The chronic case next door

I like to say, jokingly, that the house immediately to the left of mine needs an exorcism.  Let’s just say that most of my neighbors in that house over the last few years have been . . . interesting:

  • Tiger Woods wannabe, who thought it best to practice his (lame) game on my side of the lawn, rooting out clumps of my sod in the process and running a high risk of shattering someone’s windows.  It is a townhouse development, after all, not a golf course.
  • Manners-challenged real estate agent around the time of the Beltway sniper attacks in 2002, whose husband drove one of those white vans that people thought the sniper was driving.  Pulling into my driveway always left me a tad anxious.
  • Stripper and her boyfriend and his friend, dealing drugs.  Yes, stripper.  And yes, drugs.  I’ll spare you the gory details.   And there were many.
  • Ms. Fine, who subtly moved the boundary between the two houses and had home improvement projects in progress… at 1:30 a.m.  Yup, a.m.

So, let’s just say that the house to the left of me has had issues.



How do you handle chronic, recurrent cases of madness that make you uncomfortable?  Furious?  Weary?  Offended?

More often than we would care to, we all butt against  scenarios similar to the house next door that seems to attract a certain demographic:

  • The gossiper who has never met a person unworthy of character assassination.
  • The trail of amputated relationships that results from choosing the inappropriate person over and over.
  • The wasteland of frustrating jobs we soldier through.
  • The self-perpetuating affairs, drug/alcohol binges, bouts of rage and/or depression.

How do you find God in those “chronic cases” that are sandpaper to your soul?



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