By Birol Gökduman
I had this neighbor. Our buildings didn’t have clear boundaries, so sometimes my guests would park in front of what he claimed was his space. If they blocked the entrance, even for a minute, he’d lose it. Especially if the person was old or a woman–then he really got nasty. He was a professor, by the way. University. Supposedly an “educated” man.
One day, a friend of mine came over. Just for a few minutes. He left his car in front of that same spot. The neighbor showed up and started blasting his horn, over and over. I went out on the balcony to ask him to calm down. He gave me a hand gesture. You know the kind.
That was it.
I ran down the stairs. I was ready to let him have it. But my old friend from my basketball days—this huge guy—followed right behind me. The neighbor saw us coming and jumped in his car. Drove off like hell was chasing him.
I yelled after him till my throat hurt.
People came out onto the street. All of them are looking at me. I knew I was right. And I knew they thought I was right, too. He’d treated everyone the same. But still, I felt ashamed.
That night, I sat by the window until morning. Just sat there, staring at his empty parking spot. I figured he was scared. Parked somewhere else.
And then I started thinking. You talk about peace, miracles. You practice forgiveness—you even teach this stuff. What happened to you?
So I prayed. For him. For myself. To see a brother in him, not a threat. I do that sometimes. For hours if I have to. Until the weight lifts. It always does.
Funny thing is, after that night, he barely parked there anymore. Or maybe nobody bothered him. Either way, things got quiet. And little by little, I forgot about him.
Months passed. One day, I had this elderly woman over. I work from home. I’m a therapist. After our session, she said she felt dizzy. My building has steep stairs, so I held her arm and walked her out to her daughter’s car. It was dark out. I opened the door, helped her in, shut the door gently. Said goodbye.
Then I felt someone close.
It was him.
He looked nervous. Maybe he didn’t recognize me in the dark. Maybe I’d changed.
A municipal truck was blocking his space this time. He asked if I knew whose it was.
I didn’t. But I told him he could call the number on the door.
He hesitated. Said he didn’t want trouble again. Last time he called, there’d been a fight. The workers—tough guys—had roughed him up. So I called the number.
I felt something shift in me. Something soft. I couldn’t even explain it. The workers were chill about it. One of them came and moved the truck without any fuss. I helped the man park his car. He thanked me and walked off. Honestly, I wanted to hug him. But where I come from, that would be weird. So I didn’t.
A few months later, we moved out of that building. But until we did, I always kept an eye on his spot. If someone parked there by mistake, I’d let them know. Politely. I’d offer my spot instead. I don’t think he ever knew. We never spoke again. Just once, in the downtown market, our eyes kind of met. That’s all. But his spot was always clear.
After we moved, I started walking past that street sometimes. His place. Still empty. Maybe he moved. Maybe somewhere with plenty of parking. He’s older than I am. Maybe… who knows.
I still think about him. This man, whose name I never knew. And I feel… love. The kind you feel for a brother. Or an uncle. It’s still there.
Even now, I wonder—if someone had told me, “You’re going to make peace with the man you screamed at until your voice gave out. You’re going to love him”—I’d have said, “No way.” I wouldn’t have believed it.
I had a rough childhood. Poor. Military schools. Left the army before I hurt anyone. Got a degree in psychology instead.
Cruelty, arrogance—those things always hit a nerve. For a long time, anger was easy. Mercy was hard. But that night, as I walked the old woman to her car, I couldn’t shut off the love. It was overflowing. And he walked into it. Just like that. Something caught me. A trap. A trap made of love.
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How just are miracles! For they bestow an equal gift of full deliverance from guilt upon your brother and yourself. Your healing saves him pain as well as you, and you are healed because you wished him well. This is the law the miracle obeys: that healing sees no specialness at all. It does not come from pity, but from love. [CE T-27.II.7:1-5]
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