Be home

In California, far from home, Grif was my neighbor. He’s in his 80s, thrice married and thrice divorced. No children. All alone. Diabetic. I’m not quite sure how it evolved, but before long, we had a system. It was never talked about, it just sort of happened.

I knew he was diabetic and had major back problems. And he couldn’t hear very well. So, I rarely went to bed until I heard his TV shut off (in Cali, windows are always open and as his TV was always up to max volume, I was often listening to MASH in the background of my evening, over the movie I was trying to watch). If I heard his TV shut off, I knew he was alive. That he was off to bed, and I needn’t worry that he had fallen or anything.

I often baked, so in the morning on my way to work, I’d leave him a little note with some cookies or half a loaf of fresh bread in a gift bag in front of his door. He’d leave the bag neatly folded up between my front door and my plant, ready to go for next time, with a little note saying “Thanks, Grif.”

I knew he was making sure I got home OK too, simply because he told me. I’d get home super late one night and the next morning he’d ask if everything was OK, saying he didn’t see my car out front before he went to bed.

Now, this sounds all sweet and nice, but I have to be honest, I sometimes dreaded going home because he’d be there. He was always there. I made it a point to knock on his door and say hello every other day if not every day just to make sure he was OK. But sometimes this was a process. He’d want me to come in and tell me all about his coins that just came in the mail. Or the time he was on a ship off the coast of Hawaii. Or how my cooking ranks right up there with his first wife’s who was a trapeze artist in the circus and would cook for all the circus members. But work in California was pretty intense, so I’d often come home tired and crabby, and the last thing I wanted to do was sit down in Grif’s apartment, which always had some weird odor…medicine cabinet mixed with fried hamburger or something…and listen to a long story. And I know you’re thinking he sounds like a cute, old man, but he always had a stash of Playboys sitting on the table. Mmhmm. Nice. Sometimes I’d actually make up excuses: “oh, I gotta run. I’m meeting some friends.” Or if he came over and knocked on my door, I’d see him through the peep hole, turn my music down and not answer.

But, sometimes I’d bring him dinner. I’d make myself a nice pasta, and it being only me, I’d have leftovers, so I’d carry them over. In return, he’d give me all this free stuff that came in the mail with his coins that he ordered…tote bags, pins, stationery. And he’d tell me I’d be out of luck if he ever got himself a girlfriend.

For Christmas I bought him a shirt (it was on the clearance rack at Marshall’s). He opened it, saying it was the only gift he’d be getting. This didn’t stop him from telling me it was too small and I’d need to exchange it. Which I did. And then he wore it all the time.

Then I moved. We still write letters back and forth. And he actually just sent me a package. He went through the San Diego newspaper and clipped stories and cartoons he thought I might be interested in (they hardly interested me, but the fact that he went through the trouble of cutting them out for me is almost too nice to bear). There were some chocolates, some more free stationery. And then his letter told me that he had actually fallen down the concrete steps up to our doors recently. A neighbor found him a few hours later; they called the ambulance and rushed him to the hospital where he stayed for nearly a week. My heart broke. I actually felt like I was partially to blame! I should have been there! And I know he was in that hospital room all alone the whole time. And guaranteed no one brought him cookies.

But this got me thinking of home. Its dependability and how much we take it for granted. At my parents house, there’s a rule when my brother or I sleep at home. The living room light is left on, and we are to shut the light off when we get home. That way mom and dad know we made it home OK. (but I always wonder what good this does if they don’t wake up in the night. We could be dead in a ditch until morning! Thanks a lot!) A few weekends ago mom and dad were gone, and both my brother and I were sleeping at home. I didn’t get in until 2 a.m. My brother was waiting up for me.

But so many people, like my bud Grif, don’t have that “home.” They don't have a built-in family who are obligated to be “home.” They don't have moms and dads with rules or brothers who wait up. They don't have someone texting to make sure you got to your car and/or home alright. And I believe we are called as people, and as Christians, to be “home” to others. And this is so not easy…especially when their apartment smells, and they look at Playboys and they talk endlessly about old coins.

I just recently interviewed a pastor about the family ministry at his church. He said that everybody always comes in wanting community and authentic friendship. He tells them simply, “Go home.” That God has given you the most precious community right in your home, and you often forget about it. And I agree, but I wonder if maybe instead of “Go home,” it should be “Be home.” Because so many don't have a home to go to.

Be home to others. Wait up. Leave the light on. Drop the cookies off.
Grif was my “home” in California, and I hope he thinks the same of me.