Neighbor Man Cometh

One Christmas Eve my husband and I invited our flannelled, bushy-bearded neighbor man to join us for our family’s traditional, holiday meal.

We’d known him for a few years. He used to come to his country property every weekend to camp out, but come one Sunday night, rather than leave for the city, he moved into his camp trailer. Permanent. I sometimes saw him at the outlet store where dented and outdated groceries were sold at discount prices, so I knew he had enough money for food. And gas.

He kept to himself and his fire pit, and sometimes we heard him rollicking with noisy, beer-chugging friends. He lived off our shared dirt road—amid the thick trees and heavy underbrush—until a wild, winter windstorm smashed a tree into the corner his place.

.

.

… for the rest of the tale, including some sanctuary shenanigans, please join me over at Grace Table today.

.

.