The Neighborhood (Chapter 2)

I stare out my dusty windows and witness the gentle swaying of our baby apple tree. A black trash bag shields the small blossoms of the cherry tree and traps the passing breeze--chimes clang away. Saturday morning in San Jacinto is peaceful, not even the purring of a car's engine is heard. Freakishly peaceful. The house is clean--spotless--nah, there's a few hints here and there that we're actually living. But even the house is still, nothing stirs except my fingers on the keyboards. Oh wait, I hear the ticking of the kitchen clock.

This week's labor was difficult, the beginning especially. Monday I spent alone. Indeed, I looked forward to it. Apparently my spirit was not. We were lonely. And crying, though softly, seemed to be my fate for the day. Ah, but alas, it was healing.

Midweek brought chaos and I seriously debated whether I should sell my son back to his father. I might have used a few cuss words, which of course, are now imprinted on his heart. Woa is me. Thank God for Diane--she prayed, she counseled, she loved. I got on my knees, asked for wisdom and graciously God accepted my plea for forgiveness. Keeping my son is worth the heartache. We talked, I cried, he whispered, we prayed and somehow we got to okay again.

I stood in front of the house on Thursday waiting for Father. My battery is loose and we have a couple of hours to spare before church. Sweet neighbor to the right comes over and keeps me company. She has learned that anxiety takes away hours of your life and makes you physically sick. That was quite a lesson on our way to the clinic the week before. It serves us humans well when we heed to the warnings of God.

"Slow down. Don't work so hard. Rest. Don't make Me come down there!"

What goes on in the pretty row of houses of our desert neighborhood is a story waiting to be told, I'm sure.

We've lost someone. The house with an American flag has faced tragedy. It might well be our first. A young mother of two was violently taken in a car accident. The lights have also died in that house. It's been dim for a while. Neighbor to the right and across the street have talked about sending food. We shall.

A new kind of neighbor has graced our community. Shall we say, party! Either five or so brothers have moved in together, or they are all roomies. Either way, they don't seem to fit. Or do they? They look like gangsters dressed in tattoos, with their hummers and motorcycles, and their hip hop clothing but as I drove by, they waved and smiled. Mmmmm. Let's not judge.

Then under the cover of darkness a young child is taken to the hospital. No word for us, just a rumor--he couldn't breathe. Pray, I say, just pray.