Doorknob.

I had just returned from a trip to Nashville. As a church planter in urban Baltimore, I had a writing contract that provided for my family, and I’d spent a few days of meetings with my publishing company. I’d arrived home just in time for my wife to rush out the door to take our three girls to their music lessons. I hadn’t yet unpacked my bags, and the house still felt slightly unsettled. I had some follow-up work to do, and my computer was open on my lap as I sat on the bed in the front bedroom of our rowhome.

My three boys were beside me. We had one iPad, and they were taking turns playing their favorite motorcycle racing game. As one played, the others couldn’t resist sharing their opinions about how to find success. They struggled with being a little bossy. And they were a lot loud. So I had my earbuds in while I worked.

I always listened to music while I wrote. I had no office, so I often worked in cafes or other public spaces. As a church planter, we didn’t have our own space, and as a family of eight in an 800 square-foot rowhome, there was certainly no space for a home office. I’d learned to focus best while listening to Beethoven sonatas, or the Tedeschi Trucks Band, or my favorite hip-hop. The music from the earbuds served to protect my mind from distractions, but there was a noise outside that was loud to the point that it wasn’t drowned out by my playlist. We lived in the city, and noisy neighbors was nothing unusual. Sound is constant and discernment becomes instinctual. I half heard the noise, and let it pass. I looked back to my screen.  It got louder, so I jokingly shouted, knowing my words wouldn’t pass the window (but maybe I’d get a chuckle from my boys), Keep it down! I know this is the city, but this is a little much!

The noise didn’t stop, so I pulled out one earbud, still assuming it was nothing more than people cutting up on the sidewalk. There is a point where ignoring something becomes an act of will, where you are no longer passively overlooking it, but choosing not to see it. I’d come to this point, so I stood up and walked to the window. From the second-story bedroom, the view opened directly onto the sidewalk and the narrow street beyond it, cars parked tight along both sides. Everything was as it always was, except for my neighbor, Nico.

Every Baltimore rowhome has what is known as a stoop, 3 marble steps that lead directly from the sidewalk to the front door. They’re a passage of sorts, leading from the turmoil of out-there to the security of in-here. My neighbor hadn’t, that day, traveled that passage, into his, or any, home. Literally inches from my stoop, he was facedown on the sidewalk.

Kelly and I had moved our family into a neighborhood where we were the minority. Having grown up in rural Alabama, not only am I a native English speaker, but one with a pretty long drawl. In our neighborhood, I was something of a foreigner, not only because I was a Southerner living in the North, but further because we lived in a primarily Spanish-speaking neighborhood. Nico was a hard worker who spoke only broken English. I’d passed him on the sidewalk a thousand times, and spoken with him as we both were able. As the situation would allow, I knew him.

But on this day, I struggled to recognize Nico. Context frames the way we see reality, and this was a context for which I had no category. He was in a bright yellow shirt. He worked construction, and his company required it for safety. But many of the hardworking men in our neighborhood worked the long hours required by construction jobs, and as I stared, shocked, out my bedroom window, I didn’t know who was facedown on the ground. What was clear is that a neighbor was facing the crisis of their life.

Two men stood over Nico, both masked, one wildly kicking him in the ribs while the other held a gun pressed into the back of Nico’s head. There’s a lot about the scene I don’t remember. I do remember this. I turned to my three young boys, who were on the bed, still absorbed in the game, still being bossy, and wholly unaware. With more force than was necessary, I said, and they looked up immediately, Do not move! Do not get out of bed! Do not look out the window! No matter what! They were closer than they knew. If they didn’t process the words, they certainly felt the tone. They didn’t ask questions. With tablet light continuing to flicker on their faces, the boys didn’t move.

I left the room and hurried down the stairs, not running, not slowly, but with a kind of urgency that keeps the body from tipping into panic. I reached the front door, and grasped the interior knob. It was worn and slightly loose. We were in the city; I probably should have repaired that. I paused. Standing in the small entry space to our rowhome, I had a decision to make. If I open the door, there’s a real chance I’ll be shot. The thought came without drama or exaggeration, but as a fact that required no interpretation. If I don’t, and Nico is shot, I’ll carry that for the rest of my life. Both were true at the same time, and there was no time for resolution.

I opened the door.

As I stepped outside, hands raised, the noise stopped. For a moment, there was no kicking, no screaming, for the attention of the two masked men had turned squarely to me. The one with the gun removed it from Nico, swung his arm toward me, stopping directly in front of my face. Through the mask, I could see his eyes. Nothing within me felt calm, but I knew at least an air of calm was essential for this moment. Precision. Restraint. I’d lacked both of these in many ways and as a pattern throughout my life. Lord help me.

Hand still raised, as calmly as I could, I spoke. Take what you want. My voice sounded more steady than I felt. Take his wallet, his keys, whatever you want. Just let him come inside. Neither of the men said anything. Just let him come inside, I repeated. With the second request, the men acknowledged me with their actions. The one with the gun, eyes still on me, lowered his weapon. The other rummaged through Nico’s pockets, took his wallet and keys, and said two words. Get up. Nico didn’t move at first. The turn of events didn’t seem real. But when it registered, he rushed inside my house. I locked the door.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. I remembered the boys were still upstairs, so I bounded up and to the bedroom to find them staring out the window. Normally, I would not have been happy. This time, I understood their being unable to resist the pull of their curiosity. My oldest son looked at the window, then back at me. Is everything okay? I didn’t know how to answer. I knew they were one window away from seeing something indescribable. Maybe we all are more often than we’d like to acknowledge. I told the boys to stay there and went back down.

Nico was in the living room now, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. He was clearly shaken. You okay?, I asked. He understood me, and nodded, unconvincingly. I got him a glass of water, and he drank it slowly. There was no blood, but I was sure severe bruises were already forming under his yellow shirt. Not much more was said.

I called 911, and Nico and I watched the criminals out our large front window. With the stolen keys, they tried to start Nico’s car, but he’d been having engine trouble, and unsuccessful, they ran away. Before the police arrived, with the men gone, Nico and I stepped outside, and I watched him walk three doors down to his family’s rowhome. I noticed that faces, people I knew, stared at us through many of the windows on our street. Some, peeking through curtains, others staring, struck by the drama.

It was clear that they’d been drawn by the noise and watched in curiosity. It wasn’t hard to imagine why they’d all chosen to remain inside. I felt a surge of anger as I realized how many had been watching. As I scanned the faces in windows, some stared back at me, mouths wide, and others turned away. One looked at me for the briefest moment, then disappeared behind a curtain.  The street was as quiet and still as usual. It was strange how quickly everything returned to what it had been.

Neighbors talk. The Lord knows that my boys talk, and everyone had an opinion on the stories they heard. Many would speak of me with the language of courage, or risk, or hero. I’m still working through what I’d call it. Somehow, it sounds much clearer outside than it feels inside.

I do know this. I remember the door. The pause. There was a moment where nothing had yet been decided, and yet something in me was already moving toward an outcome I could not fully explain. Not the action itself—that part is simple enough—but the sense that not opening the door was not something I could live with, even though, technically, it was an option.

People say moments like these reveal who we are. I’m not sure this is right. At least not entirely.

It may be that times of crisis reveal not so much who we are, but who we cannot bear to be. The things we can’t imagine ourselves carrying into the future. Some decisions aren’t as much about what we wish to avoid in the immediate sense as they are about what we wish to avoid once the moment has passed.

That night, the boys slept fine, and Nico was home with his family. The street outside was normal, at least according to our urban Baltimore standards. There was no visible sign of what had happened. But I’ve had trouble finding a clean resolution to the moment. I’m learning to accept that there likely is none. When I return, in my mind, to the place of holding the knob, where two futures existed at once, one, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, was never truly an option.