Where The Sidewalk Ends

I love the mountains, while The Lady longs for the ocean. She was raised around Jews and Italians, me around Kansas farmers. I hate hot weather, she hates cold weather, and we both hate being stuck in traffic. We're both frugal conservatives who can't stand corruption and government waste . Our children are black (closer to brown, actually) and we love diversity.

Therefore, we chose to live in the western suburbs of Chicago, so that we could both be equally miserable.

For many people, buying a home involves a long search process. We looked at precisely 1 house and signed a contract within two weeks. About two months later, back in India, we awoke to the news that we were the owners of a 105-year-old home in Wheaton.

It was a counterintuitive choice. What could be more stereotypical than evangelical Christians moving to Wheaton? (My best friend's wife mockingly asked us if, "God told you to move to Wheaton," which is funny because I don't think God told them to move to the northern suburbs of Cincinnati). Four years before, The Lady had considered moving to Istanbul to help plant a church; we now owned a home in a community with somewhere close to a hundred churches. But refugees were increasingly settling in the area, we were familiar with the home and the sellers as The Lady had been their nanny, the location was amazing, and it made sense financially (given that we could rent out most of the house while traveling). We were married there and it was the only place that felt like home: a concept more foreign to us than cows wandering city streets, but for which we longed more than hamburger.

Upon finally settling into our home over a year later, our next door neighbor Bill asked The Lady, "Do you know why the sidewalk ends at your house?" We had never noticed that it did. Bill, who once served as the Chief Detective of our county and has lived in the neighborhood for decades, carries an air of gravitas born of a life marked by struggle and consistent perseverance. Any African-American man his age has seen more prejudice than most of us can imagine, but he rose above it all and carries not a tinge of bitterness. It's good that we have a black President, but I want my children to look up to Bill.

He went to on explain that our neighborhood was once the only place where non-whites could live in Wheaton. The city saw no point in putting in sidewalks - who would want to walk there? Besides, the neglected drainage system tended to flood the streets.

I confess to being shocked. Probably I am naive. But Wheaton was founded by abolitionists, and Wheaton College produced Illinois' first black college graduate. Apparently, at some point the radical faith of its founders was subsumed by standard suburban attitudes. Perhaps the fire simply dimmed, or perhaps the city's leaders ended up rejecting the social implications of the gospel during the fundamentalist-modernist battles of the 1920s. Regardless, it was not until after the Civil Rights Act of 1968 that the color line ringing our neighborhood was abolished. That line ran right past our property.

I also confess to being proud. We were not yet a multiracial family, but I was glad to know that our home was on inside of this nicer suburban version of a ghetto. It was like buying a share in someone else's rich history. And we felt more comfortable surrounded by those who had always been outsiders, than those who grew up with country club memberships. It also seemed fitting that we were on the border of two worlds, which in some way or another is how we've lived most of our lives as believers.

A year and a half later, as we prepared to adopt our African-American son, we realized it was truly providential that our home was across from the only African-American church in a community that is 84% white.

Sometimes The Lady dreams of buying a second home on Long Island where she was raised. But aside from practical considerations, such as the fact that we can't even afford to put a new lamp in our dining room, and that a pet penguin would be easier to maintain, it's not clear how much time we could even spend there and it's far from the mountains.

Sometimes I wonder if it would be smarter to move to Houston, where as a chemical engineer I could get 10 high-paying job offers within a week, and we could buy a Texas-sized brick house in a diverse neighborhood. We wouldn't even have to pay state income taxes. But The Lady would suffer traumatic culture shock, and apart from her resistance there is more to the good life than money.

If we ever left, I would miss the city of Chicago. I would miss our church even more, which has embraced us and changed us and through which we have encountered God. I would miss the friends who have witnessed our journey and stood by us in our darkest days. I would miss our home, packed full as a U-Haul with memories. But perhaps most of all, I would miss a small square of dirt in our backyard.

It was there, in a barren patch that had once been a garden, that we figuratively buried the 4 children we lost in the womb. If you acknowledge the biological fact that life begins at conception, then the appropriate way to deal with such loss is to hold a funeral. It was a short ceremony with no one else present, but on that day our open wound began to heal and our own insignificant patch of this planet became sacred.

One of our favorite songs is "My Father's Gun" by Elton John, featured on the Elizabethtown soundtrack. It's a strange choice because neither we nor our fathers own guns. And it's almost hilarious to hear a New Yorker singing along with lines such as, "It wouldn't do to bury him / Where any Yankee stands." (Same for a Kansan - we fought for the Union, thank you very much). But it resonates with something deep in our souls: that we have a legacy to carry, and that there is a place where we belong and thus other places - whatever their virtues - simply aren't home.

For us, that's here in Wheaton... where the sidewalk ends.