You know that neighborhood.
Christmas light arches stretching down the street. Cul-de-sac parties. Fourth of July hot-dog extravaganzas. A neighbor gets sick and suddenly there’s a meal train, a lawn-mowing rotation, and three women named Susan handling logistics.
“How lucky,” we think. “How magical to live somewhere like that.”
Meanwhile, our most meaningful neighborhood interaction this month involved asking whether anyone else’s trash had been picked up.
I used to think wonderful communities happened through real estate kismet. Some people bought a house and got lifelong friends and emergency casseroles. Others got neighbors whose garage doors closed before they could wave.
Apparently, you cannot Zillow-filter for “neighbors who will become emotionally invested in your well-being.”
But after eight states, eight homes, and eight different neighborhoods, I’ve learned that community isn’t automatically included in your rental agreement.
People create it. Someone sends the text. Sets out the chairs. Organizes the hot dogs.
The magic has a sign-up sheet.
Early in my adult life, I was a community consumer.
What was there for me to do? Where were my people? Why hadn’t someone organized something fun, preferably at a time convenient for my schedule?
I approached each new place like a hotel guest inspecting the amenities.
Excuse me. I requested the package with friendship and snacks.
Over time, I learned to participate - to attend the moms group, run the Turkey Trot, volunteer at school and say yes to invitations, even when putting on real pants felt like a significant personal sacrifice.
Showing up matters. Every person who organizes something hopes someone else will come.
But our move to Kwajalein, a tiny island in the Pacific, taught me I could also give people something to show up for.
When we left Texas, I was worried. We were leaving a life many people spend years trying to build: a beautiful home, good schools, a great church, fantastic friends, and neighbors I knew and liked.
Mostly. There’s always one.
We sold our house and cars and flew to the other side of the world. A perfectly reasonable plan, provided you didn’t think about it too much.
What we found on that tiny curve of coral was a thriving community. Neighbors helped neighbors. Everyone knew everyone - and a little more about the personal lives of everyone else than most people preferred.
There were sports leagues, book clubs, pottery classes, running groups, theology discussions, fishing, scuba diving, and actual community talent shows.
Grown adults voluntarily performed in front of people they would have to see at the grocery store afterward.
Courage comes in many forms.
The shared understanding was simple: if you wanted something to happen, you might have to make it happen yourself.
There wasn’t another town down the road. No entertainment committee was coming to rescue your weekend. Somebody had to start the thing.
And “somebody” was often the person staring at you in your bathroom mirror.
Was it perfect? Absolutely not. Human beings were involved. Eventually, someone would have strong feelings about how the talent show was run.
But people created things anyway. Waiting for someone else didn’t fill the social calendar.
That’s the difference between a community consumer and a community creator.
A consumer asks, “What does this place offer me?” A creator also asks, “What could I help make happen?”
Same place. Different question. Potentially more folding chairs.
On Kwaj, I discovered Advent Windows. Households decorate a street-facing window, often with tissue paper to resemble stained glass. Each evening from December 1 through 24, another window lights up. Neighbors walked or biked around, admiring the windows and counting down to Christmas together.
As a crafty person, I loved it. As a community builder, I was obsessed.
A reason to connect with your neighbors without making an appetizer, cleaning a bathroom, or explaining the condition of your kitchen?
A flawless concept.
When we moved to New Mexico, I brought the idea along, called it Christmas Countdown Windows, and invited our sleepy missile range to join me.
The neighbors jumped in. We filled the calendar and had enough to double up some nights.
Plenty of people wanted to participate. They were just waiting for someone to give them something specific to say yes to.
Now we’re in Colorado, and I’m trying again.
This time, it’s harder. There’s no easy, central way to reach everyone. Facebook posts wait for approval, then disappear beneath posts selling used sneakers and scuffed kitchen tables. Apparently, community building is no match for a reasonably priced sectional.
One week in, we have eight houses signed up.
I would love twenty-four. I’ll keep inviting and encouraging. But if we end up with eight, we will light up eight windows.
Eight households will have created something that wasn’t here before. Neighbors will have a reason to take a walk, say hello, or stop for a conversation.
Eight windows may be fewer than twenty-four, but they’re eight more than we’d have if I waited for someone else.
You don’t have to become your neighborhood’s unpaid cruise director to help build community.
Start with one thing you would enjoy. “I’m taking a walk Saturday at nine. Meet me at the end of my driveway if you’d like to join.”
That’s an invitation people can answer. “We should organize something” has been circulating in neighborhood chats for years. It has yet to produce a single hot dog.
Invite help, too. Having the idea doesn’t obligate you to supply every snack, chair, and extension cord.
Some efforts will catch on. Others won’t. You can adjust or try something else. You’re trying to connect with your neighbors, not auditioning for Mayor of Christmas.
Those communities we envy are created when someone makes an invitation, someone else shows up, and eventually more people jump in to help.
Even if you’ve lived on your street for years and know your neighbors only as “golden retriever guy” and “the good Halloween candy house,” it’s not too late. The community we dream about is worth a little awkwardness.
I still want to live in a neighborhood where people show up, have fun, and take care of each other.
I’ve just stopped assuming someone else is entirely responsible for creating it.
This holiday season, I’m starting with eight windows.
What’s one thing you could start where you live?
