This I Believe: Life Lessons (2 page)

The Art of Being a Neighbor

Eve Birch

I used to believe in the American Dream, which meant a job, a mortgage, cable TV, credit cards, warranties, success. I wanted it and worked toward it like everyone else, all of us separately chasing the same thing.

One year, through a series of unhappy events, it all fell apart. I found myself homeless and alone. I had my truck and $56.

I scoured the countryside for some place I could rent for the cheapest possible amount. I came upon a shack in an isolated hollow four miles up a winding mountain road over the Potomac River in West Virginia.

It was abandoned, full of broken glass and rubbish. When I pried off the plywood over a window and climbed in, I found something I could put my hands to. I hadn't been alone for twenty-five years. I was scared, but I hoped the hard work would distract and heal me.

I found the owner and rented the place for $50 a month. I took a bedroll, a broom, a rope, a gun, and some cooking gear, and I cleared a corner to camp in while I worked.

The locals knew nothing about me. But slowly, they started teaching me the art of being a neighbor. They dropped off blankets, candles, tools, and canned deer meat, and they began sticking around to chat. They asked if I wanted to meet cousin Albie or go fishing, maybe get drunk some night. They started to teach me a belief in a different American Dream—not the one of individual achievement but of neighborliness.

Men would stop by with wild berries, ice cream, truck parts, and bullets to see if I was up for courting. I wasn't, but they were civil anyway. The women on that mountain worked harder than any I'd ever met. They taught me how to use a whetstone to sharpen my knives, how to store food in the creek, and how to keep it cold and safe. I learned to keep enough food for an extra plate for company.

What I had believed in, all those things I thought were the necessary accoutrements for a civilized life, were nonexistent in this place. Up on the mountain, my most valuable possessions were my relationships with my neighbors.

After four years in that hollow, I moved back into town. I saw that a lot of people were having a really hard time, losing their jobs and homes. With the help of a real estate broker I chatted up at the grocery store, I managed to rent a big enough house to take in a handful of people.

There are four of us now in the house, but over time I've had nine people come in and move on to other places from here. We'd all be in shelters if we hadn't banded together.

The American Dream I believe in now is a shared one. It's not so much about what I can get for myself; it's about how we can all get by together.

A Kind and Generous Heart

Christine Little

I learned my belief from my son. I believe in selfless giving.

Eight years ago, my thirteen-year-old son, Dustin, became very ill with a heart enlarged to double its size. The medical term, as unimportant as that is to a grieving mother, was cardiomyopathy. For several months Dustin lived on life support as we were forced to stand by and watch him wither away. While his friends were out playing baseball, flirting with girls, and sleeping in their own beds, my son was in a hospital bed, attached to a machine that kept his heart beating. As a mother, my first reaction after crying was anger, and then I played the bargaining game: “Take my life for his, Lord. I've lived my life, but he still has so much to do.”

People all around me were praying for a heart to become available, but it made me so angry and confused because I knew for that to happen, someone else's child would have to die. How could anyone pray for that?

I still remember so clearly the morning we got the call that there was a heart. As we stood in Dustin's hospital room watching them prep him for surgery, we experienced the true definition of bittersweet. His dad and I, seemingly in unison, realized that at the precise moment that we were standing there with so much hope and so much love, another family somewhere was saying good-bye. We knelt down together and cried, and we prayed for them and thanked them for giving such a selfless gift.

To our amazement, just ten days later, Dustin got to come home for the first time in many months. He had turned fourteen in the hospital, and at such a young age he had received a second chance at life. Over the next two years he got to go to high school, learn to drive, and have his first girlfriend. He got to spend time with his family and be in the great outdoors, which was where he truly loved to be. He put his brand new heart to good use volunteering at the homeless shelter and helping the elderly. He also became a very devoted Christian young man.

Dustin's new heart failed him when he was sixteen. A tragedy, yes, but we have to see it as the miracle it was. We received two precious years with him that we would never have had without organ donation. We have more pictures, more memories, and a great satisfaction in knowing that he was able to experience some of the most exciting times and milestones in a teenager's life.

When he died, as difficult as it was for us, we knew that it would be Dustin's wish to give back. His eyes went to someone who wanted to see. Someone who, perhaps, had never seen the faces of the family they loved so dearly. I believe that one day I will look into the face of someone else's son or daughter and I will see those sky-blue eyes looking back at me—the evidence of selfless giving.

Make It Do

Patricia Anderson

The simple life I live comes easy for me. It's a family tradition. I remember listening, as a small child, to stories my parents told of surviving the Great Depression—tales of the deprivations they endured and the sacrifices the family made. My father was lucky to have a job, but he walked twenty-six blocks from his home to his office to save a nickel in carfare. My mother stopped putting sugar in her coffee, and she learned to cook without meat. My sister wore mended clothes to high school. And they say my grandmother counted the lumps of coal put into the furnace each day. It was a time of staying close to home and learning to live with what you already had and being thankful for whatever that might be.

When I was growing up in another time of economic hardship, World War II, there were more sacrifices to be made. My father went for years without a new suit. Mother still had no sugar for her coffee, and we were, by then, vegetarians. My sister went without nylons, and I wore hand-me-downs to elementary school. We had no tires for the car. And so, once again, we stayed close to home and “made do.” It seemed the lessons of the Great Depression served us well during wartime. And they serve me well today.

My mother made a little painted plaque to hang in our kitchen that spelled out this philosophy for living. It hung right above the drawer where we saved string and tinfoil.

Use it up.

Wear it out.

Make it do.

Or do without.

This is how I live. Today I have a small mobile home with a tiny yard. I cut the grass with a rotary mower, and I grow vegetables in a nearby community garden. I walk, use public transportation, or carpool. And I reuse or recycle just about everything.

There are many people in this country who enjoy a life free from money worries. But not all. Poverty and desperation exist in America. And poverty is rampant in the rest of the world. Here at my home in Oregon, my motto is “I live simply, so others may simply live.” My mother's words of wisdom still guide my choices today.

I believe my small efforts to protect the planet, save scarce resources for others, and enjoy what I am fortunate to have will make a difference. Small efforts on my part can make a big difference to someone else.

Grace Is a Gift

Laura Durham

It doesn't always make sense to me, but when ambiguities such as grace and love manifest themselves, I'm moved by the clarity they bring.

The spring I was in the third grade, my teacher planned activities to celebrate the season. For weeks I looked forward to making treats and dying eggs. I remember telling my mom how much fun it was going to be, and I imagined what colors and designs I would choose. Before the big day, my teacher told us to come to class on Friday with a hollowed-out egg. We were also told to bring our spelling test signed by a parent, and if we didn't, the teacher warned, we would sit out from the activities.

At nine years old, I was the perfect student. I was studious, I was obedient, and I was responsible. So when I forgot to bring my spelling test that Friday, I was devastated. I knew what the consequence would be. When my class jumped from their chairs to collect art supplies, I sat still at my desk examining my perfect, hollowed-out egg, fighting the inevitable tears.

It wasn't long before my teacher pulled me aside. She knelt down and told me I should join the rest of the class. With tears in her eyes, she told me I could bring my spelling test on Monday. And then she gave me a hug.

I couldn't believe it. My disappointment disappeared with this unexpected gift.

Twenty years later, I still remember that moment. Even though I fell short of what was required of me, my teacher graced me with love and understanding. She could have stood her ground and let me sit out as an example to the other students, but she knew punishing me for this small mistake wouldn't teach me a new lesson. The lesson I learned that day was how much grace can lift someone's spirit.

Yet, I seem to have a hard time grasping grace in my life. I sometimes subscribe to the idea of karma: what goes around comes around. But then I remember that balancing a behavioral checkbook is detrimental to my happiness. If I'm constantly keeping count of what I feel I'm entitled to, I may never be satisfied. If I'm blessed beyond what I deserve, I might never feel worthy. I must remind myself that I know better. Not everyone is punished for breaking the rules, just as not everyone is rewarded for their efforts. Life may not be fair, but when I think about it, more often than not I'm on the fortunate side of the imbalance. And this moves me to offer the same grace to others.

I believe in being gracious to others, and I believe in accepting others' graciousness whether I've earned it or not. Sometimes you are blessed simply because someone loves you. And that is why grace is a gift—not a reward.