Archive for the ‘Journal’ Category
The House We Hoped For
We began the hunt as winter came to close. Every weekend our family of four piled in our auction-find Hyundai and cruised neighborhoods. Our eyes roved for red arrows pointing to abandoned houses. Pulling up driveways and surveying the possibilities became a routine that lasted for months.
Reality hit hard. The loan we were approved for was more than we could afford. As the loan officer plugged information into her computer, she laughed and said,
Oh, I can get you into a lot of trouble. Remember you are the ones who have to make the payments.
Yes, we knew that well. When Dylan and I married, we decided to base all of our financial decisions on Dylan’s income alone. We wanted to keep our options open, so our plans reflected the desire for me to stay home.
There wasn’t much in our price range. Even the $90,000 houses needed a lot of work, and for that payment the space needed to be move in ready. If we did find something that would work, it was under contract. So we gathered our hope and kept driving.
A For Sale by Owner sign compelled us to stop in front of an ugly house on a corner lot. It was a drab brick red with a lattice-wrapped porch hanging off the front. A ceiling fan with large globe lights was the focal point. I mentally noted that could be easily replaced with something less obtrusive. Because the place was obviously empty, we peeked in the front window. The entry was a long narrow room with doorways on both sides. The walls were cheap wood paneling. The floor was mostly covered with stained, white vinyl squares. Very drab, very uninviting.
Meanwhile, our son gazed at a hastily-painted, yellow plywood tree house in the backyard. He wanted to live here. He prayed that we would move to this house. I was not even interested. Then I found out the price: $65,000.
Our first tour was hard to stomach. The kitchen floor was three layers of dirty ripped linoleum. Cupboards were white with blue shreds of latex paint trying to cling to the oil underneath. The garage was full of junk, and there was nothing to heat or cool the house except an assortment of ceiling fans.
As we listened to the owner tell us about the toilet backing up when it rained, the true issues surfaced. I concluded he had a buyer at one time, but the house wouldn’t pass inspection. Then I heard,
If you take it as is, I’ll sell it to you for $40,000.
Dylan said he’d be in touch, and we walked quietly to the car.
As soon as the door shut, I blurted out,
We need to jump on this!
I was scared. We knew nothing about fixing houses. I could clean and paint, but this house needed more than a brush of color. It needed a furnace to keep our kids warm in the winter and an air conditioner for the blazing Texas summers. The septic had issues. Did that mean the plumbing was suspect, too? What about the cracks in the mortar? And the bathroom where the toilet had fallen through the floor? Was that really fixed?
A few friends with rental property assured us it was fine. Other friends wondered what we were getting ourselves into. I later heard,
When you said it would be nice I believed you, but I sure couldn’t see it.
And it was nice, eventually. That is why I took so many pictures. I knew I would need to be reminded that the sore muscles, sheer frustration, and inconvenience was worth it. Dylan had sent me pictures of our new house in Idaho…(to be continued)
Homestead
When I mentioned how much I like old farmhouses, my husband said, “Oh, that’s what we have!” He’s funny. Our new house doesn’t have the charm I referred to.
The jerry-built shed is nothing like an old barn. Very few items date back to the time the nearby canning kitchen was in operation: a couple of doors and the window over the kitchen sink. Those items are my favorite. They remind me of simpler times.
Times when people stored a harvest in the cellar for winter. Times when large closets weren’t a necessity. Times when families huddled indoors for long winters. Times like we are having right now.
Our tiny, ugly house is slowly being transformed from the inside out.
The cellar isn’t full, but boxes of potatoes are stored and green tomatoes are ripening. Our bedrooms don’t have closets, so we keep only the clothes we really wear. The kitchen and living room are now a fresh shade of yellow and new carpet was installed today.
After Dylan hacked out two walls in the bathroom, we hung a curtain for a door. It will be replaced and that space made more functional. Books will come out of boxes and our routine of learning will resume.
This 1920 house was beyond my vision. I walked through imagining. Ideas completely clouded over by the last room. The choke came and my silence said it all.
Falling asleep that night, I mourned and felt so foolish. The house we left in Texas wasn’t pretty when we bought it either. It was bigger, but not pretty.
Tears in the night evaporated in the morning. Friends came to help us. Lots of friends who unloaded our moving truck and tore off paneling and brought food. Laughter came with them and then I knew this little place would become home.
(Photos to come.)
Two Months Alone
The conversation began with a different question. Usually, it’s something related to science or the meaning of a word. This night the churning in a young man’s soul surprised me:
Mom, do you feel divorced?
For sixteen years I have never been apart from the man who taught me to relax, to dream, and to accept myself. He gave me a confidence I never had on my own. He struggles, like we all do, but his every cell oozes love for his family. I know this. I live this. I bask in it, and it exists even without his arms around me.
No, son, I don’t feel divorced. Just lonely and stretched.
Dylan’s strength and joy buffer my moods. Fixing the car and cleaning rain gutters have never been on my list of chores. Small problems glare that he would fix in a moment. I wonder what else I take for granted.
Perhaps, my own delusions of strength. I think I’m consistent and determined and patient. My tendency is to blame any issues in our family on my husband.
Reality reveals otherwise. There is no one else here now. I am exposed.
The press squeezes out the best and the worst. The satisfaction of facing a fear or the joy of cuddling with my kids. Other times it is the frustration of yelling or the guilt of laziness. I haven’t suddenly changed because my husband is gone. I was this way while he was as near as his dirty shoes on the kitchen floor.
He loved me then and he loves me now. A blessing that snags in my heart and knots the words. Those scattered shoes look different in my mind now. I see with a new grace for him and for me. Love covers.
Wordless Wednesday- Mesmerized
Sunshine tugged me through exhibits at the Kimbell Art Museum until she was arrested. Mesmerized by the largest painting she’s ever seen.
The oil paint glowed only to reflect the delight in her eyes.
Where Is Home?
I don’t want to think and process right now. There are too many unknowns. Papers on the table carry the weight of hope, but a mere cough can blow them away. Dare I breathe? Dare I plan?
Determination wanes during the arduous separation. Twice I pleaded with my beloved to come back. Twice my cries were overshadowed by good news. This time it was Dylan who needed hope. As my words sank in, he confessed,
I was praying this morning about coming back. We need to be together…
Our steps have faltered. We’ve wondered if the time is right. Doubts try to smear our joy with shadows. But every time we try to turn back our steps are confirmed. Life in Idaho won’t be easy, but neither is waiting.
Instead of pondering my lack of patience, I focus on the tasks of moving. I go through boxes of Christmas decorations months too soon. Piles of cast-offs grow. Paintings are removed from the walls.
The open space reminds me of the flurry of cleaning and painting it took to get this place move-in ready. As I collapsed on the lawn, I wondered if the vultures overhead were circling for me.
A year later paint rollers came out again. We needed to switch bedrooms. A new little girl was joining our family, so Brother moved to the smaller room he carpets with Lego daily.
This house taught me so much. About repair, maintenance, and contentment. I no longer lust for the perfect house. The frustration of living in a fixer-upper has more rewards than just sweat equity.
I now know what home truly is. I enjoy the beauty we’ve brought to this shelter, but it’s not our home. Home is our family, not a house, not a city, not a state.
Right now our home is lacking the strong arms of Daddy. My heart aches, and I can only imagine the agony for other families separated even longer…
After praying with my son last night, he stated,
This isn’t our house, we just manage it for God.
That’s right. This house is a gift. It is a trust. We’ve cared for it well.
May the new management be embraced with peace and strength. I pray they discover home.
