Baggage That Comes from Asking for Help: A Shana Story

To be a Schoone is to be strong, independent, and hard working. Overall, I am super grateful for these values being passed down to me. But it's come to my attention that sometimes it's hard for me to ask for help or accept help because of them. Back in 2023, life made it a point for me to learn a new way of life. Overall, it was a really good year for me as this was the year I really started to find community in San Diego even though I moved there in August of 2021. However, that community came at the price of me isolating myself from the world both physically and emotionally. Life cornered me into positions that left me with no other choice but to ask for help. 

There is one particular occasion that I will never forget. One spring day, I was doing some cleaning in my room. Naturally, I realized that some of my things didn’t really need to be in my small room, so I decided to take them out to the garage. Things were all fine and dandy until I realized that I locked myself out of the house. See my roommate Sheryl and I’s door to the garage was finicky and every once in a while, it would lock itself. But I didn't know that yet. It was around 1:30 or 2 in the afternoon. My roommate was still at school working for a couple more hours. I didn’t have my phone to call her anyway.  No phone. No keys. 

Soon, I remembered that Sheryl once told me that our neighbors Sue and Chris had a spare key with them. So, there I was contemplating whether to go out and ask for help or wait over an hour for my roommate to get home. On top of this, there was another problem. I was wearing my itty-bitty lounge shorts. This wouldn’t bother me if I didn’t live in a high class and older neighborhood. I had always felt grateful to live there except for this day. But I walked over with what little dignity I had left in my forgetfulness and lounge shorts and knocked on my neighbor’s door. Sue answered so I explained the situation to her. Unfortunately, she couldn’t find their key. She thought they gave it back to Sheryl years ago. I thanked her anyway. When I turned to leave, she said, “Why don’t you come in, and I will get us some water? You can stay here until Sheryl comes home.” 

There’s a kind of intimacy in being invited into someone’s house. Sure, we see the outside of our neighbor’s house every day, but we never see the inside. Once we step foot into their house, it isn’t just a house. It’s a home. A place where family pictures show different colored paint in a living room, dad’s chair is sitting at the dining room table, things are thrown on the counter before they see the junk drawer, paint is chipped from moving an old couch out, a bedroom that was once their little girl’s room is now a guest room, and their favorite candle is burning. We do not get invited into someone’s home if they do not trust us enough to know them as more than just a neighbor. That means something. 

Sue directed me towards the living room, left and came back with water. To be fully transparent, I don’t totally remember what we talked about that day. But I do know I got to see her as more than a neighbor. I learned she was a nurse, had two kids that had names. She lived a whole life on this street and in this house. Her and Chris lived here a little longer than my roommate who had lived on this street for 34 years. She told me all their stories and she listened to mine. It didn’t take long for me to see this street in a whole new light. It wasn’t just a place I had lived almost a year. It was home to generations of people. People who grew up together. Children who became parents. Parents who became grandparents. Suddenly, Sue realized she was running late for her dog’s play date. So she hooked me up with a water bottle and told me that Sheryl texted her that she will be home in about 15 minutes. She offered to let me stay inside but I assured her I would be fine on my sidewalk as it was nice outside. 

This story will never escape my mind because I didn’t really know Sue but had no one else to ask. She didn’t have to look for a key, invite me in, get me water, or have a genuine conversation and get to know me. But she did. That day didn’t just change the way I look at asking for help. It changed the way I looked at Sue, my other neighbors, my roommate, my street, the people of San Diego, and taking the time to have conversations like that. Asking for help didn’t just give me help, it gave me more meaning, community, and compassion. I was reminded that day that love isn’t only found in the people back home in Nebraska who call me a friend or family, it is found in San Diego or really anywhere. Love is everywhere. 

Further, in all my research on love, I have learned that while yes, a history of lacking love shows up in the way we hurt others, the way we have been loved shows up too. It stays with us. Even though this story happened during my four years of living in San Diego, it changed the way I treat and see people around me here in Omaha. It followed me here. Perhaps, we don’t just have baggage from our painful experiences but bags of love that were given to us every time we were shown compassion and kindness from someone else. 

THAT’S LOVE.

Most Loved Omaha Spot:

I would go to The Mill coffee shop over and over again. Especially for their sugar cookie latte. 

Shana Schoone writes “The Heart of Omaha,” a weekly column celebrating all the ways love is shown in the O. 

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