MY NEIGHBORS CALL_ BY BISHOP SAHR ISAAC PETERSON

They say “the neighborhood is bad.” You hear it like rain on zinc in taxis, in the market, even in church pews. “Don’t get too close,” they warn. Maybe they’ve been cut before. Maybe their trust was spent like loose change. Albeit, that is another story.

This is about the kind of people who make you — and the kind who could unmake you.

This afternoon, a strange number blinked on my screen for less than 30 seconds. I almost let it pass. Strange numbers are like unmarked doors, you’re told. But something nudged me. I picked.

“Hey, Bishop. It’s Mr. A, your neighbor. How are you? We’re worried here.”

Worried. About me.  

I hadn’t slept at home in two nights.

Before the echo faded, another call. A female neighbor this time. Soft voice, steady heart. “Bishop, we haven’t seen you. Is everything alright?”

Five months. That’s all we’ve shared the same compound. Yet they noticed the empty chair, the quiet gate, the light that wasn’t on.

It sat on me like dew. Why did they call? Why does anyone notice when you’re gone?

Here’s what most don’t see: Peterson, one of hundreds of English teachers in Sierra Leone, is also a pastor. The classroom calls. The pulpit calls. The nation calls.  

IPAM students pulled me in before second semester exams. They needed prayer, direction, a steady hand. I went.  

A Youth Fellowship held a 2-day all-night. They asked me to pour. I went.

So sometimes my bed is cold for days. People ask, “Has Peterson relocated?” “Is he around?” Truth is, when duty knocks, I step out. When duty sleeps, I retreat behind closed doors — books open like lanterns, tapes of great leaders and pastors playing like firewood crackling. I read. I research. I prepare.

But above programs and microphones, one anchor holds me: “Strive for peace with everyone, and for the holiness without which no one will see the Lord.” Hebrews 12:14

Peace with all men is not a suggestion. It is instruction.

I have chosen to water where I live. I help. I give. I do not sort people by status. Not for applause. But because life is not meant to be wasted. Existentialism says we become what we do. I want to become service.

Think of it: neighbors barely five months old in your story, calling to check your pulse. That is not luck. That is harvest. You reap what you sow in small, daily seeds.

To the youths, hear me with both ears. Time is a thief that never asks permission. Youth is sharp glass — it can cut a path or cut you.

Do not spend it on noise that will not remember your name in ten years. Sit with the two billion questions before 30: What are you building that would make someone call when you’re absent? If your story ended today, what sentence would people read over your grave?

I am not outside every day. When I go out, it is with purpose, like arrows. When I stay in, it is with preparation, like a blacksmith at the forge. Purpose without preparation is smoke. Preparation without purpose is a full granary with no hunger. Both must meet.

A lawyer friend visited me days ago. He leaned in and asked, “Bishop, why is your youth work spreading like this across Sierra Leone?”

I laughed — not from pride, but from clarity. I do not count by titles. I count by obedience.  

“I’m only doing what God set me to do before I was formed. Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you.” Jeremiah 1:5

That verse follows me like shadow. If God drafted me before birth, then my days are not mine to waste. Some weeks are not even long enough. Good. It means I’m in the right work.

From that one neighbor’s call, foresight showed me three things, clear as morning light:

First, community is not dead.

Behind the gossip about “bad neighborhoods” are still people who keep watch. Who dial. Who care. Don’t bury yourself because of a few thorns. Be the kind of neighbor that makes absence loud.

Second, visibility is earned in secret. 

They ask for me because I first showed up for them. I taught their children. I prayed at their tables. I sat where I was not invited but was needed. When you pour into people without an invoice, they pour concern back without an invitation.

Third, legacy is built in quiet rooms.  

The reason my phone rang is because of the hours no one saw — the Bible open, the notebooks full, the voices of old preachers and poets in my ears. You cannot be called to the nation if you have not first been called to the closet. Greatness is 90% hidden roots, 10% seen fruit.

Sierra Leone needs young people who are both present and prepared. Present in the compound. Prepared in the mind and in the Spirit. Don’t let the streets raise you. Don’t let trends name you. Let purpose name you.

To my neighbors: Thank you for the call. Thank you for noticing the empty space. You reminded me that love is still a verb in our yard.

To the youth: Do not waste your 20s. Read one book this week. Serve one person this month. Pray one hour today. Small, faithful drops fill big buckets.

And to all of us: Live so that when you are not home, someone calls. Live so that when you are gone, someone remembers — not just your face, but your fruits. "We shall know them by their fruits.” Matthew 7:20

That call was not just a check-in. It was a mirror held to my soul. It whispered, “Bishop, who are you becoming?”

May we become people worth calling. People worth missing. People worth remembering.

Because the neighborhood is not bad.  

Waste is.  

And people — with God’s help — make it good.

 

© Bishop Sahr Isaac Peterson

- Sierra Leone 

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100 Most Influential Youth Leaders Award Nominee, Africa