I turned my nose up at my weed-smoking neighbors. I described them to friends as “old hippies,” I rolled my eyes at them, and I wondered, “Do they even have jobs? What do they do all day?”
I even tried to root my feelings in my Christian faith. But Christianity has this sneaky core tenant about loving your neighbors, even the ones you don’t like. I actually believe that Jesus died for people who hated him, so I could not escape the pang in my gut that told me I was straight-up wrong in feeling so great about myself and feeling resentful toward them — I could not escape it, that is, unless I simply chose to ignore it.
That’s what I did: I ignored this gnawing expertly, just magnificently, until the day I actually met my neighbors.
I tell myself that it’s appropriate that you would not contact me. After all, my entire time in the state of Colorado has added up to four months — hardly enough to build an attachment — and then to make things worse, I up and left for a month. It’s not like we regularly chatted over the phone. And we’re just friends, remember? Plus God must want me all to Himself. Just me and him, like always. And that’s a good thing. Right? Of course. Glad we had this talk.
[All photos from Unsplash] This is a serial telling of my falling-in-love story. Read the story from the very beginning here. It’s too late: even if you had been rehearsing the right words just this morning in the bathroom mirror so you could flawlessly ask me out after bible study, I’m leaving Colorado for awhile. My internships […]
For most of my life, I assumed Jesus was an effeminate white guy. Of course, that had something to do with the fact that every depiction I saw confirmed that: shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, creamy skin, clean-shaven face, slim figure. Basically, Jesus looked a lot like me.