many neighbors today, only shared the same street as the injured Jew while the Samaritan shared himself. Jews typically hated Samaritans. But, the Samaritan cared for and shared with his enemy because he came near enough to see that his enemy could hurt just like him. The priest and Levite, fellow Jews, “passed by on the other side.” They came close to their brother, but the Samaritan came near. Be a neighbor to somebody this week. Don’t just drive by, stop and visit. Don’t just share the pew or share the street, share yourself. Don’t just look and wave, care enough to ask how they are. Don’t just come close, come near. That’s what being a neighbor is all about.