My
family
and I had thoroughly enjoyed living in our quiet, peaceful
neighborhood. Everyone on our street was friendly, and we were all happy
to welcome new neighbors. But then the McMillans (all names have been
changed) moved in.
Sandra
McMillan, a single mother, worked nights at a 24-hour bar and grill.
The person who stayed overnight with the children always left early in
the morning as soon as Sandra got home from work. The children were sent
out to play at the beginning of each day, while their mother tried to
sleep. Frequently the children’s laughter—or fighting—brought her to the
door to yell at them. More than one judgmental thought crossed my mind
as I watched what I considered very poor parenting.
The
family hadn’t lived there long when two of the children started a fire
in my next-door neighbor’s trash can. A few days later the youngest,
Carl, let the air out of another neighbor’s tires. This was the
beginning of a series of incidents between the McMillan children and the
neighborhood in general that began to change the neighborhood
atmosphere. A pall of hostility was settling over the street.
We
were the only members of the Church in the subdivision. My family and I
had always felt that good relationships with our neighbors were of
utmost importance. We knew most of the neighbors by name and felt
comfortable stopping and chatting with any of them. We welcomed the
neighborhood children into our yard and home. We took meals when someone
was sick, mowed lawns when others were on vacation, and watched
children when parents got in a pinch. We had made a sincere, constant
effort to be good friends and examples to everyone in our subdivision,
and it had been easy. But now the whole neighborhood equation had
changed with the addition of Sandra and her undisciplined offspring.
I
didn’t detect neglect in the legal sense in the McMillan household. The
children seemed well fed and their clothing was usually presentable,
but there was little doubt they were growing up like wild grass. They
were disruptive—at times even destructive—and their mother was hostile
toward reported complaints, regardless of how well founded.
Because
of her nocturnal schedule and her low threshold for negative
information concerning her children, I had not made my usual efforts to
get to know Sandra. I had heard accounts of a number of verbal
confrontations that had taken place when neighbors had approached her
about the children’s behavior. Honestly, I don’t believe I really wanted
to know her. She seemed too unpleasant and, underneath it all, I
resented the changes her family had brought to our happy little
neighborhood.
A Quiet Reminder
One
day while listening to a neighbor tell of finding the McMillan children
showing off an adult magazine, I could feel my dismay and frustration
grow. I was tired of this unrest and contention. As I half listened to
all the details of the latest affront to our tranquility, I was
surprised by a sudden thought, as clear as if spoken to me: “She is
doing the best she can with what she understands; be patient with her
and her children.”
Shame
and concern washed over me. That idea was so different from what I had
been feeling that I immediately recognized it as the Spirit instructing
me. I suddenly remembered a passage in my patriarchal blessing. It
counseled me to remember to be kind and patient with those who are not
members of the Church, for by kindness and patience I would do much
missionary work
that I would not be aware of. Clearly, I had a responsibility to do the
best I could to learn to love this neighbor, and I felt ashamed that I
had needed to be reminded. Yet I was still unsure exactly what to do, so
I decided to make the issue a matter of prayer.
I
asked my children if they minded playing with the McMillan children. To
my surprise, they readily agreed that when the McMillans were behaving
themselves, they were fun to be with. But they also agreed that the
siblings were an unwelcome challenge at times. As we talked, I felt an
inner assurance that the McMillans’ behavior was not going to have a
detrimental effect on the choices my children made.
When
I suggested that we pray for the McMillans and pray for ourselves so
that we could be better neighbors to this family, my children and
husband agreed. Considering all the past problems, I was not under the
illusion this was going to be an easy change. But I felt determined.
As
I sincerely pondered the situation, the Spirit kindly gave me some
insights into Sandra’s struggles—even her exhaustion and loneliness were
made known to me in a very powerful way. These insights were a great
gift to me, especially when the McMillan children were over in our yard
most of each day. I found that if a feeling of impatience or resentment
arose, the Spirit reminded me in a kind, gentle way that as inconvenient
as it was to me, I was doing what the Lord would have me do in this
situation.
When
the children began to come over on a regular basis, I sat them down and
explained the yard rules. I let them know they were always welcome as
long as they followed these rules and that they were the same rules my
children had to follow: no hitting, no name calling, no bad words, and
absolutely no fire. The McMillan children solemnly agreed.
As
I had assumed, our efforts to be kind were not problem free. But as
long as they were in our yard, the three children did try very hard to
behave. Perhaps they did not want to be banned from the last place that
welcomed them in the neighborhood.
We
occasionally invited the children over for family home evening, took
them out for ice cream, and even took them with us to the zoo. I never
spoke to Sandra directly though—I’m not exactly sure why. I always wrote
a friendly note asking permission for the children to come with us, and
she would reply with a note of permission, usually just a simple yes.
Occasionally I sent over fresh bread or cookies, but she never
responded.
A Chip in My Windshield
One
day I was sweeping the front steps while the children were playing in
the yard. Carl became upset with his brother and began to yell at him.
Before I could intervene, Carl picked up a rock and threw it at his
brother. Only five years old, Carl had poor aim and fortunately missed
his brother by many feet. The rock hit the windshield of my car instead,
creating a long chip on the driver’s side.
Carl turned pale, looked at me, and took off for home. I called after him: “Carl McMillan, come back here!”
At
that, the other McMillan children made a hasty retreat. I had not
yelled at Carl in anger but had raised my voice to get his attention. I
can’t explain why, but I honestly didn’t feel angry at him. I had just
wanted to talk to him about not throwing rocks at people.
I
was certain that Carl wasn’t going to come back to talk to me, so I
went back into the house to ponder how to handle what had happened. As
frustrated as I was by the incident, I knew that I did not have the will
to go over and inform Sandra—this was hardly the ideal time to have our
first face-to-face conversation.
A
few moments later, I heard a knock at my door. Answering it, I found
myself looking into the eyes of Sandra McMillan. Standing beside her—or
rather trying to hide behind her—was a trembling, crying Carl. I said a
quick prayer and braced myself for the unpleasantness I was sure was
coming. I was caught off guard when instead of an angry attack, Sandra,
nervously looking down at her feet, said, “My son Carl has something he
wants to say to you.”
She then pushed Carl toward me, where he sobbed out a soft “I’m sorry I threw a rock and hit your car.”
I
knelt down so I could look him in the eye, and I was taken aback when
he fell into my arms and cried as if his little heart would break. My
soul was filled with a powerful love for this child. I knew these
feelings of love were a gift to me to help me understand Carl’s
importance to our Heavenly Father.
I
sensed Carl was afraid he had done the unforgivable, so I reassured
him. I explained to him that I wasn’t angry and that I had just wanted
to talk to him about the danger of throwing rocks. When he could see
that he was still going to be welcome in our yard, he calmed down.
I
stood up and was surprised to see Sandra fighting back tears. She had
not said anything the whole time I was speaking to Carl. When I
finished, she took him by the hand and simply said, “Thank you; it won’t
happen again.” She then walked back across the street with her son.
Shaken by the incident, but knowing that the Spirit had attended all of
us, I felt peaceful about what had just happened.
Moving Out and Moving On
A
short time later, on a weekend when we were out of town, the McMillans
moved away. No one knew where they had gone or why they had left. In
spite of the tender moment I had shared with them, I felt a certain
sense of relief to be out from under the stress of that situation. The
months passed, and I seldom thought of the McMillan family.
The
neighborhood gradually settled back into its previous calm. About a
year later my family and I moved to another wonderful neighborhood,
where we again made many good friends.
Another
two years passed, and I was serving as Relief Society president in my
ward. It was the practice of the bishopric to have the auxiliary leaders
stand at the chapel doors and greet ward members and visitors before
sacrament
meeting. One Sunday as I was greeting people, I was taken by surprise
when Sandra McMillan and her children walked up to me. I was astounded
by the transformation. Here was a lovely, modestly dressed young mother,
her pretty face free of most of the stress I remembered it bearing, and
her scrubbed and cheerful children in tow.
I
returned her smile, uncertain she would remember me; but to my
surprise, she threw her arms around me as if we were long-lost friends.
I
asked why she was there, and she informed me that she had joined the
Church about 10 months before and had just moved into the ward. Her eyes
were misty as she recounted how the missionaries had tracted her out
one afternoon when she had been feeling about as low as she had ever
felt. She then said something that caused me to catch my breath in
surprise.
“I
let the missionaries in partly because of your family and how you
treated us, especially how you treated my children. I didn’t know you
were a member of the Church—I didn’t even know the Church existed. But I
had seen how you lived, and I saw what sort of neighbor you were. I
didn’t know why I felt what I did around you, but because of watching
you, I knew there had to be a better way to live. When the missionaries
knocked on my door, I knew somehow they could show me that better way.”
I
was speechless—I had done so little, and not all of that with the best
attitude. She went on to tell me of how the gospel had brought her peace
she had not thought possible, even though life was still a great
struggle for her and her family.
As
we spoke, a powerful impression swept over me. I realized what could
have taken place if I had given in to my frustration and anger at the
behavior of the McMillan children. As a fellow Saint or as her Relief
Society president, I would not have had any credibility with her. All of
the difficulties that could have been created if I had not loved my
neighbor paraded before me, leaving me shaken and so grateful that I had
heeded the Spirit that prompted me to remain patient. This was
immediately followed by peace at the joyous reality that this wonderful
family had found and embraced the gospel.
Sandra
really had been doing her best under her difficult circumstances, and
when she was ready, the gospel came into her life. How grateful I was
that I had not been a stumbling block for her and that my family had
tried to reach out to love a difficult neighbor.
