The Fields are in a season of car repairs.

Our 2015 Fiat 500, which has served us faithfully for 8 years and roughly 100,000 miles, is getting ready to go home to be with the Lord.

So I’m in a season of researching, test-driving, and preparing to buy something new. I’ll be telling you all about it.

In the meantime, though, there have been some necessary repairs.

The driver’s side door handle got loose on one side. I was handling it with care. But a parking garage attendant grabbed it hard and broke it off.

So I bought a replacement handle, and took it to one of my local guys to have it installed.

And My Guy said, I can do this, but it is not my specialty. It will take me an hour. Let me send you my friend who does nothing but this. He will install it, perfectly, in about 15 minutes.

The Door Guy’s shop is in Corona, right by Citifield, where the Mets play. I am not a Mets fan. I am from New England. I still haven’t forgiven them for what they did to the Red Sox in 1986. So I have been to Citifield maybe five times, for some ministry events, some concerts, and as a guest of some Mets fan friends who have season tickets.

Citifield is new. And their food court is solid. I will grant them that.

And the streets surrounding it host an unfathomable number of auto repair shops.

The first sign that I was not in Kansas anymore was that as I was nearing the shop and making several wrong turns onto tiny parallel streets, confident hustlers kept approaching my car.

They seemed like they might be directing traffic, but when I slowed down to see what they wanted, they were all offering to fix something I wasn’t there to replace.

“Do you need a muffler?”

“Do you want those dents taken out?”

“Do you want a custom repaint?”

“Would you like to buy some socks?”

And I quickly found myself thinking two things:

1. This would be a great place to get skilled, efficient, low-cost work.
2. This would be a great place to get abducted.

It kind of reminded me of my first trip to Mexico. We went to Tijuana. We went to Ensenada and San Felipe. And wherever we went, people were offering us discount taxi rides in unmarked cars, and whether it was true or not, every guide I consulted told me this was a quick way to disappear. I was nearly 13. My father lives in Los Angeles. My sister and I used to visit him in the summer. We took a variety of trips. And the thing I found most disconcerting about Tijuana, was that I navigate using my peripheral vision. So when people get close to me, I naturally move away. But most of the people getting close to me were asking for money. So when I moved, they would follow me. This was in the summer of 1987, right after the release of La Bamba, with Lou Diamond Phillips. And the most popular pitch to gringos was musical. We were getting La Bamba bombed and pre-hustled everywhere we went.

So here I am near Citifield, and everyone I’m trying to get past is following me to sell me something.

Eventually, thought, I make it to The Door Guy’s shop. I name dropped my mechanic. As promised, The Door Guy is solid. His staff is fast and flawless. The guy told me to come back in 30 minutes. And he was done in 20. But while I was waiting, I walked around the strip of shops.

There was a taco truck that seemed to offer old school fare, but also had it’s own Instagram page.

There were a series of ATMS that looked a bit like the audio gear in Tom Petty’s post-apocalyptic “You Got Lucky” video. And they were necessary because The Door Guy’s shop was cash only.

And as I’m walking around I am acutely aware that I am an outsider, a visitor to an entire ecosystem, and the best thing I can do is honor the space.

New York City offer this opportunity a lot. While commonly described as a melting pot, it often seems to me more of a smorgasbord, a robust mix of discrete elements that, as a resident, you have the privilege of sampling.

And the worst thing you can do is walk in, declare you have as much right to be here as anyone else, and causally destroy institutions that have been there for decades.

We see this a lot with gentrification.

Gentrification, according to the Oxford Languages dictionary, is “the process whereby the character of a poor urban area is changed by wealthier people moving in, improving housing, and attracting new businesses, typically displacing current inhabitants in the process.”

Gentrification raises property values and creates economic opportunities. It also evicts residents and annihilates the character of communities that have history, culture and deep roots. And while proponents argue it reduces crime, it’s more accurate to say it relocates that crime to the places the poorer displaced people now live. This topic requires a longer piece, but I will always argue that it creates far more problems than it solves.

Now this is the point at which my critics would argue that I’m failing to look in the mirror, because my entire career has involved serving in neighborhoods and institutions where I may be the only person who looks like me. And those critics maybe never wanted me there anyway.

And to that I would respectfully argue that there’s a right way and a wrong way to enter, as an outsider, to community.

I think that it is one thing to show up and commit for the long haul. You take invitations instead of taking over. You submit to the leadership, you honor the traditions, you learn the culture, and you seek to tread lightly.

It’s quite another to act as if nothing existed before you got there, or you’ve planted a flag somewhere, and what this place really needs is you doing your thing.

My work has involved spending decades at the feet of giants and learning as much as I can.

Visiting an auto shop on the other side of town involves following the rules, sitting in assigned seats, and recognizing that I will not blend in no matter how careful or conscientious I am.

Some places we visit.

Some places we join.

Hopefully no place we destroy.

The meal is better when all the dishes make it to the table.

Eat well.

(Photo Credit: Cottonbro Studio)