Remember Mr. Rogers? My brothers and I grew up watching him chant about the neighborhood in his little cardigan with a sing song voice. "Would you be mine....won't you be mine? Won't you be my neighbor?" Poor thang was the butt of many a joke, but I still think his philosophy was a sound one. Take care of your neighbor, whatever it takes.

I had the distinct privilege of growing up in an integrated rural community in the fifties and sixties. Long before the government decreed integration in schools, I was playing with black children who lived alongside me on the farm. Their heritage was here too and they didn't have an entitlement sort of attitude. They were my equals because the farm was split right down the middle between our families in stewardship of the land. The asphalt road that divided us did nothing to interrupt the spirit of community that united us. Most of us have held onto our pieces of the pie and moved back to the homeplace.

Mozella is currently our mayor. She is one of the last surviving from the generation that thrived here for years. Her kids and neices and nephews line the road, claiming their own little piece of paradise just as I do. After all, it's all just loaned to us by the Big Guy. Her husband Earl used to make the country sausage that we enjoyed at Christmas breakfast. She and I worked together for years at the hospital. I was envious on summer days and nights when their entire family gathered around the BBQ pit to dance and eat and play.

"Who is my neighbor?" asked the lawyer of Jesus. "The one who showed him mercy. Go and do likewise". That is what we have done, as a country, this past week. Regardless of who is at fault or who is to blame, we have pulled together and made it happen. Imagine what we could do if we did that before the storm?