Last week my destination took me north to Wisconsin off the highway and down some sleepy country roads. The landscape was pleasant, the humidity heavy and I took my time to enjoy the ride.
Along the side of the road I spotted something that made me slow down, then stop and literally laugh out loud. Slightly to the right of a farmer’s driveway stood the traditional country mail box, a battered, slightly dented gray regulation postal issue complete with red flag and attached to a post about four feet high. On the side of the mailbox in black block letters was the name of the property owner and the address of the house.
Next to the traditional mailbox was a second mailbox. This second box was similar to the first one but it towered over its twin attached to a post at least 10 feet tall. The lettering on the side of this second box read one simple word: “bills.”
The humor was direct, the visual was absurd, and I loved the fact that the owner wanted to share a chuckle with just anyone who passed by.
Our actions and our interactions have impact. And even the next day, I found myself laughing to myself about the out-of-reach mailbox that touched a very common cord.
Out in the country in Adams Township we have wonderful neighbors. We look to these neighbors for local news, the occasional cup of sugar, friendship and more. Neighbors in rural communities are much less “expendable” than in the city. Folks need each other a tad more when there’s more space than people. As I have written before, my wife and I have a little studio apartment in downtown Chicago. So we get to experience two very distinct notions of neighbors. In the city, we barely know anyone who lives on the same floor in our building. There are over 900 units in the building and 26 units per floor. We recognize folks enough to share a greeting or a pleasantry about the weather. But that’s about it. People move in and out of the apartments without much note. Years can go by without exchanging names. Frankly, I find that the longer one goes without an introduction just makes the introduction almost impossible.
In a long apartment hallway you can actually pass folks without saying much at all. And so the whole notion of neighbors can take on a different meaning, and that meaning can be diluted to an insignificant relationship of proximity.
In the country, a neighbor may be called on in equal doses in good times and bad. Neighbors are there for help in a time of need or to help celebrate a happy occasion. In the city, a need is most likely directed to the doorman or the building superintendant.
But on our floor of apartments where 26 identical apartment doors face a common hall, there was one young man who seemed to be a neighbor to all. He was the only young person I knew in our building, the only young person who always greeted me, always had a smile to share. His name was James Shepherd and he died this month in a widely publicized boating mishap on Lake Michigan. He was just 21 years old.
At the memorial service for James, hundreds of people pressed close together to hear speaker after speaker take the microphone in hand and share the manner in which this young man had touched his or her life.
Speakers shared tales of wonderful antics and of touching reflections. It seemed extraordinary that someone so young had genuinely touched so many lives. But that was exactly what James did. For all in attendance, it seemed to be a time for reflection about how we relate to one another.
Like the farmer with the too tall mailbox, like the rural neighbor whose door is open to others, and like the friendly city kid from down the hall, we all have a unique opportunity – the chance to engage and impact for the good all those around us.