Some final (?) Abbey Court reflections

So where do things stand now? I feel like the sense of crisis—of things happening—has passed. We've reached the end of our news cycle. The management is being somewhat more relaxed about issuing parking permits—our upstairs neighbor got one for instance, the one I talk about in the essay you see in the post below this one. There are still a lot of resident cars in visitor parking slots, mostly unregistered vehicles, I suspect, or vehicles of people who are living with friends or family members here but who aren't on the leases. The volume of towing seems to have declined. I haven't witnessed any since the new ordinance went into effect, though I've heard of one case since then elsewhere in the complex. We're settling into life under the new regime, I guess.

If I can indulge in some Puritan-style introspection: As I've been thinking about my own anger in reaction to the parking controversy, it's occurred to me that this is hardly a significant injustice compared to, oh, let's say genocide in Darfur, which does not trigger me in the same way, though obviously it ought to. It's a question of proximity, I guess. This injustice, relatively small though it is, hit close to home. It didn't touch me, exactly, but it touched people around me.

Which brings me to another thought that came to me this week. As I was writing my essay (see the post below this one), I found myself frequently using the word "neighbor," which of course has scriptural resonances: "Love your neighbor as yourself." "Lord, who is my neighbor?" The thought that came to me is that the command to love our neighbor is more specific than just "Love others." It's "love those who are around you"—random though that proximity may be. I did not choose my neighbors here at Abbey Court. But once they are my neighbors, I am commanded to make their concerns my own, regardless of who they are. Because whoever they are, they are children of God and therefore my sisters and brothers. This isn't an original thought: Eugene England's written about this in the context of life in a Mormon ward—the spiritual family formed by the accidental proximity of living in the same geographical boundaries. But it's a realization that really hit home to me this week.

Another thought: I was very busy this past week, dealing with the Abbey Court situation in addition to other work I had to do. I spent a lot of time trying to do things about the situation. I was—yes, I have to say it—"anxiously engaged." But I also felt very powerless, which was not a pleasant experience. I console myself that experiencing powerlessness is a way of being brought to experience Christlikeness: the cross is very much about powerlessness. But that really isn't all that consoling, come to think of it. It's more like terrifying. The gospel is, in a very real way, a call to be powerless—to share the powerlessness of the poor, the suffering, the marginalized, the oppressed, the abused—even as the gospel is also an invitation to be endowed with power from on high. I generally prefer to emphasize the latter. But I was more conscious of the former this past week and a half.

I've been keeping up with the Book of Mormon reading—the war chapters—but I'll defer comments til next week. I look forward to taking the sacrament today. As ritual nourishment, that rite means the most to me at times when I feel spiritually hungry or worn out, which is how I'm feeling today.