Shelter in Place Protected My Nasty Neighbor and his Naked Friends

The divine lesson I should have learned long ago

The shelter in place guidelines contributed to the sickening scene outside my door. I needed a way to stop it.

A homeowner in my neighborhood kicked his 25-year-old son out of the house because of drug use and stealing from the family. The son moved into the garage and opened it to at least twenty of his buddies.

Since his friends came into the community, there’s been a rash of lawn equipment thefts. Someone cut two chains on our gate, broke into our garage, and stole weed eaters, a trimmer, blower, and lawnmower.

Before that, I woke up one morning to trash bags strolled across our backyard. Someone dumped the trash and stole the bins. A policeman found our trash containers at the nearby garage.

The garage resident and his visitors use their backyard and the alley as bathrooms.

Males and females relieve themselves on any grassy area. They don’t have toilet paper. But they wear masks, following Covid-19 guidelines.

Beneath the rays of bright sunshine, they disrobe, wipe themselves off, and hang their dirty wash rags on tree limbs. Exposed bums and foul odors have become the nasty norm.

To quote a neighbor,

“They are out there naked, where God and everybody can see them.”

Toothbrushes, filthy underwear, broken locks and latches, food, and plastic dime-bags litter the alley.

It gets worse.

All times of the day and night, horns blow outside the garage. The guy who legally lives at the address runs out with his pants sagging to his knees. He goes to the vehicle and “chats” for a few seconds. Then the vehicle leaves. Not long after that, someone else drives up and honks the horn. He goes to that car and “chats”. The cycle continues.

Concerned neighbors frequently report the problem. It’s common to see police cars at the house. At least once a week I see an ambulance there.

One day a fire engine stopped at my address. Wondering why, I rushed to find out. When I opened the front door, I saw a man on my front lawn. He looked dead.

Paramedics worked on him. They discovered he was high on K2 and “resting”. I asked the stranger if he came out of the nearby garage. He was too out-of-it to understand my question.

Even so, he had three choices. He could allow the paramedics to transport him to a hospital. He could wait for the police to transport him to jail. Or he could walk away. But he could not remain at my front door.

The trespasser chose the latter.

The following week, I called paramedics. A young lady was on my lawn in the fetal position, making intelligible noises. I tried talking to her, but when I spoke, her arm flailed violently.

Because of the monster-like sounds she made and the revealing, tracing paper-thin outfit she wore, I assumed she was from the garage.

In about three minutes, help arrived. Her problem? High on K2. She refused to go to the hospital. Police officers waited with her until someone came to take her home. Well, someone came to remove her from our lawn.

We deserve better than this

Although illegally living in a garage, you have never seen a happier group of people.

Early some mornings, loud yelps of delirium disturb my sleep. I peeked out a window one night and saw two men in their underwear, dancing beneath a street light. With arms extended, they took long horizontal leaps through the air as if performing The Nutcracker.

The shelter-in-place order provided a temporary layer of protection for the garage residents. The county government is trying to reduce homelessness, especially during the pandemic. Churches and safe havens also face an abundance of unforeseen challenges.

I tried to reach Code Compliance, hoping they could enforce policies. Evidently, that’s a nonessential city department. I talked to a police officer about it. She said they were well aware of the issue. I talked to an attorney about it. He empathized with me.

Everything I tried to do fueled my anger. Nobody could provide solutions or bring about changes I needed.

Where is my protection?

So, I bolstered my prayers, bumping them to another level.

I wielded my prayers like swords. Assault rifles. Sticks of dynamite.

Day-after-day, I stomped through the alley and along the street. Although I didn’t carry signs in my hands, I silently protested about how “those people” treated my neighborhood. I threw anointing oil around the garage until I emptied the bottle. My insides screeeamed.

After one of my protests, a guy from the garage approached me. I didn’t want him close to me, and Covid-19 had nothing to do with my attitude. With his head lowered, he murmured, “Ms., I don’t have anywhere else to go. I don’t have a mother or father. No family. I have nothing. I was living on the streets before I came here.”

I didn’t want to hear it. He and the rest of those garage people made it uncomfortable for everyone in the community. I wanted them to go! They could go to jail or they could go to hell. Just get out!

“God, I’m your child. I deserve better than this,” became my daily cry.

To my surprise, the harder I prayed, stomped, fussed, and cried, the worse the situation looked. More trash, traffic, nakedness, and putrid odors ravished my environment.

Devastated and out of ideas, I gave up.

I couldn’t fix the problem. I was tired of ranting, stressing, and protesting. My energy was too low for me to even wield my sword. Done. That’s it. I was totally finished.

Then everything turned around.

I woke up the next morning energized, knowing I needed to change.

Rather than fuming about people from the garage and the issues they created, I needed to exercise compassion. Rather than filtering prayers through hatred, I needed to pray with love.

The instructions to pray for my enemies came to my mind.

“They are not your enemies,” quickly followed.

Although it felt like they were enemies, I had to pray differently to pray effectively.

Instead of praying that they get out, I prayed that they encounter and receive God’s best for their lives. I changed my prayers from being all about me and what I don’t deserve to be all about them living good lives.

With compassion, I prayed that they get the help they need to get off drugs, that they find proper housing (with bathrooms), and get jobs. I prayed that mentors come into their lives to help them become productive members of society.

I even started waving and saying hello whenever I saw them walking pass my house.

When friends and family asked what was going on with the “garage people”, I expressed how my prayers changed. I told them I no longer prayed about them. I prayed for them the same way I’d want someone to pray for me.

“One of the most difficult things is not to change society, but to change yourself.” -Nelson Mandela

Darkness cannot drive out darkness

In the last four weeks, I’ve seen no police cars, paramedics, or people driving by for “chats”. I’ve seen no naked people in the alley or drugged out people on my lawn. The crowds of strangers left the neighborhood. And the son who was kicked out of the house has a job!

Prayer is indeed a powerful weapon. But I needed to use it properly. Matters deteriorated when I threw temper tantrums, calling them prayers. I experienced change when I wielded a sword of love and compassion.

Praying for people is much different than praying about them. Anger intensifies when you pray about people. But love blossoms when you pray for them.

It’ a hard lesson, yet it’s a lesson I’m glad I learned.

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” — Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

The people in the garage needed what we all can use more of today — love and compassion. How nice it would be for those traits to shelter in place always.