Why I Can't Sleep, Why I Can't Cook
We are in the process of buying a house. You would think that if it were our second time, it would be simpler, we'd be more confident. I am the Penn Station of trains of thought on this matter: The train of thinking that says, the magnitude of transactions that must take place by and on June 28 are gargantuan. The one that says this is a good and right thing, more space for our family. The train that says we are in over our twentysomething heads. The train that longs for a play room for the kids, where their sprawling inventions can flourish. The train that rushes in and says "Be wise as serpents and innocent as doves." The slow looming train that says "Avoid debt." I know these matters are never simple for anyone.
I have anchored myself by what I am certain of: that we don't have a capricious God who is not fickle and not moody, that He is generous and has ALWAYS provided for us, that we want to stay in this little section of Germantown (I'll never forget my Dad walking the boys down to Mt. Airy Day two years ago and joking, "I really don't see one thing that's German about it.") I think I have passed the polite point about my parochial views about race and class. I have confronted my ugly presuppositions. I have mastered my mantra when I walk our street, "This is my neighborhood too. We belong here." I am certain that there was as much brokenness back in our lethargic little hometown. I remember stories of Amish dudes dealing massive amounts of cocaine. As Geoff said last week, "Right now we have a front row seat to the sketchiness. When we move, we'll have a balcony seat to the sketchiness. Maybe it is about proximity. There is a density to the city, which is confrontational. You get cat-called on a regular basis. You see the drugs change hands. You pick up after the kids who walk to school eating Chernobyl cheese snacks for breakfast. I want to believe that my skin is getting thicker about these things but my heart is staying tender. I do sense even that God would ask that it even be BROKEN for those around me. I don't know that I'm there yet. My heart still longs for the sanitary acre between me and everyone else.
So, the house: An amazing stone/brick Victorian twin, almost twice the size of our house now. Built around 1925. 5 bedrooms, 2 fireplaces. The common rooms so wide and generous that I can see the birthday party-flow. It follows the charge our dear Pastor in Boston said, "Be blessed to bless others." The block: a one block, one-way, cobblestone street. The deal: The Monday of Holy Week, I asked a mom at nursery school if she knew how much was being asked for the house on Burbridge St. Tuesday night, her husband, Chris our agent, called and said, "I can get you into that house tomorrow morning. Looked at it twice Wednesday. Geoff said, "If we have to eat Ramen for 3 months, I'll do it to get that house." We told Chris we wanted to write a bid up on Monday. Brought the listing home for Easter to show our parents. Monday morning we get a call that the house is under agreement with someone else. Temporary heartbreak ensues. Look at another house 2 blocks away. Too expensive. Not what we want. Last week a call, "That deal fell through. They are willing to take our bid before putting it back on the market. Wrote our bid last week. Accepted next afternoon. We are doing the inspection this week. We've met with the banks. It's like this dance: rehab loan bank, swing loan bank, Chris, contractors. I hear us on the phone and think, "When did we become a pair of suits berating our brokers over the cell phone?" No really, it's very cool to be going through this process. An exercise for us in explicit and mutual decision-making. An exercise for us in goal-setting. An exercise for us in not having our parents bankroll everything.
Looks like we settle June 28. The house is being sold as-is and currently has no kitchen. So, my cooking heart has taken flight and perched between the pages of these design books, soapstone countertops, ceramic tile backsplashes, the most beautiful Viking range you ever did see. And so like Anne Lamott says, "I looked at the sink full of dishes and said, 'Let's just move." This is where I am. I have decided we will eat like nomads, cooking game over the grill. I will make a gallon of potato salad and two gallons of fruit salad and we will plod our way through the next month and a half. Maybe a blenderful of hummus and some bread to freeze.
What a ride we're on. May we land home.
