What do you see when you look outside your front window or every time you open the front door?

My view is a beautiful brick home.  A meticulously kept, pretty home with life and goodness draped around it.

In that home is a family I admire.  Their teenage daughter babysat for Isaiah once and their teenage sons were the kind of young men who took a leaf blower to my lawn when I was pregnant, came over with smiles to sell fundraiser tickets for their high school, and were active in various activities with the church.

But it was the parents who I admired the most: Lisa and Mike Wood.

When we bought our first home across the street from them, they were welcoming and inviting from the moment we met them.  They invited us over for dinner, gave extra boxes of Girl Scout cookies to us, and always had a smile or piece of advice when we found ourselves outside at the same time, surveying the sky before an impending storm, or passing out candy at Halloween.  Like neighbors do, like lucky neighbors who enjoy peaceful and friendly community.

But my favorite thing about looking across the street was seeing Lisa and Mike sitting on their front step.  On summer nights, I watched them sit outside, sometimes for hours, talking and observing.  It was a moving sight, something so simple, yet an utterly profound habit to witness: sitting and talking.

Shaker Heights is an historic neighborhood.  The homes are old and not built with ideal porches or many options to sit out front.  But this never stopped me and Nick from setting out a comfy chair on our front stoop and reading, watching Isaiah play on the lawn, or sometimes just staring at the stars.  What I loved most is how Lisa and Mike Wood sat on their stoop with no chair, shoulder to shoulder.  The image of them often made me hope and pray that someday, somewhere in the future Nick and I would be just like that: watching kids on bikes and reminiscing about when our kids were that young, staring at retirement in a few years and maybe even making travel plans to enjoy the empty nest. I remember looking out my window, wondering what they were talking about.  The world?  Politics? The lemonade stand at the corner of the street?  Their children?  Our hideous landscaping they had to look at for so long?

It was this week that I learned Mike suffered a fatal heart attack and died at the age of 57.  Suddenly, the warm beautiful brick home across the street was more than just a friendly sight for my eyes, but a place of grief and loss.  For me, as a person who loves community and takes personal investment in the lives of those who I am near, his death was a shocking earthquake into my peaceful heart.  It rattled me beyond comprehension. It was just last week that Isaiah and I were building a snowman and Mike – out for a run – stopped to say a funny quip about the leaning stature of the snowman.  We shared a short laugh and I smiled even as he turned his back.

And suddenly he’s gone.

All that assuredness we derive from our neighbor’s presence was suddenly a capsized boat in the sea of life.  The night I heard of Mike’s passing, I laid in bed with my head on my pillow, turned side ways, staring at Nick.  Wondering what life had in store for us, wondering if we’d really get to old age together, wondering how long Isaiah would have both of us.  Those questions did nothing but spark every insecurity life is naturally riddled with and the only way to know what life has in store for us is to live it, live through it.  And live it well.

The verbal exchange of greeting and conversation is sometimes not the most compelling piece of community. Sometimes it’s simply the strong physical presence of those around us that make us feel safe, secure, and assured.  The Wood family was like that for me.  A picture of what goodness looks like, a place to look upon several times a day and know that even in today’s crazy world, children can be raised lovingly, marriages can stay intact, and there’s time to sit on your front stoop to reflect about all of it.

Today is the calling hours and funeral for Mike Wood and I pray for not only him and his family, but for all of us who are searching for that warm image of what love and goodness look like.  For those of us young families who constantly worry about whether or not we’ll make it through these uneven years of scheduling, compromise, and unpredictability,  I pray for those good people and families who by simply being who they are end up inspiring and comforting us who have yet to arrive there.

And while my thoughts and prayers are strong now for Mike and his family, I’m certain they’ll be even stronger when I look out my window on summer nights.