A Monday Night in America

As I started my Monday night walk, the wispy clouds spread across the sky like flying angels.

A few minutes in, I stopped by a Little Free Library with images of children’s characters painted with care on the side. Curious George smiled gleefully at me as I opened the small door and carefully perused the selection. When I saw a beautiful children’s book about a young girl who loved the night sky, I knew it was perfect for my goddaughter Tori. I grabbed it and held it gently in my arms as I continued on my way. A gift from a neighbor, though I’d never know exactly who to thank.

When I passed my good friend’s house, I saw the garage door open with the light on. Her father was working in the garage, with wood planks resting on a sawhorse. I walked up to greet him, and he told me he was building a table for a local pastor’s office. I was touched by his servant’s heart—faithfully using his craftsmanship to create something that would bless his community.

I then came upon a large front yard tree with a dozen paper hearts hanging from it. Sweet phrases were cut out in the pink hearts, akin to the Valentine’s Day sweetheart candies. I admired this creative act—making something beautiful and displaying it outside for strangers to see. Because why not share something beautiful with the world?

Turning back toward the street, I saw a middle-aged woman greeting her neighbor, an elderly man with a white and brown dog named “Cookie.” Their eyes lit up as they said hello, and she reached down to pet Cookie. They continued chatting as I continued on my way. Neighbors taking the time to stop and see each other in our fast-moving world.

At this point, I started thinking about the memories I was collecting on my walk—moments of connection and beauty, neighbors taking care of neighbors. And as if I needed this theme cemented into my mind, at the end of a driveway, I saw two brown paper bags with a handwritten note: “Help yourself! Lemons.” I smiled, thinking of my next-door neighbor who often places a box of lemons in her front yard with a “FREE” sign. A simple gesture of generosity—what’s mine is yours.

And this is when I knew the purpose of my walk. It was a visual representation of a question I’ve been pondering recently. What does it mean to be a neighbor? And even more poignant, what does it mean to be an American?

What does it mean to live in a country that has broken your heart—where hate may change its appearance, but remains just as harmful? How do we move forward together when we hold such polarized views—and we’ve stopped seeing the humanity in one another? How do we live out the good values that make us proud to be Americans when we’ve lost sight of the good in each other? How do we remember our better angels when we are inundated with such evil in the news?

This week, I told my mom that when I think of the America I love, I don’t think of the politicians and their grandiose speeches. I don’t think of the people on the far right or the far left yelling past each other. I think of the ordinary American.

I think of the woman who works tirelessly to support her family, the father who tucks his kids in at night, praying that tomorrow his fellow Americans might be more compassionate than they were today. The one who looks out for the vulnerable—who shovels the driveway of his 94-year-old neighbor and drops off warm soup and soft bread for the friend who’s recovering from an illness. The child who stands up against a bully and the teacher who praises her for choosing courage in the face of cruelty.

Neighbors caring for neighbors. It’s something I’ve loved witnessing after joining a “Buy Nothing” group on Facebook a few weeks ago. I check the group often, feeling a particular kind of joy in seeing all the things my neighbors are sharing. The small and practical, the large and whimsical. These small acts of generosity feel like a quiet resistance to the loud politicians who try to scare us into adopting a scarcity mindset and commentators who spout the dangers of empathy. In “the land of the free,” so many of us have forgotten just how freeing generosity is.

I think this is what it means to be an American—to understand that we are all an integral part of making this place better than it was yesterday. To realize that we need each other, in both big and small ways. And to let our lives be a response to God’s call to “love your neighbor as yourself.”

As I neared the end of my walk, I greeted a father who sat beside his young daughter. She wore a helmet covered in flowers, and a small red bicycle rested nearby. She nibbled on goldfish and nestled into her father’s chest shyly as I spoke to them. And I smiled, seeing all the ways he cared for his daughter—keeping her safe, keeping her fed, holding her with care. A father’s love, protecting the one he adores.

As I walked up my driveway, the sun was disappearing behind the tree line. I felt the evening cold setting in, pushing me toward the warm house that awaited me. And images of the last hour floated in my mind: A shared neighborhood library. A craftsman working in his garage. A tree adorned with care. A greeting between neighbors. An offering of fresh fruit. A father sitting beside his daughter. This is the America I love.

And yet…

I must confess—I wish this walk encapsulated all it means to be an American. To pass by nice houses and pretty gardens and greet friendly neighbors with a wave. To feel safe and comfortable in my community. To interact with people who think and act like me. But this idyllic evening walk was not representative of the America most of us experience.

I know that being a good neighbor—and caring for all Americans—requires courage and sacrifice. It requires standing up for what we believe is right, speaking out against injustice, and meeting others with compassion—no matter the cost.

There is so much more to be said about what it means to be a good neighbor and a good American. For now, I will share an image that sticks in my mind from this weekend…

An older woman wearing a pink hat, purple purse, and purple tennis shoes is walking down a side street, a look of quiet determination on her face. She holds a sign in one hand and a water bottle in the other. When she turns the corner onto a busy street, she approaches a long line of people and takes her place beside strangers. Setting her bottle down, she holds her sign high above her head with pride. I honk my horn as I pass by her, and she smiles ear to ear, waving the sign back and forth enthusiastically. This, too, is the America I love.

Thanks for reading Crafting a Life of Love! I hope this story helps you move closer to love, beauty, and hope in your everyday life. If you’d like to encourage a friend, please share this post.

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