Every few years, a new app arrives promising to fix what feels broken in our neighborhoods. “Connect with your neighbors.” “Build community.” “Belong where you live.” Yet, many of us download these tools, scroll for a while, feel vaguely dissatisfied, and quietly stop using them. The technology isn’t broken—but our expectations might be. Back in 2022, I wrote a piece titled “Nextdoor Is Not Magical Neighboring.” The central point still holds: apps do not create trust, belonging, or community. People do. Technology can remove friction, but it cannot replace face-to-face connection. Still, the conversation has evolved, and so have the tools. Today, the more interesting question isn’t whether apps should exist to connect neighbors—but what kind of apps actually support real human connection, especially for people who experience modern life as overwhelming, isolating, or inaccessible. What Nextdoor Gets Right—and Wrong Nextdoor deserves credit for helping neighbors locate one another geogr...

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” is often remembered for its familiar carol refrain, but its deeper power lies in the tension it refuses to ignore. Written during the Civil War, after Longfellow’s own life had been marked by grief and loss, the poem does not begin with naïve cheer. It begins with bells ringing out a message that feels almost impossible to believe: “Peace on earth, good will to men.” Longfellow immediately names the disconnect many of us still feel today. He describes a world “blackened, cursed by hate,” where violence and injustice seem to mock the promise of peace. This honesty is part of what makes the poem enduring. It does not deny the brokenness of the world or the reality of division. Instead, it gives voice to the despair we feel when headlines, social media, or even neighborhood conflicts suggest that goodwill has gone silent. But the poem does not end there. The bells keep ringing. That persistence matters. The bell...

  Photo by Jym Wilson in the Springfield Daily Citizen There’s a verse tucked away in Jeremiah that feels especially timely for the world we’re living in today. The prophet writes, “But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare.” That line was spoken to people who felt displaced, frustrated, and far from home. In other words, to people a lot like us. The Israelites weren’t exactly thrilled about Babylon. It wasn’t where they wanted to be, and it certainly wasn’t what they had planned. Yet God didn’t tell them to withdraw, complain endlessly, or sit on the sidelines waiting for things to improve. Instead, He told them to get involved. Plant gardens. Build homes. Pray for the city. Care about the place you’re in, even if it’s not the place you’d choose. That message still rings true. It’s easy these days to criticize our communities—from school boards to city councils, from neighbor...

  Photo by Jym Wilson in the Springfield Daily Citizen Every so often a neighborhood dispute becomes so odd that it captures public attention. Recently, that happened in Springfield when a resident placed multiple toilet seats in his front yard —reportedly as a form of protest and self-described “artistic expression.” It made for a quirky headline and plenty of chuckles. But beneath the humor is a more important question: Is this what engaged neighboring looks like? I would argue no. Engaged neighboring is about building relationships, not winning arguments. It’s about connection, not provocation. And while toilet seats in the front yard may feel clever to the person installing them, they function less as conversation starters and more as conflict accelerators. There’s an important distinction between being an engaged neighbor and an aggravating neighbor . An engaged neighbor seeks to understand others, even when there’s disagreement. They look for ways to lower the temperature, n...

  There’s a disturbing clarity in watching The Perfect Neighbor — a 2025 documentary that has become one of the most talked-about films of the year. Told almost entirely through police body camera footage, 911 calls, and real recordings from Ocala, Florida, the film replays the fatal shooting of Ajike “A.J.” Owens, a 35-year-old Black mother of four, by her white neighbor, Susan Lorincz. What begins as minor complaints about kids playing in a backyard spirals into a confrontation that ended in death, incarceration, and national conversation about race, guns, and community.  Directed by Geeta Gandbhir and released on Netflix after premiering at Sundance, the film has been lauded for its unflinching use of real footage — no dramatic re-enactments, no narrated opinions — leaving viewers to sit in the uncomfortable space of witnessing a slow buildup of fear, resentment, miscommunication, and institutional failures.  As we watch arguments over noise, perceived trespass, and p...

In the past few years, discussion around “third places” has exploded. Sociologists, journalists, and everyday residents are rediscovering something our grandparents intuitively knew: we are healthier, happier, and more trusting when we have places to gather that are neither home nor work. These informal gathering spots — from coffee shops and bowling alleys to libraries, barbershops, convenience stores, and churches — once formed the backbone of American social life. Today, they are endangered. I’ve felt this decline personally. Several years ago, I committed to visiting a pizza café near my office for lunch once a week. I stayed afterward, hoping to read, talk with strangers, and build a sense of place. Most of the time, I was the only customer. Eventually, the café closed — and with it, the possibility of that space becoming my regular hangout. I moved to a convenience store but no one else ever showed up so I abandoned that options. I tried a local coffee shop and most days I was th...

  In a converted one-room schoolhouse in Thetford, Vermont, more than 40 neighbors squeeze shoulder to shoulder around a wooden buffet overflowing with goat-cheese crostini, fatback beans, and home-baked pies. Children dart between legs. Old friends embrace. Newcomers are welcomed as if they’ve lived there forever. And for a few hours each month, a community that has weathered industry collapse, population turnover, and cultural polarization becomes whole again. This monthly potluck in the Rice’s Mills Schoolhouse has been going strong for 60 years. The December 2025  New York Times story chronicling the gathering and it reads almost like a love letter to what America used to do naturally: show up, bring a dish, talk to strangers, and create a place where everyone feels like they belong. But the deeper lesson is not nostalgia. It’s a roadmap—one that rural Missouri is perfectly positioned to follow. Lesson 1: A Simple, Predictable Tradition Builds Belonging The Rice’s Mill...