At a house one block away, the grass looked like turf instead of something real, and diagonal lines ran through the weed-free growth, evidence of a meticulous mower. I had never seen anyone—neither living there nor working in the yard—but I imagined an elderly homeowner loving the lawn so much, he or she even used the kind of long-handled dandelion remover I’d seen advertised in home improvement store fliers. Cheery flower pots squatted on each side of the orange front door, colorful blossoms trailing from them. But this yard, bursting with curb appeal, was an exception in the neighborhood.
Attractiveness of a person’s residential property, as viewed from the street, matters, is the message we hear everywhere. If the outside is pretty enough, it may lure someone inside to take a look—and pay more for the place—if it’s for sale.
Two blocks away, Doris’s yard suffered. She appeared to be a collector of things, and maybe those things were claustrophobic, because they broke out of her house and spilled onto her lawn like they needed fresh air. A tipped over antique milk can, rumpled chicken wire, wood crates, a portion of an old wood fence, garden tools, and a bent screen door all lay in her back yard, the lawn jutting up like prairie grass around it all.
If a realtor rolled by, they would’ve cringed at Doris’s property. They would’ve advised her to freshen up her trim with several coats of paint, swap out her rusty mailbox for something new, and replace her damaged walk with new cement. But those things didn’t happen.
What did happen was Doris’s hard work in Mr. N’s yard day after day. She raked leaves, worked the weed trimmer, and mowed his lawn instead of her own, droplets of sweat rising on the mottled skin of her cheeks. I’d come out of our house and head to the car, and she’d set down whatever tool she was using and stroll toward me.
“How are those sweet girls of yours?” she said one time, dabbing her face with her sleeve.
“They’re good.” I abandoned thoughts of going where I needed to go and crossed the street to be closer to her. “They talk about you whenever they see you over here. They love you, Doris.”
She didn’t respond to my last sentence, but her face reddened, so I knew she heard it.
For the big holidays, Doris dropped off gifts for the girls on our doorstep: trinkets and candy in sparkly bags, plastic pumpkins, and heart-shaped boxes. So, who cared about the condition of her yard? We didn’t. Her life, like a delicious fragrance, scented our neighborhood.
Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.
Doris is gone now, but her actions stay lodged in our memories.
So, what if we turned our gazes inside out to see the goodness of the homeowner who rescues dogs, letting them rip up her back yard while they play? What if we overlooked the mess to see the generous parent who throws a party for kids who shriek in delight as they club a piñata in the front yard? What if we switched our focuses away from pretty façades and instead judged houses by the kindness inside them?
What if we looked at the heart too?
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.