It used to be much more difficult to connect with our neighbour (that’s neighbour singular – we’re at the end of a terrace). He spoke no English and would furtively dart in and out of the property. When the police hauled him away we learned that he’d converted the whole house and its roof space into an indoor cannabis farm. I had no idea he was so entrepreneurial.
The new tenant, let’s call her Debs, is a mum of three and a smoker (of the tobacco variety). I mention this only because she is out smoking on our shared porch 20 times a day, which is bad for her health but, I hope, good for her soul.
That’s because Emma and I get to speak to her all the time. And occasionally she’ll let us pray with her. Last week was one of those occasions. Life had gotten too much and I shared about many times when I’d felt the same. ‘But we’re not meant to do it alone, are we?’ She agreed. I told her the story of the two sons from Luke 15 and made the application: ‘That’s what we’re like: thinking we know best and making a mess of things. And that’s what Jesus is like: arms open, willing to receive anyone who turns from the pigsty and comes home.’ We prayed about that and about help for her situation. I went inside to grab a book and gave it to her. I invited her to church and, though she said that church was ‘too far, too fast’, three days later she agreed – her and her family. The whole conversation took about 20 minutes.
