“Are the kids still up?” my husband asked as our minivan turned down the driveway.

I strained to see through the trees. “Everything looks black.” Our teenagers usually lit up the house, played loud music, watched movies and gorged on junk food during our rare absences.

“Someone’s been here.” He pointed to tire tracks in the snow, illuminated by the van’s headlights. “What’s by the door?”

It looked like a big, bulging sack.

Thefts had mushroomed in our neighborhood during the past year. I’d also just read Judges 19, one of my least favorite passages in the Bible. Maybe that’s why I approached the sack with such dread.

My husband reached in the burlap bag and pulled out . . . “A potato?”

The puzzle pieces came together later. As he ‘d guessed, our girls had noticed a neighbor’s vehicle that evening but didn’t realize anything was left at our door: we’d been anti-robbed again.

Our neighbors surprise us with many blessings. It’s taken years to build relationships with some of them, but most have eventually accepted us and even warmed up to our annual Christmas caroling which now spans multiple evenings. We sing on their doorsteps bearing cookies and Bible tracts. Some invite us in to share Christmas goodies and catch up. Sometimes they send us home with gifts.

We’ve tried to think up many ways of ministering to them. We’ve hosted summer barbecues, ice cream socials and ladies’ Bible studies, but we’re the ones who keep coming out ahead. When we’ve been sick or had nothing to drive, our neighbors have loaned us vehicles and plowed our driveway. We’ve cared for each other’s animals, plants and kids. We’ve showed up with food and gifts when we’ve heard reports of celebration—and tragedy.

In one of my fondest memories, a group of us were wandering home from another neighbors’ outdoor wedding. As the sun set, our potato-gifting neighbor came by, driving his huge team of horses. I stuck out my thumb for a ride. He slowed, we climbed into his cavernous wooden wagon and he drove each of us to our homes. The wagon swayed as the slow beasts lumbered, the sunset washing them red and orange against the long, black shadows. The deserted road lay quiet except for the heavy clopping of horse hooves and our soft conversation. I used to think of it as the essence of Americana: a moment of something largely inexistent now. But it’s even more.

Our neighborhood isn’t perfect. We suffer from modern ills. Sirens and flashing lights shatter our peace, too. No one in this fallen world can escape the myriad effects of sin. We sometimes let each other down, but sometimes we also go out of our way to help. We alert each other when bad weather’s about to strike or the wild blueberries are ripe. We’ve shared recipes, advice, garden produce and meals. We might not meet often, but often enough to know we’re still there and still care.

I look forward to Heaven, a redeemed extension of our neighborhood, a multitude from every nation, tribe, people and tongue praising the Savior who bought them with His atoning death. Because of Him, we’ll live together forever in perfect peace and love. I’m glad our neighbors have given us a preview of that great future. I hope and pray we can give them a glimpse of what’s to come as well.