When Karen and I bought our second house in Van Nuys, California, back in 1978, the neighborhood threw a block party.

No, it wasn’t because we’d moved in. Our neighbors just wanted to hang out together. Wow! That surprised us. A similar party followed a few months later. The city gave us permission to close off both ends of the street, and the special gathering gave us a second opportunity to get to know our neighbors better.

Then, over time…

Some people moved away, and for those of us left behind, the thirst for connection seemed to evaporate. People began burrowing into their houses like Hobbits, except our street was nothing like the Shire.

Our closest neighbor right next door moved, and the new couple teamed with another new neighbor to try and block an addition we were planning to our house. That led to ugly feelings until both of those couples moved on.

It felt as though the neighborhood never really recovered, leaving most Miranda Street dwellers disconnected from the people around us.

Mind you, Karen and I were just as guilty of isolating ourselves as the others. We were raising children, pursuing careers, and trying to keep the home fires burning, as they say. Life gets in the way. Besides, we had plenty of good friends from church and other social outlets. No need, no time, for more people in our lives.

But looking back, I wonder if we just lost the art of knowing our neighbors. It’s awkward inviting virtual strangers over for a drink or some coffee. They’re probably just as busy as us anyway.

Somewhere along the way, we became connected to everyone through our phones, yet disconnected from the people living thirty feet away.

Eight years ago we moved from L.A. to a small town in the State of Washington—Poulsbo. A quaint Norwegian-themed town of 13,000, with July 4th parades, Tribute band concerts overlooking Puget Sound, and neighbors that go out of their way to welcome newcomers.

One month after we moved into our newly-constructed house, something unexpected happened on July 3rd.

While Karen and I were sitting on our deck, soaking up some sun (yes, itdoes shine in the Pacific Northwest), about a dozen of our new neighbors came marching up to the deck singing happy birthday. Somehow they got wind that my birthday was the following day.

We really didn’t know any of them, but one couple invited us to a neighborhood party to celebrate Independence Day. That couple has since moved to North Carolina, to our everlasting disappointment, but they remain among our closest friends in this new chapter of our lives.

Unfortunately, political differences and petty squabbles have crept into the middle of our little utopia and disrupted things for some. The art of knowing our neighbors (dare I say it, loving them, as Jesus exhorts us to do) needs some brushing up.

Still, the neighbor just below who sold us the property still delights in delivering a batch of his cookies or pumpkin bread whenever he bakes.

The neighbor from around the corner, a master in woodworking, made us a salad bowl, a sentimental favorite in our kitchen.

While on our favorite walk along the shoreline of Liberty Bay, a couple stopped us and introduced themselves because they hadn’t seen us before. Turns out, they go to our church and have since become beloved friends.

All of them, and other treasured friends nearby, have turned the art of knowing one’s neighbors into a life practice of loving those around them. We’re learning and living richer lives as a result.

So how do we practice this forgotten art?

Borrow a cup of sugar…not because you actually need it, but because a friendship just might begin. Years ago, neighbors routinely borrowed a ladder, a rake, jumper cables, or a cup of sugar. Today, many of us would rather drive to the store than knock on the door next door…convenience has replaced connection.

Venture outside…like people who used to sit on front porches in the evening. When kids rode bicycles until the streetlights came on, and adults talked over fences. You can’t know your neighbors if they never see you.

Be there to help during a crisis…suppose your neighbor’s husband is rushed to the hospital. Do you know them well enough to:

  • watch their children?
  • mow their lawn?
  • feed the dog?
  • bring over dinner?

Or would you simply hear about it weeks later on Facebook? Neighbors become a community before they become an emergency contact.

Learn names…and use them. Walk across the street. Say “Hi, I’m Mike. I don’t think we’ve officially met,” like our friends Larry and Ann did with us.

Dale Carnegie observed: “A person’s name is, to that person, the sweetest, most important sound in any language.”

I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a long way to go to master this art.

A closing thought: we don’t need to become best friends with everyone on our street. But perhaps we should know enough about one another to borrow a ladder, share a meal, pray for a sick spouse, celebrate a graduation, or simply wave by name.

Smartphone apps and government programs don’t build communities. People do. Communities are built on front porches, in conversations, and acts of kindness—one at a time.