There I was, peering out my kitchen window when I saw my neighbor cutting his lawn. I don’t talk to him much. His property is so big his house isn’t visible from ours. In fact, it was the first time I’d had an opportunity to speak with him … since his wife and teenage son were tragically killed in a car accident. We were out of town for the funeral. So, I thought it might be a good time to offer my condolences — and perhaps “minister” to him.

I walked out my back door under the guise of warning him about a bees’ nest near one of his trees. Then I told him I was sorry. He looked back at me replete in a strange peace. Then he told me the whole story. Frankly, it caught me off guard. The accident, the phone call, and the long trip he took to the hospital … alone.

But he wasn’t alone, he stressed. God was with him. I was alarmed at his answer. Perhaps I’d expected him to be completely broken. In fact, he was sad … lonely. But so confident was he that his loved ones were with God and that God was with him, he allayed the anguish that may have defeated most others. ­

He talked about all the support, love and unimaginable goodness that had been shown him by the community, his church, and the mission for which his wife worked.

I asked him how he could be so strong, so unwavering. It was then he told me about the conversation he had with God when he got “the phone call” — the one where he told God that the only way he could handle this was if something greater could come from it. Now, it appears as though those answers are in the works.

About the time I realized he was ministering to me, my kids ran out with a plate of cookies my wife had baked. They handed him the cookies. “Sorry for your loss,” they said. It was about then I nearly lost it. Here I was, looking at my “life” standing in front of me, putting on their manners for this man who had just lost much of his. And he had the wherewithal to tell me what God had done for him.

So often, I get it wrong. In the midst of my muddled life I tend to look at what God doesn’t do for me rather than what He does. And it reminds me of a discussion I had with my students about a Gospel reading a few weeks ago; the one about “having your lamps lit … being prepared … for you know not the day nor the time.”

We all agreed that the reading talked about being prepared for death. But I wonder if it couldn’t also be talking about being ready for … life. When we cloak ourselves with faith’s perspective, our eyes are suddenly opened to a world far greater than the here and now. I’ve heard it said before that religion isn’t only about getting into heaven; it’s about getting heaven into us. I hope I never have to endure what my neighbor did. But his testimony lit something within me that I too often and too easily extinguish under the weight of my oft-trivial groaning. Christ came so we might have life and life to the fullest. We needn’t wait for death to embrace that.

I said goodbye to him as he walked away with the cookies. Then I looked at my kids as they ran back into the house. And a small tear formed in my eye as I recalled a country song that underscores the journey we take when we become parents: “When I bow my head tonight, there’ll be no me, myself, and I, just watch my wife and kids, please, Lord. That’s all I ask for anymore.”

My neighbor is convinced that prayer is being answered for him. And here I was, thinking I would minister to him. Silly me.

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Paul Stuligross teaches theology at Livonia Ladywood High School and is a former police officer.