On a late Thursday afternoon a few weeks ago, my brother Luke showed up at my door with a bag of orchard apples from my grandparents (their love language). Spontaneous encounters like this are one of the many joys of living a mile down the road from your brother.
After chatting in the living room with my housemates for a few minutes, Luke asked if I’d like to take a walk around the neighborhood, and we headed out the front door, leaving my roommates inside and the door unlocked for our short excursion. It felt nice to wander alongside my brother, phoneless, walletless, keyless for a while, focused only on our conversation and the sidewalk in front of us.
We circled the streets surrounding mine, wandered into a shop to smell all the candles (we each got one–I paid Luke back later), and eventually found ourselves back on my porch.
I sensed it before I even tried the knob. It was locked.
“I don’t have my keys,” I told Luke. We knocked. We messaged my housemates through Luke’s Instagram. We called a friend who had their numbers. We knocked again. Finally, I told my brother to go home. I was familiar with the rhythms of my housemates, and I figured one of them would be returning from work shortly, assuming she didn’t stop for dinner or to catch up with a friend. “Annie will be back soon, I’m sure. And if not, I can always walk a mile down the street to your house.”
Phoneless and bookless, I lay on the couch in our enclosed porch as the unmeasured minutes passed. I listened to the leaves brushing against each other, watching the sun making the already-golden ones glow. A dog barked a few streets over, and another, closer by, responded. I noticed the contrast of white and deep blue on the house across the street, the man from a few doors down walking his dog, the remains of a DIY fence project a few doors down.
It had been a while since I’d had one of these moments—attentive both to my surroundings and to my thoughts. There’s always noise that fills up the gaps: the busyness I subject myself to (is overcommitment genetic?), music, conversations, phones. Phones. Phones.
It was beautiful to just be.
About thirty minutes later, Annie pulled into the driveway. I was glad she had arrived—but also glad she hadn’t come any sooner.
Perhaps you’re like me, living through a noisy stretch of life. Sit for a moment. Breathe. You’re alive. Isn’t that amazing?
Madeline Witvliet (’25) graduated from Calvin with a degree in English. She can be found in coffee shops in Eastown, exploring Michigan’s state parks, or singing with Calvin’s Alumni Choir. Madeline enjoys spending time outdoors, crafting, and cooking Mediterranean-inspired meals.
