“You’re probably wondering why my bed folds in half like that.” Gus’s pale blue eyes peeked just over the top of his wire-framed glasses that are perpetually sliding down the bridge of his nose. “When my wife was sick, she had to sleep in a hospital bed, and there just wasn’t room to move around with both beds in there.”
Every day, I learn a little more about Gus. I knew from previous conversations that his wife had died a little over a year ago. He spent several years caring for her as her health declined. So much so that he didn’t realize his health was also slipping, particularly his multiple sclerosis. Now that she’s gone, he’s increasingly aware that his body isn’t cooperating like it used to. I know this because he mentions it on occasion, but it’s not what he says that tells the story. It’s his face- the pursed lips, the wrinkled brow, and the quick sigh of exasperation at what I can only assume feels like the ultimate betrayal—your body refusing to work with your will. All three were displayed within the first three minutes of my visit.
Today, we’re dropping off a bed for Gus. The twin-sized box spring, mattress, and bedframe rest precariously in the bed of my truck; about 3 inches too long to fully fit inside the truck bed, all three pieces hang just over the tailgate. Gus meets me in the parking lot outside his apartment, ready to assist. At 47 years old, I can load and unload a twin-sized bed all by myself, a point I mention in passing as I get out of the truck. Gus, per usual, ignores my offer, wraps his hands on the corner of the mattress and begins to tug and shimmy and grunt in an effort to pull it free from the weight of the bed frame that held it in place.
I know Gus hates to be given directions, so I keep my thoughts to myself. My dad was the same way at this age, but I think I understand more today than I did when my dad was here. Like my dad, Gus isn’t concerned about efficiency nearly as much as he is about his agency-his ability to use what he has, in this case his body, to create the life he wants. He’s perfectly content spending ten minutes on a two-minute task if it means feeling even a fraction of dominion over his life.
I lower the tailgate, grab the bed frame, and walk through his front door past his living area, which consists of a single chair, a TV tray, and a small television that rests on a plastic tote. Life isn’t about possessions, but his wife was an employee of a government agency for years. This picture doesn’t reflect the life he and his wife had built, but I expected that. The home where they spent their last few years of marriage belonged to his brother-in-law. Within a month of his wife’s passing, he was asked to leave so the house could be sold. He grabbed what he could fit in his little sedan and left. I can’t help but wonder if the years of advocating for his wife drained him of the energy to advocate for himself.
Just to the right of the living room chair rests his former sleeping situation: a folding metal box spring, a piece of plywood, and a worn-down mattress. I yell over my shoulder, “You moved all of this yourself, Gus?! Look at you, man!” I place the bed frame in the center of the bedroom, which also includes three plastic totes, a side table, and an alarm clock. I met Gus back at the truck; he had given up on the mattress and was now working on dragging the box spring out. I grabbed one side, and we walked it to his bedroom.
“Oh…well, that’s too low,” Gus said, looking at the bed frame.
“It’s definitely lower than what you had, but now you have the box spring. I think it will be pretty much the...”
Gus interrupts.“No, I won’t be able to get in and out of bed. We need to use the old bed frame.”
I replied, “Sure, it’s up to you.” With that, I leaned the new bed frame against the wall as he went out and rolled the old folding base back in. We set it up, added the box spring and the mattress, and looked at our creation—the mattress equivalent of The Tower of Babel. He would need a ladder to get in and out of bed.
With a straight face, Gus stood there, shoulders slumped, arms crossed, and said, “Hmmm, I think we should try the bed frame. What do you think?”
“Sounds like a plan, Gus.”
This conversation wouldn’t have been possible a few months ago. I didn’t know Gus, and I didn’t know any widowers, either. I might have had one conversation with someone in their seventies every month or so. Still, we decided to intentionally employ someone who was overlooked and under-resourced and now we have little adventures like this every day. Most importantly, it’s live-giving to both of us.
This, my friends, is the power of proximity.
The Gestalt’s Law of Proximity states that individual elements that are placed close to each other are perceived as belonging together. You see this law play out all around you. Stars in proximity become constellations; words become sentences and paragraphs. You see it in design. Your critical vehicle operating features, like the speedometer, fuel levels, RPMs, and warning lights, are located behind the steering wheel. In contrast, your non-critical features, such as the entertainment system or heat and air, are placed on the center dash console.
This plays out in our relationships, too. For example, you likely have work friends or a group you prefer to hang out with during work hours. You may even hang out with them outside of work hours. But, if you’ve ever left a job, more often than not, you leave those relationships too. The people didn’t change, and you didn’t change, but your proximity to each other did. That’s how powerful proximity is; it can literally end relationships we spend years developing overnight. (Note: A lot can be said about the power of depth of relationships, but that’s another blog for another day.)
The good news is that the opposite is true, too. Proximity can also create relationships overnight. The question for us all is whether we will accept the default settings that come with living in modern times or choose to customize those settings to create a better world. I’ll explain.
Our default settings for proximity are wealth or lack thereof. We live next to people with roughly the same earning potential as us. Our jobs are often organized by divisions, with salespeople on one floor and executives on another. Our cities are divided by income potential, which impacts our school funding, which means our kids experience the same issue with proximity. Basically, the proximity default is that we are surrounded by people who more often have the same economic status as us.
This matters so much more than we realize. Anyone who has ever had a politically charged conversation in the office breakroom can attest that while we may share the same economic status as our coworkers, we’ll often disagree on significant world issues like immigration, unhoused populations, or global conflict. We spend much time forming opinions about issues most of us haven’t directly experienced and feeling good about having the “right” take. But having the right opinion doesn’t change anything for anybody. It just makes us feel better about ourselves.
We live in a society that is quick to argue but slow to build proximity with our neighbors, who have so much to teach us. Our refugee neighbors, our unhoused neighbors, our immigrant neighbors, and our elderly neighbors can help us fact-check our reality in real time through the power of relationships.
Our opinions do a fine job of helping us to feel understood. But our relationships, particularly those with much different life experiences, help us to understand. Our relationship with Gus gave us a window into the life of an elderly man who lost his wife, and was now trying to navigate a world he didn’t recognize anymore. Technology was a barrier to receiving services, and that assuming he even knew what services were available. Our friend Ashley became a pseudo-case manager for him and helped him navigate services that created some financial margin in his life, allowing him to stay in his apartment and out of a shelter.
He comes to church with us when he feels like it. We’re collecting a few household items to make his apartment more comfortable. It’s nothing remarkable or noteworthy. It’s just the type of thing you and your friends would do if you happened to know a “Gus.” I genuinely believe that helping others is our basic human tendency. You likely do the same for the people in your circle.
The trick is hacking your circle with some “Guss, Gusi?” I don’t know…(choose your preferred plural for Gus). Let’s go back to the law of proximity. People placed closer to each other are perceived as belonging together. Society is quick to redline, zone, or gentrify our way out of proximity with the under-resourced. This is the default. We have to choose to create proximity with “the other.” When we do, we open up possibilities for our neighbors and ourselves.
Earlier, I mentioned it being life-giving to both of us.
Unbeknownst to Gus, he’s giving me a bit of a do-over. My relationship with my Dad wasn’t what either of us hoped for in his final years. I wasn’t as patient nor as gentle as I am now. When he just wanted to talk about the problems in his life, I tried to solve them, not understanding that he wasn’t looking for a solution, nor did he need one. He just wanted to connect, to be understood…and maybe not feel so alone. Being a listening ear and a gentler spirit around Gus is healing my heart and, in the process, healing my relationship with my Dad.
It’s a grand mystery I can’t begin to explain. I have far fewer answers than I used to, yet I have far more relationships that challenge my certainty - that make my opinions almost pointless. This space between me and my neighbor is where I find healing. It’s where hope speaks loudest. It’s where I’ll spend the rest of my days and hopefully meet many more of you, too. Some might even call it the Kingdom. For now, let’s just call it home.
✌🏼❤️