“And the second is like unto it,
Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”
Matthew 22:39
My parents, in their mid-forties, moved with their five children from a dairy farm in eastern Oregon to a small home in a rural Utah community during the mid-1950s. I was the youngest, only four years old. Our family’s new neighborhood was an entire town of perhaps eight hundred, a quiet community nestled next to rugged mountains. The village brought together a mixture of families, with all ages of adults, many in those aging decades of their sixties and seventies. At my young age, I was oblivious to my parents’ concerns about their move and our transition into that small town’s social dynamics. But I do remember some old-timers in that childhood community who welcomed my parents, siblings, and me into our new home.
I recall a few elderly women and men who made a point of celebrating our arrival by bringing us heaping plates of food as housewarming gifts. But I don’t remember the names of those kind individuals, except for one especially welcoming, aging gentleman—Brother Page. Not only did Brother Page shake hands with my parents before church services as we nervously attended our new ward, but he would also recognize my brothers and me. He said nothing more than a simple “glad you are here,” but I felt his genuineness toward us as he obeyed that second great commandment of loving his neighbor. He could have held back, grumbling about all the new and unfamiliar faces showing up in town. Instead, he reached out to the shy families, like us, who were trying to settle into our new homes.
I assumed that Brother Page obeyed the first commandment of loving God as well. At least he told us so every month, during fast and testimony meeting. Back then, I rolled my eyes when Brother Page repeatedly stood up to bear his testimony. But now it’s an important memory, and I remember him and his love for the Savior, expressed in a quavering voice that felt genuine to me. That and his neighborly love for us were an example for my young life.
I’ve asked my only living brother what he remembers about Brother Page. After listening to my praise, he remarked, “I didn’t feel the same way about him.” Taken aback, I asked why. He continued, “When we first moved in, I was twelve years old. Brother Page was my Sunday School teacher. My teenage friends and I were so consumed with impressing each other, that we did all that we could to rattle and anger Brother Page.” My brother went on to describe an experience when the class members rushed to beat Brother Page to class. They inscribed some derogatory remarks about him on the chalkboard and, when he arrived, he took one look at the board, turned, and left the classroom without saying a word. As we discussed my brother’s experience, we concluded that sometimes keeping our mouth shut may be the most effective way to love our neighbor.
This past year was the thirtieth anniversary of my wife and I building our current family home. We had moved from a neighborhood with a more homogenous age makeup, mostly young families. My wife and I were in our early forties, kids aged eighteen down to four. Though we remained in the same city, this new neighborhood seemed very different. We found families similar to ours—middle-agers focused on child-rearing—but a significant number of our new neighbors were empty-nesters, working in the twilight of their careers, many already retired. I wondered if we would meet a Brother Page.
I recently asked my youngest son, four years old at the time we moved in, if he remembers any individuals who paid attention to him at the time of our move. After a few days of reflection, my son mentioned a senior gentleman who lived several doors down the street from us. He couldn’t remember his name, but he described the house and recalled that this neighbor would say hello to him at church when he greeted our family. My son admitted that, once when riding his bike home from school, past this gentleman’s house, he wasn’t paying attention and collided with the neighbor’s tree next to the sidewalk. This elderly neighbor came out, helped him up, and assisted him in getting on his way. This gentleman had become my son’s Brother Page.
Several years after moving in, we experienced the sudden and tragic death of one of our sons to substance abuse. As the days following played out, we were astonished at the outpouring of neighborly love. I would look out and see armies of youth cleaning up our yard and cultivating the flower beds. Their parents and the elderly arrived, bringing food and hugs to help mitigate our sadness. Months later, arms were placed around my shoulders when a priesthood lesson, discussing death in mortality, brought on a fresh wave of my tears. Our ward helped us more fully understand Alma’s charge to “mourn with those that mourn” and “comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:11).
Now, thirty years after our construction and move into this house, we have become the old-timers of the neighborhood. I quietly conducted an informal tally of the residents of our ward and estimated that sixty of the adults probably fit into that decade of their forties and fifties, similar to when we moved here. Yet there are also another fifty of us in the decades of our sixties and seventies, mostly empty-nesters—retired, quiet residents, living in the neighborhood amongst the youngsters.
I have reached out and shaken the youngsters’ hands at church or when meeting them at the store. I have made eye contact with the entire family. I have smiled more. When the noise of youthful activities in the streets of my neighborhood has become annoying to my aging brain, I have quietly closed the window and turned up the sound on the television. And I have mourned with those in the ward that mourn and stand in need of comfort.
There is a family who recently moved into the house across the street from us. The parents seem to be in their forties, and they have children of various ages. The youngest boy appears to be about four years old. Several of our granddaughters started playing with him and other neighborhood children down the street when our son and his family came to visit. After canvassing the neighbors for playmates, including this young boy, our granddaughters invited them back to our home for more playtime activities. We welcomed them, fixed them treats alongside our granddaughters, and in every way tried to forge a positive relationship with them and their parents. We noticed in our sacrament meeting that some of those children would look our way, then discreetly wave to us as we smiled and acknowledged them. And the other day, as I was walking down to the postal box, our new young friend across the street was in his front yard with his mother. He looked over at me and yelled, “Hey Grandpa, where you going?”
I hope I have become his Brother Page.
Kelly McDonald is an author, consultant, mentor, teacher, and continuous learner at Brigham Young University. Now retired, after a long technical career at the institution, he served as Assistant Vice-President for Information Technology at BYU. In this role, he directed the efforts of the University’s Office of Information Technology. Kelly now writes nonfiction, flash fiction, and poetry, often focusing on how technology and the humanities intersect. He is previously published in bioStories and Flare.
