The Accidental Neighbor

Ten years ago, my family moved to Decatur, Georgia, to plant Veritas Church. This year, by accident, I finally got to know my neighbors.

Decatur is next door to Atlanta, not far from Emory University. The city, the neighborhood, and the house are perfect for us in so many ways, but from the first day, I worried about the intersection at the end of our street.

As we approached the light, he would say, 'I know, I know. The green light doesn’t mean anything. Look both ways and be careful.'

The intersection is one of the busiest and deadliest in the state. Some 20,000 cars pass through it every day, most exceeding the speed limit, and hundreds run the red light. The intersection is known as a “hot-spot” by the Georgia DOT because of its higher-than-average number of accidents. A bicyclist, one of the dads at my son’s school and an adjunct professor at Emory, was killed at this intersection in 2012. The father of an Emory student was struck and killed there in 2013.

From the day we moved in, I tried to instill in my son a healthy fear of that location. In fact, as we approached the light, he would say, “I know, I know. The green light doesn’t mean anything. Look both ways and be careful.” I assumed my neighbors shared my concern about the intersection, but I didn’t really know my neighbors.

‘This must be your dad’

Though I grew up in the area and my wife, Debbie, moved here from Buffalo, New York, she got to know the neighbors more quickly than I. Debbie is a good neighbor and a gifted and well-loved kindergarten teacher. Accompanying her to the grocery store, the hardware store, out to eat, is like hanging out with a rock star. Children and parents spot her in the produce section, squeal and hug her neck. Everyone knows her and she seems to know everyone. It’s wonderful.

The same individuals, however, look at me, furrow their brows, and say, “Debbie, this must be your dad.” I force myself to smile, filter out a well-placed sarcastic zinger, introduce myself as her husband, and briefly consider Just for Men.

Deb knows people—lots of people. I was not a stranger in the community, but my relational network was wide and shallow. Our church, and I, have been active in the life of the city, volunteering for the Georgia Special Olympics, the city beach party, the Martin Luther King, Jr. Home Repair Weekend, assisting ministries on the Emory Campus and a local homeless shelter. Those were are all good and useful activities, but I missed the opportunity that was literally at my doorstep—my neighbors.

God used a couple of things to get my attention. It started with my grass.

The county Midianites

For several years, my front lawn was a colorful combination of red Georgia clay, mud, and various hues of weed. Deb never complained, but I knew she wanted a lawn that was less like a bog. Last year, I decided to surprise her.

While she was in New York visiting her parents, and in the middle of a sweltering Georgia summer, I tilled my front yard and laid down 2,500 square feet of zoysia sod—by myself. I was careful to follow all the right steps: prepping and leveling the soil, maintaining tight seams, keeping it watered. The labor was back-breaking, and I drank gallons of Gatorade to stave off heat-stroke. A professional landscaping crew drove by at 6:00 a.m. laughing, and back by again at 6:00 p.m. with words of compassion and offers to help. Like a lost man refusing to stop for directions, I politely declined their offer. I now have a “reverse bucket-list”—things I’ll never do again—and laying sod in the summer is at the top of the list.

But we finally had a thick green lawn. I became the obsessive landscaper, cutting, edging, fertilizing, weeding, and de-bugging. I could not walk from my truck to the front door without stopping to scour the lawn for rogue weeds. Debbie would encourage me to turn off the flashlight, come in, and go to bed. My neighbors, who received less attention than my grass, commented on my immaculate lawn/idol, and I soaked up their accolades the way my lawn soaked up water. The lawn, if I may say so, was gorgeous. Was.

On February 23 of this year, a county waterline broke—under my front yard—my beautiful, green zoysia lawn. It was Gideon and the Midianites all over again.

Whenever the Israelites planted their crops, the Midianites, Amalekites and other eastern peoples invaded the country. They camped on the land and ruined the crops all the way to Gaza and did not spare a living thing for Israel, neither sheep nor cattle nor donkeys (Judges 6:3-4).

The county sent a Midianite repair team with a backhoe. They savaged my lawn. I thought my suffering was unique until my wife pointed me to the neighborhood civic association Facebook page.

“I didn’t know we had a neighborhood Facebook page.” I could have stopped at the word “neighborhood” and my wife wouldn’t have argued. I joined the neighborhood FB group and discovered that at least five of my neighbors had experienced the same issue. I began to talk to those neighbors, and I discovered that we have a fantastic, fun neighborhood full of amazing, funny, talented individuals that I didn’t know very well. Several offered their sincere condolences regarding the loss of my emerald zoysia friend, and we got to know each other. For several weeks I would come in from one of these neighborly chats and say, “Debbie, did you know that the So and Sos … ?” and she would respond, “Yes,” without adding, “only for about nine years.” I discovered that my neighbors and I share similar concerns. They have lawns, broken pipes, and their own Midianites. Many are my age and have children who are starting to drive, and many think about that intersection.

Cement truck vs. Audi

My son, Jack, turned 16 a few weeks ago, and my concerns about that intersection took on a new urgency. I contacted the city and a manager responded immediately, agreeing to gather other city officials for a meeting. When I posted the news on the neighborhood FB page, several neighbors chimed in, sharing their own harrowing stories and expressing excitement that something might be done.

One hour after the city manager call me to schedule a meeting, a cement truck, exceeding the speed limit, ran the red light, flipped and crushed an Audi. The intersection was closed for eight hours, creating traffic delays for a three-mile radius. Ambulances, firetrucks, police cars, and spectators filled the intersection—as did the smell of gasoline.

It took two hours for the first responders to reach the driver of the car. Miraculously, she and the truck driver survived without life-threatening injuries. The truck landed with the Audi situated between the cement drum mixer and the cab of the truck. In other words, almost every part of the passenger space was crushed, except the driver’s seat.

The accident galvanized the attention and determination of the neighborhood. The next two mornings, as I took my son to school, he videotaped cars running the red light, and we posted the video on the neighborhood FB. On one of those mornings, we videotaped three vehicles running the light—one, a school bus! The neighborhood civic association created an ad-hoc traffic safety committee and invited me to be on the team. (“Aren’t you the guy who made the video with his grandson?” Ahem.) Local papers and television stations aired the video, and city, county, and state officials agreed to meet with us to make changes to this intersection.

The enemy of the best

For years I’d wanted to reach people with the gospel, but I wasn’t reaching people at all, with anything. Busyness, my old nemesis, kept finding ways to prevent that. I was busy with good things, ministry type things. I’m confident that God used those good things and people were served, but as someone once said, “Good is the enemy of the best.”

I’ve now become a neighbor. I'm learning to know the people on our block. Many of these individuals will never darken the door of Veritas Church, but I’m not trying to fill seats at my church. I’m enjoying being present in my neighborhood, paying attention, listening, posting, encouraging and being encouraged, loving and being loved.

After 10 years and quite by accident, I’m getting to know my immediate neighbors, which I realize is the prerequisite to obeying Jesus’ command to “love your neighbor as yourself.” Getting to know them is not just good, and it’s the best.

David Slagle is pastor of Veritas Church in Decatur, Georgia.