Written 11/09/2025

It’s a crisp autumn night as I overlook a neighborhood that, at the moment, resembles a bowl of Fruity Pebbles. I guess that’s what happens when severe weather strikes during peak foliage season. Rivers of color up ahead and flowing on sideroads across the subdivision. A bizarre spectacle as I pen these thoughts.

To be honest, I’m not okay right now. When a neighbor whose dog viciously attacked one of my boys last February cusses out my older two for cleaning up debris 15-20 yards from his property and demands I “move the f***” away”, how can you not be jolted? Dude, your dog almost killed my son. We relocated ours for healing and trauma counseling. The dust has settled. Move on. We have no intention to invade. Let life happen. Don’t curse my kids.

Of course, I keep the struggle internal and swiftly comply. But deep down, I’m livid. Just 15 hours prior, I had pulled over in my in-laws’ subdivision to ride out a storm, hazards flaring, my upper half documenting. For the first 10 minutes, everything is fine, my awe struck at the scene of one of the most impressive, hail-laden downpours I’ve ever seen.

That’s when an older gentleman with an umbrella walks out to my passenger door. Instead of asking if I was okay, he stoops down and yells, “What the hell are you doing?” Without any official storm-chasing designation, I stumble into my explanation, though emphasizing my place on public property. “What is your reason for being here? Is there somewhere else you can go?” Annoyed at the mere existence of this exchange, I conclude with a defiant, “Absolutely!” I turn the key and drive away, a tough shrug-n-go at first, but digestible upon realizing the man lives in literal darkness every night. Lord knows the reason behind such crabby cantankerousness. Honestly, I should feel bad for the man.

Fast-forward to this morning and I’m feeling it in the wake of another brutal interlude. That piece of you that prefers some faith in humanity, it’s fading with the wind knocked out. Discouraged, I return to my pile of downed limbs and trampoline shrapnel. That’s when something remarkable happens. Only 15 minutes later, a stranger in a tan pickup pulls up to my driveway and asks if I need any help. Surprised, yet amused at the poetic symmetry of the moment, I welcome the assistance and process the intel. After recently moving from the upper Midwest, this younger gentleman, who wore the part through his swagger and 220-lb frame, confessed how he had been jonesing for a situation like this in which he could contribute mass relief. For the next 20 minutes, we hauled a healthy load, even swung on some stubborn maple and oak limbs, loosening them before their saw-off. Caeden as my witness, we had a grand time. Such serendipity, you couldn’t have timed it better.

As my new neighbor drove off, I couldn’t help but yearn for a healthy calibration of what I’d just experienced. A few years into our move, Lys and I took a similar approach to our neighbors around the holidays. We were intentional in our giving, made efforts to share goodness, especially in our December dealings; however, post-COVID/post-Juju, we started to slack off a bit, more cynical and protective in light of stranger times. Sometimes, you wish you could just go back before the drama and find a way to bypass it. Just one tweak there, and the whole trajectory changes. Less mess and way less fallout.

But sometimes, all you have to do is consider the script you wish was imminent without the mulligan and pray into the next steps. For me, the truth is, the type of gusto I show during planned storm chases and disaster relief meetings— when I set out not only to track nature’s worst but also to help people in the path — should not be confined to the planned, but even more so, the unplanned. After all, random acts of kindness aren’t just for outreach-friendly entities. They are for every man on call for any situation. ‘Tis the silver lining any time chaos and crisis come knocking at our door and/or the one next door.

So as I bid this day adieu, I’m taking in the daily narrative. Like a heartening State Farm ad, not only is my faith in ‘good neighbor’ restored, but my hope in being the type of person I want to be more consistently.

I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: The Lord knows exactly what we need, when we need it; hence, why we must adhere to the hope of glory we carry within so we can spark it within spontaneous generosity. We got this! Together, we will get there.

Selah.

Graphic cover creds: Dreamstime