Rural Community

The ranch house where my wife grew up sits back off of a gravel road in rural central Texas. You can see for miles from the back porch, and if you really try, you might be able to spot three other residences across the landscape. The next closest house is on the other side of a large cultivated field. It's a place where, if you don't want to be bothered by people, you pretty much don't have to be. For the past 20 years, it's been that kind of place for me, a place to get away from the crowds and busyness of city life. "Getting away" had to have been in my father-in-law's mind when he moved here from Dallas and built the house back in the '70s.

You would think that people who choose to live in this area put a high value on privacy, and in a way I suppose you'd be right. Dogs are the security system of choice at every house. You don't just drive up and get out of the car if the dogs don't know you. If you're not from around here, you get the impression that everyone keeps to himself. That was the impression I had of Johnny, my father-in-law, when I first met him: king of his country castle, and didn't care to be bothered. But once you get to know people here, you realize that they don't keep to themselves at all. In fact, with only a few families spread over the area, they all know each other quite well and, if I may be blunt, know each other's business quite well, for better or worse. One of the ironies about the sparse population is that there is no disappearing into the crowd.

For most of the two decades I knew Johnny, he had a regular morning ritual. He got up early, dressed like he was going to work (which he wasn't--he was semi-retired by the time I met him), got in his pickup or sport utility and left the house for two or three hours. He was always going "to the store in Leroy" or "to West for a haircut," or "had something to pick up in Bellmead," some sort of excuse to leave the house. And whatever his eventual destination was that morning, his route was generally the same. He weaved around the network of gravel roads near his place, checking in with the other farmers and ranchers who lived there, trading favors--and stories--with them, and slowly developing some meaningful relationships.

When Johnny died, several farmers and ranchers who lived nearby came to the funeral. I think everyone in the family was surprised by the large turnout. Some people I had met, others I had never seen before, but all of them knew Johnny and considered him a friend. I was struck by the sincere sense of personal and community loss they felt at his passing. They told stories of times Johnny had helped them, or expressed how they were going to miss having him around. They brought enough food to the house to feed a small army (and nothing out of a paper sack--stuff like brisket and ham and homemade desserts). This community of "loners" was not at all what it appeared. Even if some of the crustier old ranchers would never admit it, theirs was a close community of interdependence.

We remarked during this experience how often people in the more crowded confines of big cities endure hardship or loss while those around around them barely notice or may even be completely unaware of their loss. Population density seems to dehumanize and devalue us in each other's eyes, and desensitize us to each other's needs. We're closer together, but much more distant. We're "respecting each other's privacy" to everyone's detriment, content to be merely curious or suspicious of each other in lieu of knowing and caring for one another.

I'm happy to say that our own neighborhood experience is bucking the trend of urban and suburban life. People are peeking over the privacy fences and talking on the sidewalk, sharing burgers off the grill and carpooling the kids to school. The love and support our neighbors have shown us in our grief has been a major comfort to us. And we're aware that several families on our block are in the same season of life, dealing with the emotional strain of aging and ill loved ones. In times like these, privacy isn't all it's cracked up to be, and community is more than a nice thought or good intentions.

I don't have to jump in my truck to check in with my neighbors, but I learned something from Johnny about the intentionality of checking in. Last night I stopped by a neighbor's house on the way home. My son and I ate their food instead of waiting to get home to our own kitchen.

Acts 2:42-47 TNIV "All the believers were together and had everything in common. They sold property and possessions to give to anyone who had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved."