the back porch opened to a breathtaking view of the mountains with the Denver skyline in the distance. The home sat securely outside our price range, but the real estate agent encouraged us to make a bid anyway. To our surprise, the offer was accepted.
The owner explained she was a follower of Jesus as we signed the final closing paperwork. At our first showing, by chance, she had been home. She told us that when she saw us walk through the door, she knew we were supposed to live at this address—a place she cherished. She reached across the closing table, grabbed my hand, looked into my eyes, and assured me we were meant to live in this home. Her words delivered divine delight.
Our furniture unpacked, our clothes tucked away, I knew the time had come to start building a new life. We began in our neighborhood. When a couple strolled past our driveway, we rushed out to greet them. As we worked in the yard, we waved and said hello to anyone who came out to retrieve their mail.But the “Hey, neighbor” conversations never moved beyond anything surfacy and shallow.
The isolation intensified with Christmas. Aloneness became loneliness. I needed to become more proactive. Inspired by the holidays, I decided to spend a day baking one of my childhood favorites—challah. I kneaded and braided each loaf of lightly sweetened bread, traditionally eaten by Jews on the Sabbath, with loving care. I delivered a hot loaf to more than a dozen neighbors with a handwritten card, tossing in a bottle of red wine for good measure. I made sure to say a few kind words then left before I wore out my welcome. Though I doubt they ever knew, I wanted to greet my neighbors by blessing them and serving them a kind of communion.
When we returned home, I waited for responses like a schoolchild eager for the recess bell. A few days later, Leif discovered a single thank-you note on our front doorstep taped to a plastic plate of holiday cookies.
We shared even fewer conversations with our neighbors once winter blanketed everything with snow. After the New Year, I resolved to invite some acquaintances from church into our home for a meal. Serving grilled steak fajitas with fresh guacamole and homemade pico de gallo, we shared our story and listened to theirs. The evening came to a close with the promise of getting together soon, but we never heard from them again.
We reached out to several others from the church and neighborhood, even mixing up the menu to see if differenttypes of food helped people connect. The initial conversation around our dining room table required effort but improved as the meal progressed. By the time our guests left, I was hopeful we had made new friends, but none of our invitations were reciprocated.
I began to think Leif and I were less interesting than I thought we were. Or maybe we smelled skunky. Despite doing everything I knew to initiate relationships—inviting people into our home, serving them a fresh homemade meal, steering clear of any divisive topics, even gathering around a circular dining room table, which is supposed to be the best design for connection—we remained friendless.
Yet I refused to give up.
Making friends always takes time
, I assured myself. Deciding to give it another whirl, we welcomed Mark and Leslie, acquaintances from work, into our home. When they arrived, we scrambled to finish cooking the barbecued chicken. They didn’t seem to mind and joined us in the kitchen to chat as we sliced, diced, and scooped food into serving dishes.
“We’re ready!” I announced.
“What about the table?” Leif asked.
In our harried preparation, I had forgotten to set the formal dining room table.
“Let’s grab plates, dish up the food buffet style, and gather around the old table in the living room,” Leif suggested on a whim.
I shrugged, figuring nothing could lower our current track record. Mark and Leslie filled their plates and nestled into the leather couch. Leif plopped into his favorite
The owner explained she was a follower of Jesus as we signed the final closing paperwork. At our first showing, by chance, she had been home. She told us that when she saw us walk through the door, she knew we were supposed to live at this address—a place she cherished. She reached across the closing table, grabbed my hand, looked into my eyes, and assured me we were meant to live in this home. Her words delivered divine delight.
Our furniture unpacked, our clothes tucked away, I knew the time had come to start building a new life. We began in our neighborhood. When a couple strolled past our driveway, we rushed out to greet them. As we worked in the yard, we waved and said hello to anyone who came out to retrieve their mail.But the “Hey, neighbor” conversations never moved beyond anything surfacy and shallow.
The isolation intensified with Christmas. Aloneness became loneliness. I needed to become more proactive. Inspired by the holidays, I decided to spend a day baking one of my childhood favorites—challah. I kneaded and braided each loaf of lightly sweetened bread, traditionally eaten by Jews on the Sabbath, with loving care. I delivered a hot loaf to more than a dozen neighbors with a handwritten card, tossing in a bottle of red wine for good measure. I made sure to say a few kind words then left before I wore out my welcome. Though I doubt they ever knew, I wanted to greet my neighbors by blessing them and serving them a kind of communion.
When we returned home, I waited for responses like a schoolchild eager for the recess bell. A few days later, Leif discovered a single thank-you note on our front doorstep taped to a plastic plate of holiday cookies.
We shared even fewer conversations with our neighbors once winter blanketed everything with snow. After the New Year, I resolved to invite some acquaintances from church into our home for a meal. Serving grilled steak fajitas with fresh guacamole and homemade pico de gallo, we shared our story and listened to theirs. The evening came to a close with the promise of getting together soon, but we never heard from them again.
We reached out to several others from the church and neighborhood, even mixing up the menu to see if differenttypes of food helped people connect. The initial conversation around our dining room table required effort but improved as the meal progressed. By the time our guests left, I was hopeful we had made new friends, but none of our invitations were reciprocated.
I began to think Leif and I were less interesting than I thought we were. Or maybe we smelled skunky. Despite doing everything I knew to initiate relationships—inviting people into our home, serving them a fresh homemade meal, steering clear of any divisive topics, even gathering around a circular dining room table, which is supposed to be the best design for connection—we remained friendless.
Yet I refused to give up.
Making friends always takes time
, I assured myself. Deciding to give it another whirl, we welcomed Mark and Leslie, acquaintances from work, into our home. When they arrived, we scrambled to finish cooking the barbecued chicken. They didn’t seem to mind and joined us in the kitchen to chat as we sliced, diced, and scooped food into serving dishes.
“We’re ready!” I announced.
“What about the table?” Leif asked.
In our harried preparation, I had forgotten to set the formal dining room table.
“Let’s grab plates, dish up the food buffet style, and gather around the old table in the living room,” Leif suggested on a whim.
I shrugged, figuring nothing could lower our current track record. Mark and Leslie filled their plates and nestled into the leather couch. Leif plopped into his favorite
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