Sign Here

It's a roller coaster ride - with paperwork.

Six years ago, as I began a new call, we moved back to the city that had been home for the better part of thirty years. We'd devoted several weeks of trading emails and pictures back and forth with a Realtor and arranged to drive over on a Saturday and look at five or six houses.

We did, and in due course found ourselves looking at a series of homes. Afterward, we repaired to a local restaurant for lunch, both M. and I agreeing that either of two houses was fine. Laughing, the Realtor said, "Come on - you really like this one." And I did. Built in 1957, it would have been an ordinary and quite small brick ranch house, except for the addition on the back in 1989 that added a spacious den, a master bedroom and small but serviceable bathroom, a mud room and laundry room, and a screened porch. 

As a result, the house had a funky layout, with the dining room - painted barnyard red - in the center. The minute we'd stepped through the doorway, I knew I'd come home.

Six years on, and we are leaving. We have sold the house. We think.

Since we moved in, first I switched from serving as chaplain of a nursing home in one city to serving at a sister facility in another city, 45 minutes away. Then M. found a job there, as did our son. And I also serve a small congregation in a town adjoining ours. 

Despite the  45-minute commute each day (and the 30-minute drive to the church), we weren't actively looking to move. Until M. happened upon a townhouse for sale by owner. Five minutes from the church and twenty minutes from the city where our jobs are. It was an older neighborhood, quiet and with a retro charm. The house was an end unit, and they were all one story. 

So we put our house up for sale. Excited at first by the run of showings (fifteen in the first week), we thought that everything might be over in a matter of days. Even so, within a month we had a contract.

The buyer was an investor who planned to live in the house and do some renovating and updating, then resell it. We were ecstatic. For about 48 hours. Then the Realtor called with the bad news. "He just can't make the numbers work." The buyer had backed out.

Were we naive? Was it foolish to think our house would sell? Autumn was coming on, and summer is said to be the best time for home sales - had we missed our window?

That was on a Friday. On Monday morning, we prepared the house for two scheduled showings and turned the dogs out. Off we went to work. And our phones started buzzing with text messages from the Realtor. 

Someone had made an offer. Before we could digest the news, the buyer had increased her offer. Unlike the previous prospect, this buyer really wanted to live in the neighborhood. She signed the contract immediately and put in almost twice as much in due diligence. 

For some undefined reason, I've got a good feeling about this one. It's nice to think that the place we have loved for six years will be going to someone who wants to make a home here. 

If everything goes smoothly, we're now in the time of waiting and paperwork. Time to pack up the books yet again, to cushion the dinner plates and box up the yarn stash. Time to trade the familiar for the new. 

Two sets of dreams are about to begin - ours, going to a place we like; and the buyer's, settling down in a neighborhood where she really wants to be.