Back in August I committed to walking my kids to school {almost} every day.

In theory, my decision was as small as it sounds. In practice, it’s a total game-changer.

I feel a little embarrassed every time I bring it up, mostly because I keep bringing it up. From where I stand, my morning hair hidden beneath a sock hat and my industrial snow boots laced up over leggings that are technically my pajamas, this minor tweak to my routine has been revolutionary.

For the first three years in our new neighborhood, we drove most mornings to the school two and a half blocks down the street. We’d creep past huddles of neighbors making the short trek on foot, holding hands in the fall and umbrellas in the spring, layered except for their eyes in winter.  These were the neighbors I wanted to love. These were the ones we came to know.

For whatever reason, it took three years for logic to click into place.

Sometimes, the best way to know someone is to simply walk with them, even if just for a block or two.

The implications of this small decision continue to ripple out well past my original intention. Yes, our walks to school have narrowed the gap between us and our neighbors. Now, instead of zipping past them in the pouring rain or scarcely noticing them when the sun filters down through the Maples, our feet touch the same ground. Our eyes meet. We say hello, and sometimes more. In fairness, though, it hasn’t dramatically changed my relationships with my neighbors in any profound way. At least, not yet.

The greatest point of impact is within the pulsing, yearning chambers of my own heart.

Every morning, by forced repetition, we step over the same curbs and pass the same, shy homes. There’s that awkward jog in the street where we look both ways before crossing to the other side. There’s the stretch of sidewalk that requires climbing crumbling stairs, and when we choose that path, our reward is buckled cement the color of dirt, tree roots popping up between the cracks.

I never really noticed the early morning clouds until this year. I never thought about the positioning of the moon just before daybreak, or the way I’m comforted by smoke curling out of thin, silver chimneys.

In order to love my neighbors more, I first had to know them.

And often, the surest way to know someone is to share their place, to choose it for yourself and feel the quiet ways it sets roots to your restlessness.

Tomorrow I’ll board a flight with my ten-year-old son, Calvin, along with two other bloggers and their sons. We’ll fly to Ecuador with Compassion International and spend a few days touching our feet to their earth, watching the distinct ways the sun and moon hang above them. We’ll share their food and meet their eyes. For a while, our paths will intersect by inches rather than oceans. And with any grace at all, we’ll carry that proximity back home with us. We’ll nurture our little seed of neighborliness, we’ll pass it around.

Last week, after dropping my kiddos off at school, I headed back home, dodging sidewalk ice slicks by moonlight. A car eased up beside me, its passenger window rolled down, and I saw the face of my friend Jose, a high school student and community activist, my neighbor. “Would you like a ride home?”

I hopped in and we chatted for two short blocks. I’ve thought a hundred times since then about the way he’s teaching me through his consistent gestures of kindness and peace.

That’s the alchemy of entrusting ourselves to one another. It binds us together. It humbles us.

God could show me the fullness of His kingdom and the depth of His love on his own, but He often prefers to use my neighbors.

I can’t begin to guess what I stand to learn from my Ecuadorian neighbors. I know it might look small and feel big. Either way, I’m excited to pass it along, and I’d be honored if you would meet me at the table.

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