who is my neighbor?

I have been reading Donald Miller's latest book (A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life) for the last few weeks.


Rather, I have not been reading it. 


The combination of my trips around Mexico and my brief trip to Oregon have serialized the book into four or five page installments.  But I finally finished it on my return to Melaque on Saturday.


Near the end of the book, Miller writes about a bicycle tour he made across America to raise money for a charity.

When you fly across the country in an airplane the country seems vast; but it isn't vast. It's all connected by roads one can ride a bike down. If you watch the news and there's a tragedy at a house in Kansas, that guy's driveway connects with yours, and you'd be surprised by how few roads it takes to get there.  The trip taught us that we were all neighbors, that my life is connected to everybody else's.

I thought of that quotation while reading a message board posting this past week.  It was written
Justin Horner -- a graphic designer in my home town of Portland, Oregon.


Let's turn the floor over to him to tell his story.

During this past year I’ve had three instances of car trouble: a blowout on a freeway, a bunch of blown fuses and an out-of-gas situation. They all happened while I was driving other people’s cars, which for some reason makes it worse on an emotional level.  And on a practical level as well, what with the fact that I carry things like a jack and extra fuses in my own car, and know enough not to park on a steep incline with less than a gallon of fuel.

 

Each time, when these things happened, I was disgusted with the way people didn’t bother to help. I was stuck on the side of the freeway hoping my friend’s roadside service would show, just watching tow trucks cruise past me. The people at the gas stations where I asked for a gas can told me that they couldn’t lend them out “for safety reasons,” but that I could buy a really crappy one-gallon can, with no cap, for $15. It was enough to make me say stuff like “this country is going to hell in a hand basket,” which I actually said.

But you know who came to my rescue all three times? Immigrants. Mexican immigrants. None of them spoke any English.

One of those guys stopped to help me with the blowout even though he had his whole family of four in tow. I was on the side of the road for close to three hours with my friend’s big Jeep. I put signs in the windows, big signs that said, “NEED A JACK,” and offered money. Nothing. Right as I was about to give up and start hitching, a van pulled over, and the guy bounded out.

He sized up the situation and called for his daughter, who spoke English. He conveyed through her that he had a jack but that it was too small for the Jeep, so we would need to brace it. Then he got a saw from the van and cut a section out of a big log on the side of the road. We rolled it over, put his jack on top and we were in business.

I started taking the wheel off, and then, if you can believe it, I broke his tire iron. It was one of those collapsible ones, and I wasn’t careful, and I snapped the head clean off. Damn.

No worries: he ran to the van and handed it to his wife, and she was gone in a flash down the road to buy a new tire iron. She was back in 15 minutes. We finished the job with a little sweat and cussing (the log started to give), and I was a very happy man.

The two of us were filthy and sweaty. His wife produced a large water jug for us to wash our hands in. I tried to put a 20 in the man’s hand, but he wouldn’t take it, so instead I went up to the van and gave it to his wife as quietly as I could. I thanked them up one side and down the other. I asked the little girl where they lived, thinking maybe I’d send them a gift for being so awesome. She said they lived in Mexico. They were in Oregon so Mommy and Daddy could pick cherries for the next few weeks. Then they were going to pick peaches, then go back home.

After I said my goodbyes and started walking back to the Jeep, the girl called out and asked if I’d had lunch. When I told her no, she ran up and handed me a tamale.

This family, undoubtedly poorer than just about everyone else on that stretch of highway, working on a seasonal basis where time is money, took a couple of hours out of their day to help a strange guy on the side of the road while people in tow trucks were just passing him by.

But we weren’t done yet. I thanked them again and walked back to my car and opened the foil on the tamale (I was starving by this point), and what did I find inside? My $20 bill! I whirled around and ran to the van and the guy rolled down his window. He saw the $20 in my hand and just started shaking his head no. All I could think to say was, “Por favor, por favor, por favor,” with my hands out. The guy just smiled and, with what looked like great concentration, said in English: “Today you, tomorrow me.”

Then he rolled up his window and drove away, with his daughter waving to me from the back. I sat in my car eating the best tamale I’ve ever had, and I just started to cry. It had been a rough year; nothing seemed to break my way. This was so out of left field I just couldn’t handle it.

In the several months since then I’ve changed a couple of tires, given a few rides to gas stations and once drove 50 miles out of my way to get a girl to an airport. I won’t accept money. But every time I’m able to help, I feel as if I’m putting something in the bank.

When one of the lawyers asked Jesus how to inherit eternal life, Jesus responded with the two great commandments: "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind; and, Love your neighbor as yourself.”


The lawyer, smelling the possibility of a loophole where he could minimize his love-sharing, asked: "And who is my neighbor?"  You can hear the subtext dripping from the question: "Certainly not the people I do not like."


In response Jesus told a parable that is certainly one of western civilization's top ten tales -- the parable of the good Samaritan.  A story of how people we distrust are included in that category "neighbor."


I have been reading the Old Testament lately.  The torah repeatedly warns the reader to be especially mindful of the needs of three groups of people.  Widows and orphans are on everyone's list.  But the third group might surprise some people who draw their political inspiration from The Bible.


Aliens.  Immigrants.  Strangers in the land.


I have heard several people tell of tales similar to Mr. Horner's of the kindness of Mexicans in the United States -- and in Mexico.  People with very little money who are always willing to share one commodity -- their time and hands.  The very virtues we honor as Americans.


The highway that connects Portland to that driveway in Kansas keeps right on going -- to Ciudad Juarez, Oxaca, even Melaque.


Maybe that should be part of the immigration debate.  A little consideration on whether we are measuring the correct virtues.


Just a question for thought.