I sank down in my canvas camp chair at the end of the driveway, our new home—our first house—looming behind me. A folding table with snacks and drinks sat a few feet away. What if no one shows? Upstate New York was quite different from my native South Africa. Maybe people thought it was strange for us to throw our own welcome party. I stared at the two sloping sections of the corn hole game I’d set up. The whole thing suddenly felt embarrassing. How long should I sit here, I wondered, before packing up?
The idea had come to me the day we moved in, literally as we turned down our new street a month earlier, in June 2021. With each basketball hoop and swing set we passed, my excitement grew. Families! I could picture us all hanging out together. At last, a real community, something I’d been searching for since moving to the United States after law school.
“Let’s invite the neighbors to a get-to-know-you party!” I announced to my wife, Sarah, and our 11-year-old twins, Olivia and Holly, as we pulled into the driveway. In retrospect, perhaps I’d gotten ahead of myself.
In Cape Town, where I grew up, our whole neighborhood would spill outside in the evenings to socialize, kids and adults both. There were no fences, no sense of where one family’s yard ended and another’s began. People set out long tables. My father grilled fish, enough to share. A neighbor offered biltong (similar to beef jerky) and biscuits. Mom handed out juice boxes, and all of us kids grabbed for our favorite flavor, lychee, a sweet tropical fruit.
One night, I stayed outside after the other kids had gone home. I sat on the grass and listened to the adults talking around the fire. An amazing feeling wrapped around me, a sense of belonging to something bigger than my family. Of being blessed to have neighbors I could depend on if I ever needed anything.
It was like my godparents, Benny and Joyce, said. They were always looking out for their neighbors, watching kids, fixing a broken-down car. “Following Jesus starts with the house next door,” they told me. That stuck with me. A belief in longer tables, not higher fences.
In 2005, I took a break after my third year of law school in South Africa. I found a job at Wanakee, a summer camp in New Hampshire, drawn to its mission to help people grow in their faith and share God’s love. That’s where I met Sarah, another counselor. The next year, I got invited back. Sarah and I spent more time together. We fell in love and decided to make a life together in the U.S. after I finished my degree.
My parents were happy for me yet concerned that I’d miss our family and our close-knit community in Cape Town. But I figured I could make friends anywhere. In 2007, I landed an internship with an investment firm. Two years later, Sarah and I married and moved to upstate New York. I passed my licensing exams to be a financial adviser. Sarah worked in finance too. We rented apartments, saving money for a house, a dream that felt more important after Olivia and Holly were born.
When the girls were seven, we rented a small duplex, hoping it would feel more like a home, with neighbors we’d become friends with. What we didn’t realize was the neighborhood was made up of renters who came and went. It wasn’t the kind of place where people planted roots. The woman who shared our duplex was older and cared for a disabled son. We were friendly but didn’t socialize.
The people in the house behind us fought constantly. We could hear them arguing from inside our duplex. Sometimes I stared at their door, thinking of my godparents’ advice that following Jesus starts with your neighbors. But I couldn’t find the courage to knock and ask if there was anything I could do.
At last, in late summer 2020, Sarah and I had a big enough nest egg to look for a house of our own. We toured a dozen homes, but none felt right. One night, I was looking at listings online when I found a split-level that was appealing. “I think we should check it out,” I told Sarah. The next day we went to see it. We drove down a street named Whitney Drive.
“Look at all these trees,” I said. There were swing sets, children outside playing, bicycles in driveways, people working in their yards—yards that ran one into the next. I wasn’t surprised that the house itself was just as welcoming. It was as if God was saying, This is the one!
I’d been reading a book about the importance of creating strong neighborhoods. The author encouraged spending time in the front yard, where neighbors could see you, of nurturing relationships with the people on your street. I knew from our experience at the duplex how easy it was to close yourself off. The thing I hadn’t understood as a kid in Cape Town was that neighbors didn’t mix together by magic. Someone had to be the first to step out in faith and open up.
All that was on my mind the day we moved into our house on Whitney Drive. I wasn’t going to wait around for neighbors to reach out. That’s why I’d blurted out my idea right there in the driveway. Sarah and the girls were all for it.
Now, a month later, here I was at the end of that driveway, sitting in my camp chair, having serious second thoughts. Would it have hurt to wait a couple more months to hold a get-together? Actually get to know a few folks first?
Sarah rearranged bags of chips and popcorn in a basket she’d set out. “I hope we have enough,” she said. Was she just trying to make me feel better? Olivia and Holly tossed the beanbags to pass the time. A week earlier, Sarah had designed the invitations: Hello! We’re new to the neighborhood. The Sprout Family. We’d love to meet you. Monday, July 5, anytime between 6 and 8 p.m. We’d wanted to keep it simple, so no RSVP.
She and the girls had gone house to house, putting an invitation in each of the 12 other mailboxes on Whitney Drive. But we hadn’t heard a word since. Wouldn’t at least one family have told us they were coming? I checked my watch. 6:10. Maybe I’d misjudged. Maybe this was a keep-to-yourself kind of neighborhood.
Sarah had had her doubts a few days earlier. I noticed her looking out the window, her brow furrowed. “What if we look silly sitting all alone in our front yard?” she said. “What if no one shows up?”
I put my arm around her and drew her close. “We have to have faith,” I said.
Where was my confidence now? God, let us be a blessing today, I asked. Help me to be the kind of neighbor I want to have.
I slid two bottles from the cooler I’d stocked with juice boxes and cold drinks. Sarah and I clinked them together. “To our new neighborhood,” I said.
Another 10 minutes dragged by. Down the street something caught my eye. A couple pushing a baby carriage. I slid to the edge of my seat.
“Someone’s coming!” Holly and Olivia called out, jumping up and down.
Was the couple coming? Or just out for an after-dinner stroll? I watched until they crossed the street. And headed our way. I sprang out of my seat and practically ran to them. “Hi! I’m Clem. Thank you for coming!”
“I’m Kyle,” the husband said. I gave him a fist bump. “And I’m Emily,” his wife said. I peeked into what I now saw was a double carriage. Two babies smiled back at me. Twins! Already we had something in common.
The tension released from my body. More neighbors came. A young family. An older couple. A single woman. They kept arriving all night. Twenty people altogether.
“This is such a great idea,” I overheard someone say. “I can’t remember us ever having a neighborhood party.” Other neighbors introduced themselves to each other.
We met our next-door neighbors, Jim and Jenny. They were so friendly and genuine, it was as if we’d known each other for years. “If you need anything at all, let us know,” Jim said.
Olivia and Holly were running around with a group of kids, crossing into neighbors’ yards as if they were one giant field. For a moment I just watched, taking it all in.
Everyone stayed well into the evening. Had they all been longing to connect without even realizing it? I’d hoped for a chance to meet a few neighbors, but it felt as if we’d been part of something much bigger. All of us part of God’s family.
I started a Facebook group called Whitney Drive Shenanigans to organize future get-togethers—like a marshmallow roast we hosted one chilly October evening, with 100 percent attendance. Jim and Jenny have become close friends. Folks drop by just to say hi. Those are my favorite moments. Upstate New York is a long way from Cape Town, but I’ve learned that it’s not a place that builds community but the people. People willing to do something daring: Love their neighbor.
For more inspiring stories, subscribe to Guideposts magazine.
