Freddie* stopped me as I unloaded my groceries. Do you have a second, he asked, just outside my backyard gate. I’m sincerely sorry from the bottom of my heart. I want to apologize to you and your husband. I said some mean things to him last night. Freddie was wearing a black t-shirt and baggie jeans. He was wearing a silver cross necklace and he smelled like wintergreen mouthwash. He had several multi-colored earring studs in both ears and his bald scalp and neck were covered in tattoos. You are my friends and I love you guys.

The night before, just before dinner, we heard Freddie. The sounds were coming from his efficiency apartment just beyond our backyard. He was yelling and breaking things. We heard a woman, his girlfriend, Sylvia*, crying. At first we watched and then when we saw the window breaking, my husband fled out the back door and over to Freddie’s apartment. As soon as Freddie saw him he yelled at him, Get the f**k outta here!  My husband retreated and returned home not wanting to aggravate the situation. Other neighbors tried to intervene and calm him down by yelling at him, shaming him, trying to reason with him, swearing at him. He was highly intoxicated. Sylvia gathered up a few belongings and left. The police were called. He was compliant and respectful and they left after telling him to cool off for several hours. We heard very little the rest of the night except for his door slamming every time he threw another plate or beer bottle or more of Sylvia’s things out of his apartment and into the alley. 

Inside the safety of our home, less than 100 feet away, our hearts broke for Freddie. Just a few months prior he had gifted me with a broken lava lamp from his apartment when he learned it was my birthday. He had helped my husband mulch our small urban backyard. On occasion, he had cooked us arroz con gandules. Now we could hear him sobbing. All night he wept. 

Standing by my car, I put down my groceries and let him finish. Then I slowly and quietly said, We knew you were hurting last night. We knew that was not the Freddie we know and love. He paused letting the words sink in. There was no shaming. There was no corrective action. There was only love. His eyes filled up with tears and the dark, faded neck tattoo on the skin over his Adam’s apple rippled as he swallowed hard. He wiped the tears from his eyes and in a barely audible whisper said, Thank you. I wasn’t right in the head last night and that will not happen again. He leaned in for a full hug and I threw my arms around him. 

He walked back to his apartment. And I finished unloading my groceries. I carried the ingredients to make haroset into the house. In a few hours I would take it to the Bible Foods dinner we have every year at church during Holy Week. Haroset represents the mortar the Jewish slaves used while in captivity in Egypt. It is served during Passover which was two days away. And I thought about Freddie’s slavery to alcohol and the violence and pain it causes him and others. 

And I thought about foot washing and how Jesus spent his last days on earth with his betrayer. What would Jesus say the morning after to the neighborhood drunk who broke windows and screamed at his girlfriend if he accosted Him as he unloaded His groceries? I considered Freddie’s repentance and earnest apology. His tears running down his tattooed neck. 

It was Maundy Thursday.

And I chose to hope Freddie would be my neighbor a little longer. I hoped he would play his reggaeton until late into the night this summer. I hoped he would help my husband mulch again and chat by the back gate. And maybe, just maybe, he could be with me someday in paradise. Forgiven. And free from the slavery of his addiction. 

*names have been changed 

Deborah M., LPC

Lancaster, PA