I’m going to my neighbor’s funeral today.
If I haven’t mentioned before, we live on a historic street.
I am not exactly sure what that means except that our narrow street clearly existed before cars did, and after five years, we still feel new around here. But five years ago, when I had really long hair and one bald baby, and we were Officially New, this neighbor made sure we felt welcome.
And over the past few days, in the midst of sadness, by virture of a “historically” narrow street, and “historically” wide porches, I have witnessed the miracle that itself feels new each time: though we want to conjure Him through complicated means, God shows up in the gathering of family, the laughter of stories, the delivery of flowers, and yes, the carrying of chicken casseroles.
And His goodness walks as near as the rhythms of the mighty legacy I have seen, heard and felt this week, right across the street.