I am not sure when she officially crossed over, but there was a definite point when my Great Aunt Lula gave herself permission to say whatever was on her mind – regardless of how offensive it might be. For instance, it was not unusual for her to look at a kindhearted visitor after only a few minutes and say, “Okay, it’s time for you to leave now.” Or to call someone, “Big Fat So-and-So” within earshot. A few times this lack of filter made her say things completely inappropriate, some I wish I could forget. However, I found her very entertaining, and I enjoyed her company.
One time I decided to visit Aunt Lula at her place in Florida. Her “vacation home.” That sounds pretty impressive, but it was actually an old, rusted, single wide trailer on a dead-end street among other mobile homes from the same era, occupied by widows, widowers, and couples around her age. The lots were large and everyone on the street had thriving fruit trees, mostly orange.
The ceiling in Aunt Lula’s trailer seemed especially low, the light was dim, the hallway was tight, and ants ran rampant across the kitchen counter, despite the dish of raw cucumber that was rumored to keep them away. She was particularly fond of canned Sweet Sue chicken and dumplings with canned cranberry sauce, which was a far cry from the local seafood I assumed we would enjoy during my Florida visit.
As soon as I arrived, Aunt Lula took me on a marathon down one side of the street and up the other side the next day. I met every single neighbor, except one, and visited for a while until it was time to go to the next lot and repeat the same thing. (We did this routine all over again in reverse at the end of my visit.) The people on the street had created a close community and it was clear they enjoyed reconnecting every year as they and their trailers grew old together.
It also became clear that we were going to repeat the same conversation at every stop. There were two major items to discuss. One. Even though everyone had beautiful orange trees of their own, they were convinced someone else’s oranges were better so they bought oranges from one another despite the fact they had plenty. So, at each home we either bought or sold a commodity no one needed. As far as I could tell, everyone was simply breaking even.
Two. Every single person was appalled and disgusted that Aunt Lula’s neighbor across the street was sneaking over and stealing her next-door neighbor’s oranges while they were out of town. (He was the one I didn’t get to meet.) Aunt Lula and her friends were completely outraged and wanted the dirty thief caught. The man was the focus of a vicious feeding frenzy that gained momentum with every conversation and Aunt Lula’s close connection to the situation made her a celebrity of sorts. Her friends were itching to hear the latest details, analyze her evidence, and hear her unfiltered opinions. The daily, senseless exchange of product and currency kept the topic alive.
I had serious concerns about getting out of the tight, back bedroom in the event of a fire, so I chose to sleep on the screened-in porch. Aunt Lula was delighted because this meant I might be able to catch the thief red-handed. If so, I was instructed to wake her up immediately. Gotcha. She didn’t describe what we would do after that.
It wasn’t peaceful sleep. There was the Florida heat and humidity and especially the streetlight, not to mention the stickiness of the oilcloth sofa. So, I was still wide awake at midnight when I spotted the dark silhouette of an elderly man carefully tiptoe across the street like the Pink Panther and begin stuffing oranges into a big bag. But here’s the thing. He only got the ones that had already fallen onto the ground and were going to rot before the owners got back anyway. Seriously. Was there really any harm in that?
I found myself quietly cheering him on as the scene continued to unfold in front of my eyes. “You go, man!” I decided to keep this little discovery to myself, and I immediately formed an unspoken bond with the Pink Panther, who appeared a couple more times before I left. I sympathized with the guy on some level because it seemed the punishment of becoming such a despised target among his neighbors, and being the topic of every conversation, was out of proportion to the crime.
People often ask me what it’s like with so many women living in community with one another at Blue Monarch. One can only imagine the mixture of personalities and mood swings. It can sometimes get intense. In fact, let’s throw their kids into the mix and you’d better duck.
Occasionally we will have a woman who just can’t help becoming a target. She will charge into an already established community and set herself apart by all the ways she feels superior. “Well, at least I didn’t let my drug use affect my parenting.” (Naturally, someone will immediately point out she doesn’t have custody of her children.) Or “My drug of choice wasn’t as bad as yours.” Step back.
So, yes, it is common that we have some who do not get along because these kinds of comments can be electric. That’s not to say anyone gets violent, because we don’t tolerate that, but sometimes it takes a while for a new resident to develop some humility, look at herself honestly, and take ownership of the choices she made.
Until then, it is our responsibility to make certain this woman does not become the victim of a nasty feeding frenzy out of control. We remind her peers that they do not know all the trauma, wounds, disappointments, and loss that may have caused their neighbor to act in a way that was hurtful or offensive. In other words, “She came to Blue Monarch for healing – just like you did. Remember some of the things you did and said when you first got here?” Once they connect on that level, they often become the best of friends, encouraging one other throughout the rest of their recovery journeys together. The lasting sisterhood that develops at Blue Monarch is a beautiful thing to watch.
Unfortunately, this ugly seduction of a feeding frenzy can be a temptation for all of us. Just think of how many times this has happened in other settings like the workplace or even church. It becomes intoxicating and irresistible to engage in daily rhetoric about one person’s indiscretions, faults, or even untrue accusations. Updates can become an addiction that must be fed daily. It’s really no different from the times we occasionally have a child get off the bus after taking the brunt of cruel bullying. The tears will break your heart and the hurt shows on their faces. Adults, unfortunately, can inflict the same kind of pain on one another.
I can't help but notice that no one on Aunt Lula's street took any kind of action other than to criticize and pontificate. Was the man stealing oranges in the middle of the night because he needed food and was embarrassed? Or was he just a spiteful old man who loved the thrill of taking something that didn't belong to him? We will never know. No one bothered to find out because it was the sport that they enjoyed more than resolution or even justice.
The practice of extending grace is something we try to teach at Blue Monarch as just one little component of recovery and it is tangible when that concept finally sinks in. Conversations become gentler and friendships become richer when they gain the strength to say, “You know what? I’m not going to participate in that, so leave me out.”
Just think. When our residents leave with the tool of grace in their belts, they become the kind of neighbors who might offer the Pink Panther a kind word and an orange (a good one from down the street, of course) instead of feeding their own unhealthy behavior at his expense. Even better – they teach their children to do the same.
And that’s the family you want to live next door.
Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear. Ephesians 4:29
