t's approaching midnight. Our ground-level apartment lies under a thick coat of darkness. The world seems perfectly peaceful, except for one little thing: The ceiling above us is shaking.

"What's going on?" I whisper to my groggy husband.

I can feel Chris glaring at the ceiling. "Our neighbors," he mumbles, "left their music on again."

I sigh and lie back in bed, wishing that our first shared home could be just a little more idyllic. Our hours together are already precious and few. Why do the goons above us insist on cheapening them with their incessant, ear-pounding "music"?

Well, OK. I admit that I've never actually met the goons above us. I've just observed them from a distance. And that's close enough to learn all the critical details.

"They've gotta be drug dealers," I tell my inquisitive friends. "All sorts of weird people go in and out of that place. Even the perkiest ones seem a little . . . dazed."

Speculations fly, and we continue to watch the neighbors all winter with a mixture of horror and curiosity. By the time we graduate from college and prepare to move on to the real world, we feel as if we know them—but of course, not well enough to drop in and say goodbye. And so, after three months of living a story away from these mysterious strangers, we leave without knowing their names.

Funny, isn't it? Funny—and kind of sad. We had the opportunity to meet these people, to share our faith with them, and instead we spent our time guessing as to which crimes they were most likely committing. I wish I could push back the clock and do things over again to alleviate the guilt I feel today.

But why should I feel guilty? After all, they lived there before we did. It was their job to make the first move. This mentality has followed me to our new neighborhood, where not even one person bothered to welcome us. I feel resentful about having to begin friendly overtures, so I've avoided this uncomfortable "duty" for months.

But what, in truth, is my duty? What is your duty to those intriguing people next door? The Bible advises us to avoid passing judgment on our neighbors first, before we bake them a Betty Crocker pie. "Do not pervert justice; do not show partiality to the poor or favoritism to the great, but judge your neighbor fairly" (Lev. 19:15, NIV). David reflects that those who slander in secret will be "put to silence" by the Lord Himself (Ps. 101:5, NIV). Even despising, according to Solomon, is a sin (Prov. 14:21).

But on the flip side, I must speak the truth in love, because empty flattery is equally harmful (Prov. 29:5). God calls us to more than just an outward show of affection. Thus, my culinary overtures of friendship might be better saved until I harbor genuine feelings of love for my neighbors.

In order to cultivate this sincerity I turn to the Author of love for inspiration. Somehow, despite the dust and disease covering His sinful neighbors, Jesus gave them the purest proof of His eternal love: His life.

Am I willing to do as much? Could I give of my own life to the woman next door whose children wail like broken auto alarms whenever they're bored? Could I sacrifice anything for the man whose dogs bark like bloodhounds in the wee hours of the morning? Do I even know the name of the couple across the street who have tangled with the law over domestic violence? Right now the answer to these questions is a shamefaced no.

But I believe that can change. If Jesus sacrificed so much for His neighbors; if He repeated "Love your neighbor as yourself" as the second greatest command in the Bible (Matt. 22:39, NIV); if He inspired Paul to say that love is the fulfillment of the law (Rom. 13:10); then the least I can do is make an effort to know my neighbors for who they are—real, hurting people in need of His grace just as much as I am.

And speaking of grace, did I tell you about the time I saw my neighbor fall flat on his face for no reason at all? I think he must have been high . . . Wait! I take it back! I'm sure there's some other explanation. Maybe if I meet him, I'll find it out . . .

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Sarah Coleman Kelnhofer lives in Rio Rancho, New Mexico, with her neighborly husband, Chris.