By Laura Wifler
@laurawifler

It’s a 55 degree, spring day in Iowa which, after a long midwestern winter, basically feels like summer. I sit on our porch letting the sun warm my legs, my arms, and my attitude, and I take a quick inventory—scanning the land for my three kids. 

Our neighborhood is a new development built on 80 acres of old farmland. It used to nurture corn and beans every other year, but today, it nurtures children. Each houses’ lot spans a bit over one acre each, which breathes the 40 houses out wide over the land, with nothing but earth and wind between each one. When the sun is out, the seemingly uninhabited neighborhood comes alive with kids. 

I spot my son first—he and a friend ride their green and blue scooters down the hill of the cul-de-sac, each dragging their left foot on the pavement to avoid going too fast. I am equally proud of and surprised by their restraint. My daughter and two of her friends work on chalk art in my driveway. They write, “Get well soon!” in perfect 1st grade script—a message for another child in the neighborhood. (The flu is going around, again.) Three neighborhood kids are in the tree fort by the creek, two are on the trampoline, and one meanders aimlessly by my neighbor’s garden. A group of 8 boys are on the empty lot nearby, biking up and down the dirt hill, each trying to outdo the speed of the one who went before. My other daughter drives a red electric car over the grass, aiming the four wheels straight for our dog who is chewing on a bone in the grass. This is at least the 46th time she has gone after him today. He escapes the big plastic wheels yet again, but she is not deterred. She turns the wheel toward where he is running by the house and I give her a slow nod from the porch, in respect of her stone-cold determination to accomplish what she wants. 

“This summer there will be nearly 100 kids in this neighborhood once all the new families move in,” says my sister-in-law, who is sitting next to me. “We have 82 right now. 15 more with the new houses.” 

I turn to her, squinting in the sun, “Where are all the grandparents? The singles? Anyone without kids?” I ask this rhetorically as we’ve had this conversation 100 times. Our guess is the child-free families take a single glance at all the playsets and trampolines in the neighborhood, turn to their realtors with fear in their hearts and ask, “Can we see some different options?”

***

When I first became a mom, I never dreamed I’d live in a neighborhood like this. 

In my early years of motherhood, we lived in the Twin Cities, and it wasn’t unusual to watch drug deals go down across the street. I knew my neighbors, and we waved politely when we passed one another, but the entire time we lived there they thought my husband’s name was Matt (It is Mike.) and they called the kids and me, “Matt’s family.”  You can only correct someone so many times before you start to wonder if you, in fact, are the one who has gotten your name wrong. 

Our next neighborhood was in a sprawling suburb outside of Chicago and here we were surrounded by retirees. Each Tuesday they pulled out folding chairs and set up a card table with a red-checkered, plastic tablecloth on top. They drank wine, ate charcuterie, and played hearts. I would often stop to chat with them on the way home from a walk. They liked to see the kids, and the kids liked their Boursin cheese and Club crackers. It just never moved beyond periodically shoveling their driveways in the winter and sharing crackers and cheese in the summer. 

But this neighborhood. This neighborhood is what neighborhood dreams are made of.

It is the Sandlot meets the Buttercream Gang, and it is exactly what my mom heart has craved since the day I conceived. There are always enough kids milling around for an impromptu baseball game, a bike race, or a hopscotch challenge. If you don’t want to play house by the tree fort, no worries. Another 10-year-old is playing school in a garage, and you’re welcome to go be bossed around by her pretend teaching skills. Don’t want to work on your sales pitch at the lemonade stand? No problem. Go join the kids blasting the Alexa in another garage while sitting on their parent’s black folding chairs.

People who don’t live in the neighborhood speak to me with envy about it: You’re so lucky. You have built-in friends and community. What a gift to live there. I dream about a neighborhood like that. They’re not wrong, but dreams have to live in reality too.

***

One day my son came home crying. He was playing with two neighborhood boys when they tried to trick him into believing they were both going home so they could meet back up again and play without him. He caught them in the act, and when their excuses didn’t add up, he came to me. Like a good friend, he tried to make allowances for their behavior, but we both knew what they had done. 

I told him the story of when my friends kicked me out of their friend group in 5th grade. Giggling and laughing at recess, a girl with straight blonde hair came up to me on the softball fields. “We don’t want to be friends with you anymore,” she said. I ran to the merry-go-round in my too-big pink snow boots, stomping more than I’d like because of the heavy soles. With every loud clomp I cringed. I wanted to look calm and peaceful. Unaffected. But I was undone. They had hurt me in the deepest parts. Kids can be unkind, buddy. I told him. But don’t give up on them. 

I knew one of the boy’s moms better than the other, so later I talked with her. I was nervous and spinning out a bit, but I also knew I would want her to tell me if the roles were reversed. I told her what I knew, being sure to mention that I probably don’t have it all right and it takes two to tango and all that. But she immediately received the story and told me she’d talk to her son. No defense. No hedging. Just, belief. I was stunned a little, and I pocketed the exchange as an example of who I want to be whenever a mom needs to have a chat with me. She and I talked about how these boys have to figure it out and how they must be friends. They’re neighbors, which is basically family in these parts. 

My son told me this friend apologized at school the next day. They played in my basement after school. 

***

Late one afternoon, a neighbor mom and I found several of the kids on the front porch of her house slamming down two expensive bags of organic popcorn. We thought it was her husband not thinking and handing out treats just before dinner, but as the story unfolded, we found out that it was, in fact, my daughter. She walked into the house, went straight to the pantry and started pulling food off the shelves like she was Coco Chanel at a department store. She passed the snacks out to the rest of the kids and they gobbled them up, no questions asked. 

My friend was not mad. I was mortified but engaged in breathing exercises as I tried to trust her when she said it’s no big deal and you must promise not to be mad or embarrassed. 

It is hard to take people at their word. To believe that truly, deeply, they mean what they say and they will not complain to their husband or gossip to another neighbor, but that they are earnestly rooting for you and your children as much as you are. 

***

Another time, a neighbor child walked into my house with muddy socks and tracked dark, thick footprints everywhere. I could literally trace her every move as she and my daughter went from floor to floor, room to room. Like a detective, I followed the trail to the guest room, where I discovered them playing with Littlest Pet Shop on my white linen bed sheets. 

“Off, off, off!” I cried when I discovered them. She hadn’t realized, she said. I know, honey. Oh, I know. I asked her to help me scrub them off the hardwood floors and carpet. It took 30 minutes. There are still two spots on the basement carpet steps that we could not get out. 

I wasn’t going to tell that child’s mom, but the girl—whether it was guilt over the situation or annoyance over me making her clean—told her. The mom approached me about it armed with 10,000 apologies and I told her it’s not a big deal and your daughter helped me clean it up and she truly had no idea. She still struggled to believe me. I get it. Like the popcorn. It is almost always easier to extend grace than to receive it.

Things happen when life is lived. Whether we mean to or not, we will spill and spoil and hinder and hurt. It is the nature of humanity. So we must be for one another which means truth and honesty and being direct even when it’s hard. It means receiving people at their word and trying to hold the truth in our hands.

A neighbor once asked me to work on this. I asked her to work on it as well. All of us in the neighborhood, we are all working on it. 

***

On a Friday night, my husband builds a bonfire in our backyard. The kids catch lightning bugs and smear the neon yellow glow on their bodies in letters and numbers and swirls. It is utterly disgusting and gruesome, but it is a rite of passage for every Iowa child, so I don’t stop them. I savor this intentional time as a family, but soon enough some kids wander onto our property followed by some adult neighbors with lawn chairs and drinks. The kids are off and running with their friends two seconds after the first chair is popped open.

As the stars come out, someone points out the big dipper and the seven sisters. A glass of wine is handed to me. A pan of lemon bars is passed around. I remember how, just yesterday, I stood in the cool garage of a neighbor as her eyes filled with tears and she said, “This neighborhood is the best thing that’s ever happened to us. It’s a dream come true.” 

The thing about dreams is they are the perfect version of a thing, not the reality. This neighborhood is a dream, yes, but it is also work and trust and letting go and leaning in and telling the truth and believing the best even when you can’t see it. There are moments when this neighborhood simply feels like too much.  Too much conflict resolution necessary, too much trust in others required, too much invasion of privacy. Yet here we are—willing and wanting to make it work even if it is imperfect. 

Every day we remind each other of what is true, of what we have, of what we are working for, of what is worth it and what is not. We forget, we forgive, we remember. Here we are sitting around a fire while the kids run and play, wild and safe and carefree. 

Guest essay written by Laura Wifler. Laura is the co-founder of Risen Motherhood and serves as the executive director and co-host of the podcast. She is the co-author of the best-selling book, Risen Motherhood: Gospel Hope For Everyday Moments, the author of To The Cross I Cling, reflections from a mother to a child with a disability, and of the award-winning children’s book, Any Time, Any Place, Any Prayer. Laura, her husband, and her three children live in central Iowa. You can find her on Instagram (@laurawifler) or at laurawifler.com.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.