Wednesday Witness: At My Door

This column is part of a new, weekly series on what the Lord is doing in my heart, specifically encouraging me to simplify my own life in order practice the virtue of charity and the Corporal and Spiritual Works of Mercy. Come back each Wednesday to read the latest!

In last week’s column, I referenced a letter from St. Vincent de Paul, in which he describes our obligation to the poor person at the door. While I was on retreat, the phrase “at the door” stuck with me. We live in a mid-1980s neighborhood in Albertville—a curving, suburban street with split-level homes, mature trees, the barking of dogs, and the laughter of children. We have no beggars, no one camping in the park, no one asking for handouts.

We do, however, have two men with developmental disabilities. Both are about my age (one, a little older; one, a little younger). Both grew up in this neighborhood, and their natural sociability means they know everyone. Both have been friends with us as our family has grown up, until, one by one, my children have aged past them, despite being a generation younger.

The more outgoing of the two played with our kids when they were little, and he misses them. He stops by to visit whenever he can, sharing his latest jokes and favorite country songs, talking about his work or the weather. He possesses a deep desire for friendship and human interaction—and he has all the time in the world.

The shyer of the two knows every household in the neighborhood and every dog. A creature of habit, he is often at our door, two or three times a day, to walk our Airedale, Bruno. Sometimes he asks me to print photos for him in exchange and jokes with Jodi about what’s for supper and who is going to eat whose meal. He also possesses a deep desire for love and has all the time in the world.

I love them—but if I’m honest, sometimes I tense up when I hear the knock at the door, even if Bruno is prancing with excitement. Sometimes on a busy day, I duck quickly into the house, trying to keep to my own schedule and routine and avoid a conversation—or I shift from foot to foot, leaning toward the house, looking for an opening to say, “Well, I gotta get back to work…”

And then I remember one afternoon more than a year ago, when our son Gabe (now Brother Jude Apostoli of the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal, or CFRs) was still at home. He was preparing to go up to the church for an event he was helping to organize. We watched from the front window as he walked toward his car and was stopped by one of these men. They talked—casually at first, then more seriously. Jodi and I marveled at our son’s patience, given his plans and schedule that afternoon.

A while later, we looked again and were surprised to see Gabe’s car still parked out front. The two of them were now sitting in it, still deep in conversation. Some 20 to 30 minutes after Gabe had left our front door, we finally heard our neighbor exit the car, and he drove away.

When Gabe came home, we expressed our admiration and confessed that we felt convicted for all the times we rushed our interactions with our neighbors. He shared with us a story from the CFRs, in which one of the professed brothers and a postulant or novice were stopped by a neighbor who talked and talked to them about everything under the sun while the brother patiently listened.
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After a long, schedule-busting conversation that, from the younger man’s perspective, led nowhere, he asked the older brother about the time they had lost. The older man replied that he had very few gifts and very little to offer the poor…but he could listen.

In the same way, Gabe was giving our neighbor what he could. But more importantly, he was giving our neighbor what he needed.

The poor at our door may not need food or spare change, and even those who do, need our attention, first and foremost. Thank you, my son—may I learn from your good example!