It's the small things

Column: The View from Here

by Ann Gundlach

I love the small changes that learning about the theology of the body has wrought in me. Here is one example.

About 18 months ago I noticed a car pull up across the street in front of my neighbor’s house. Then I watched as he very slowly came out of his house and gingerly made his way down the walk toward the car using a walker, and I saw his left foot was in a boot. An elderly women helped him get in and off they went.

This was unusual because we don’t often see this neighbor come and go, and it was even more rare for anyone to visit. He definitely keeps to himself.

I was moved by what I saw, partly because I had a major foot surgery a couple of years prior where I was completely non-weight-bearing on that foot for three months, and then in a boot for almost three more. I immediately felt sorry for this man, and more so because he lives alone. I, at least, had the help of my husband to fetch or carry things I needed or to help me maneuver about.

Next thing I knew I had written a note and was across the street tucking it in his mailbox. Well, that was after I had to go digging through the kitchen junk drawer where I found the crumpled, stained, years-old piece of paper listing all of the neighbors on our block to find out his name again. Aha! Michael. Like I said, he is a bit of a recluse.

The note explained that I saw him leave and to let me know if he needed me to run any errands for him. I also offered up my husband, Greg, to cut his grass if it would help. And I went on with my day.

Late that evening I received the following voicemail:

“Yes, hello, this is Michael from across the street.... so, um, your note kind of made my day. I actually just got home from having outpatient ankle surgery and I’m going to be laid up for probably at least six weeks at a minimum...I might need some help, and that is very, very nice and so neighborly. Take care.”

So we began texting and talking. And, yes, Greg not only cut Michael’s grass all summer but cleaned out a lot of his yard’s overgrown bushes and trees for him.

Not an unusual or remarkable story, I’ll grant you that. But we have lived here 28 years—yes, 28!—and I had never reached out to Michael. But TOB has changed me.

Ten years ago I would have watched him maneuver his way toward the car with his walker, and I would have felt that same compassion. But it would have ended there. I would have a litany of reasons in my head to justify keeping to myself (i.e., it’s way too awkward to reach out now, we don’t even know each other, I’m sure he has other people who are helping him, he might be creepy, and so on).

I’ve changed. Learning more about TOB has re-shaped me. I’ve always believed each person is created in God’s image, but that knowledge didn’t always translate into how I treated them. I was definitely too selective in my encounters, and that is not what Christ calls me to.

The other day Michael saw me sitting on my porch, and yelled out, “Mind if I come join you?” He did, and we had a delightful visit.

—Ann Gundlach is the founder and editor of Embodied magazine and invites your comments at ann@embodiedmag.org