When Age Differences Bring Us Together

There are so few kids living near us. A tinge of sadness drips through our words. We are less disturbing to our neighbors if we contain playtime to the fenced backyard. They can’t relate to us because we are in a different life season.

Maybe this is your story today too. You may be the young family that lives in a quiet neighborhood where you rarely see anyone outside, and you know which houses have kids, and there aren’t many.

Or perhaps your story is that your kids have grown up and moved out of the house. Perhaps they don’t live near you, or visit often, or you are still waiting to have grandchildren, or meet the ones you do have.

I am writing today to both of you. I see your stories. I hear the ache in your heart. Are you willing to keep reading and entertain the hope that there could be another way?

We going to press pause and momentarily think back to our childhood. Was there a non-family member adult who had a special influence on your life? What was it that drew you to them? Do you remember any details from how you first met?

I can remember several people throughout my childhood who were not blood-relatives of mine, yet I fondly called my adopted family. Their significance in my life was perhaps heightened because my own grandparents lived multiple states away. These individuals lived close to me and/or I interacted with regularly. They cared deeply about me and were not afraid to show it. The feeling was mutual.

First, there were the two couples who were our next-door neighbors on either side back when my family lived in the yellow house on the edge of a small town in Minnesota. I was too young when we moved to this house to have a clear memory of how we first met our neighbors, but I can’t forget the burst of joy I felt when we saw them outside doing yardwork. My siblings and I would drop our play or the sticks we were ridding the yard of and run over to say hi. They would pull us into conversations that made us feel loved and worth noticing. Their attention alone was empowering, even if I was too young to understand how. We soon began referring to them as our adopted grandparents.

I remember how one of our “grandpas,” Frank, walked over when my siblings and I were trying to build a snowman, shoveled paths of snow to give us a bigger pile of snow to work with, and then helped us lift the head onto the giant snowman.

I remember wandering into their garage the day Frank was grating cabbages into five-gallon buckets to prep a boat-load of coleslaw, and we were both intrigued and incredulous that he could still chat with us as he pushed the cabbage back-and-forth, back-and-forth, across the gleaming metal grate.

I remember, too, the sadness that tempered our excitement of moving out to the farm 15 minutes away when I was seven because we knew our friendships with our cherished next-door neighbors would never be the same.

Then there was Nancy, a sweet-grandmotherly woman who worked as my dad’s secretary for many years when I was a kid. If I close my eyes and take a deep breath, I can still smell the lovely aroma of her perfume. Nancy made everyone smile just because she was in the room. She was gentle and caring, and she looked deep into your eyes when you talked with her. And her eyes always twinkled when she shared gum with us from her drawer. Sometimes Nancy would babysit us when my parents went out of town to celebrate their anniversary, and we soaked up all we could of this special time with her. Nancy and her husband traveled all the way from Minnesota to Northern Kentucky for my wedding; it was surreal and so heartwarming to see her familiar smile waiting for me in the reception hall. It was the most wonderful surprise, and Nancy is a gem like none other.

Years down the road, I began attending a community college as a high school student. When I interviewed at a gift store, hopeful it would become my first job, I had no idea how dear my managers and co-workers would become to me, and how very, very hard it would be to say goodbye once I moved away to continue onto my next degree. Beth, in particular, found a way into my heart. She became like a second mother to me—a confident, one I could talk real with and expect her to talk real with me. She will forever feel like family to me.

I tell these stories because from them I gleaned this understanding: There is immeasurable richness to be found in friendships that span generational differences. And this, my friends, is something that augments my definition of missional living.

I shared in my previous post, “The Uncommon Normal: Behind the Name,” that to me, missional living means I posture my heart like an open door, welcoming my neighbors into my heart, my life, and my home, with the intent of demonstrating through my actions how much they are dearly loved by their heavenly Father. “My neighbors” is a term far more expansive than those near my age who have similar interests and values. Rather, sometimes the best conversations my husband and I have are with neighbors a couple decades wiser than us.

There’s a friend, we will call her Judy, who walks her dog past our house nearly every day. We look forward to chatting for a few minutes whenever possible, and my two-year-old son loves to dig his fingers into the long, soft hair of her Golden Retriever. Jane lives alone, and is probably close to our parents’ age. We may not appear to have all that much in common, yet she looks for Jojo (our son) as she walks past, and if we are home, we will drop what we are doing to catch her on her way past. A friendship is growing, and it’s as beautiful as the vibrant colors in Judy’s yard.

Another neighbor regularly opens his garage to be used as a neighborhood hang-out spot. Kids and adults of all ages gather, connect, and thoroughly enjoy the time together. Neighbors with and without kids come join the fun. Age doesn’t matter here. Really, age needn’t matter elsewhere.

We greatly enjoy connecting with our neighbors who live right next to us as well, and they are both close to our parents’ ages. Spontaneous conversations happen easily whenever we are both outside at the same time. My husband has borrowed tools, sought advice for projects and lawncare, and lent and received help. One of our next-door neighbors built the amazing farm table for our formal dining room. These are people who love to chat with our kids, tell us stories from their past, and share with us what they are experiencing. They are kind-hearted, sincere, and full of wisdom. We hope they never decide to move!

Friends, please hear me in this—we don’t have to be just like our neighbors to be so much better with them. In fact, our together is so much stronger and more resilient if the strengths and unique insights of multiple generations are entwined together. Ann Voskamp articulated, “The thread of your life becomes a tapestry of abundant colors only if it ties itself to other lives” (200). Let’s build tapestries in our neighborhoods, because a whole lot of isolated threads are no longer isolated when they are woven together.

Chances are, if you are feeling alone or unseen, there are others living near you who can relate. The first one to take one shaky, brave step is the winner. The one who opens up a wee part of their heart to love, and listen, and share hope, and impart and receive wisdom first wins. It’s not a race, but we’ve got to start somewhere. Because your neighbor next to you is worth it. And so are you.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote that “the only way to have a friend is to be one.” Perhaps we could let go of trying to find similarities before engaging with our neighbors, and instead focus on what we can do to be a friend. How can we lean in, reach out, open up?

Could we break the ice by sharing a compliment, noticing the new flowers a neighbor just planted, stopping to listen to something that is on their mind, or asking questions to encourage them to share a piece of their story with you? Could you posture your heart like an open door, being present and engaged, even if for a brief conversation? Could you set aside your judgments and preferences and approach the conversation with humility and grace?

Inspirational speaker, life-coach, and author Rasheed Orgunlaru shares great insight that can be applied to how we approach our neighbors. He charges, “Be genuinely interested in everyone you meet and everyone you meet will be genuinely interested in you.” The people we connect with best aren’t always those who share mostly similarities with us—it’s those who we can tell are genuinely interested in getting to know us, the real us. We may not feel we have much to offer, but we at least have this—genuine interest in others.

Friends, could we be brave together? Brave enough to for one small moment step beyond the walls we have placed around our hearts, step out beyond the doorframe of our front door, out beyond our biases and expectations, and show genuine interest in getting to know a neighbor who is not in the same season of life as us?

If you are walking your neighborhood, walking your dog, playing out in the front yard with your kids, weeding your flower beds, shoveling snow, getting the mail—hold your head up. Offer a smile to anyone else outside. Look them in the eyes. Let them feel seen, cared about, even in a small way. It’s a start. And your next baby step towards building a friendship will come just a little bit more easily.

Daddy, you love us. Let us feel the way you embrace us. The way your hearts yearns for us. Help us to rest in your embrace as we seek to take a first, shaky baby step towards being brave. Fill us with you so we can offer a genuine interest in our neighbors, no matter the age difference. Open our eyes to the beauty and value of generations different from our own, and help us to live out of humility, grace, and love. Amen.

Voskamp, Ann. The Broken Way: a daring path into the abundant life. Zondervan, 2016.