ENCOURAGEMENT 42 JULY 2026 www.goodnewsfl.org Good News • South Florida Edition How could I not love my grandparents’ house? Located within the Central Park perimeter of our small town, it served as the only residence surrounding the plaza. Nestled next to the fire station on one side and a grocery store on the other, this was the portion of town "where everybody knows your name." I would spend afternoons as a young boy talking to the firemen, pretending to drive the truck and climbing the ladders. Or "helping" at the grocery store by weighing beans and coffee while helping the ladies with their umbrellas. Or maybe hanging out with the help at the movie theater, where occasionally I was allowed to sneak in. And, of course, we couldn't wait till Sunday. By late afternoon, the parade of young women, accompanied by their chaperones and dressed in their best garments, arrived on site, "strutting their stuff," while the young men became judges and future suitors at this impromptu beauty contest. We were the "center of the universe"; they all came to us; the whole place was our oyster; they were all our neighbors. Our humble home, located three blocks away was a mini-sized replica. No lock on the door, "our" dogs lived on the street and munched on leftovers, and the folks next door had access to our place and access to discipline me. The baseball field was the street, where the drain cap was home plate, the two cars on each curb were first and third and a piece of cardboard served as second base. "Fans" would voice their approval at our performances while walking or driving through the "stadium." This was basically a Hispanic Fred Rogers "won't you be my neighbor" setting. Then, suddenly, it all changed. We moved to the United States. Left behind were the ward, the enclave, the barrio; the numerous accomplices, cronies, sidekicks, buddies. We traded a social island for a geographical one. In one fell swoop, the tribe on the big island was ripped from me, and in its place, I received complete anonymity in Florida's southernmost city. A new neighborhood New country, new language, new school, new surroundings ... no neighbors. At least not like the ones left behind. We traded economic diversity for cultural isolation and freedom of movement for social restrictions. It took a long while for the "The American Dream" to take its grip. Concessions had to be made, and one of the first casualties would be the Caribbean semi-communal living so ingrained in us. Thus, we had to make serious adjustments, among them our outlook and expectations of what we considered neighbors. No more open-door policy, shared pets, collective meals, pooled efforts or collaborative parenting ... time for some ethnic cleansing. The passage of time did little to change this until I met Jesus on the "road to Panama." Slowly (how else?), the meaning and significance of neighbor were revised for me by Him. Today, God frequently instructs me to share with those around me not just geographical space and friendship but likewise other basic additives such as communion, solidarity, companionship, oneness, reciprocity and, why not, love. My childhood utopian perspective of this person doesn't hold a candle to the profoundness of who Jesus calls my neighbor, for it is not the proximity to a person that makes a difference, but rather the proximity to Our Redeemer. We read in the Book of Acts how 3,000 Jews and devout proselytes were added to the church in just one day, and how they immediately commenced to "hold steadfastly to the apostles' doctrine and break bread daily." Just the day before, these folks chatted with their Jewish neighbors; the next day, as total outcasts, they were forced into a new neighborhood: the original Christian church. Who is my neighbor? But hold on, there is a fly in the ointment. This evening, as I was putting out the garbage, I glanced at the homes around my cul-de-sac. One shelters practicing Mormons, the next secular Jews, and the other two casual Catholic families. Despite intermittent chatter through time, none have gone beyond sharing casual conversation regardless of my tepid attempts. They are vaguely aware of my spiritual life, occasionally nod when we leave for church on Sundays and basically stay out of our lives. Is their disinterest tied to my lack of interest? Is the problem their rocky ground or my lack of seeds? Interestingly enough, when talking to fellow Christians, it seems like this is a widespread issue within their individual enclaves. Enter Luke 10:29, where a lawyer asks Jesus, "Who is my neighbor?" prompting Christ to respond with the Good Samaritan parable. The question of "Whom do I have to love?" is answered by the Savior in a story that goes beyond doing no harm or correcting harm done. In this story, he commands us to desire the best for others, fix problems we didn't create, and practice farsighted, affirming and mediating love. This answers my previous query ... looks like I have a seeding issue. I lost my home to Hurricane Andrew in August 1992. So did all my neighbors. For several weeks, we endured no electricity, streets blocked by garbage and debris, isolation, loss and despair. By September, a group of unknowns banded together around our block and created a tight community. What FPL, government entities or care giving organizations could not supply, we pooled gladly and willingly. It took us back to Acts 2, when the original church shared as needed. By the autumn of 1993, our area was reconstructed, and the time came to celebrate with a neighborhood party at a nearby park. There, a huge banner welcomed us; it read: " One person gives freely yet gains even more; another withholds unduly but comes to poverty. A generous person will prosper; whoever refreshes others will be refreshed" (Proverbs 11:24-25). Enough said. So much to do. Omar Aleman is a retired federal agent and consultant. He and his wife Julianne assist and support several Christian non-profit organizations both here and abroad. - Omar Aleman - Aleman and Associates Stand By Me
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