By Heather Palacios
Back in the early 2000s, on a Friday night, my husband Raul and I went out to dinner—most likely sushi, because back then we were deep in our sushi-obsession phase. As we headed home and turned down our street, Raul slammed on his brakes when he saw a man stumble out into the road. The man collapsed, then managed to crawl to the other side, where he started convulsing in the gravel and grass.
He was small in physique and, judging by his weathered countenance, middle-aged. His hair was mangled with dirt and grass. His clothes were too big for him—ragged and dirty.
Raul and I didn’t communicate a plan. I don’t even recall us saying anything at all. I think instincts took over. While Raul pulled over, turned on his hazards, and dialed 911, I got out of the car and went to the man. By now, his seizure-state was erratically escalating as he kept trying to stand.
With my limited Spanish and my very limited first-aid knowledge, I crouched next to him and said, “por favor, siéntate” (please, sit) and “ayudaremos” (we will help). It was a sporadic, chaotic scene swirling around us when I happened to glance across the street from where this man had crossed. I saw someone standing at their front door watching us—then turning around, going back inside, and shutting the door.
Within minutes, EMTs arrived, along with his landscape partner who had been out looking for him, and another young adult who we later learned was the homeowner’s son. As EMTs implemented protocol, Raul and I learned through their urgent questioning that these two men had been outside all day in the Florida heat doing work for the homeowner—which, if you live in South Florida, is hardly uncommon but can be brutal.
The homeowner’s son offered one piece of information to the EMTs that felt to me equally callous and heartbreaking: the homeowner had seen this man have a seizure earlier but didn’t take any action.
Twenty years later, it has not passed me that I learned something that day. As I reflect on all the players in the scene, there is one role I don’t want to play.
The helpless man on the side of the road? No. Because in one way or another, we have all been that man. We have all gone through something that rendered us helpless and in need of help from another.
Rather, I don’t want to be the person who closes the door.
The bestselling book of all time contains a verse I’ve heard many times, can often recite, but have been guilty of not applying: love thy neighbor. What fascinates me about this verse is that it offers no descriptors of “neighbor.” By its overwhelming general nature, I can only conclude that my neighbor is anybody—everybody.
My neighbor is me, and how I hope someone would treat me if I were helpless on the side of the road. I never heard what happened to that man, but I hope today he is okay. And I hope this encourages all of us to love our neighbors.
Bio:
Heather is married to Raul Palacios, one of the pastors at Church By The Glades. Together they are raising two sons in Coral Springs, Florida. She is a graduate of Judson University with a degree in Business Management. Heather is a multiple suicide-attempt survivor who believes if you wake up breathing, that’s your proof to keep going.