Dream House.
Chef heaven. Double ovens, gas range, gorgeous granite countertop—I picture myself ladling out gourmet soup. And if I drop a bowl? No problem. Cork flooring cushions all.
The place is perfect. One-level living, spacious rooms, views of naturalized parkland—we LOVE it! Seizing Dreamer’s hand, I pray aloud, “If this is our house, Lord, hold it for us.”
Next morning, while signing our bid I recognize the owners’ names. Long ago we attended church together.
God must want this for us.
All night I alternate between “Don’t count your chickens” and mentally furnishing every last room.
Come morning, we send the owners a winsome personal letter and our bid—15 K over list price.
God loves us, so things will go well. Right?
Turns out other bids have preceded ours. All day we hope our old friends will choose us.
Nope.
Therapy Option #1: Write
(To the tune of “Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow”)
The Real Estate Song, or Let It Go, Let It Go, Let It Go
with apologies to Jule Styne and Sammy Cahn
Oh, the bidding wars sure are frightful,
And the dream house so delightful.
Our offer turned out too low . . .
Let it go, let it go, let it go.
Well, the market is really hoppin’,
And it shows no signs of stoppin’.
I wish we had lots more dough . . .
Let it go, let it go, let it go.
It’s no wonder I sit here cryin’
As our hopes are slowly dying,
But today’s nearly through and so . . .
Let it go, let it go, let it go.
Meanwhile, back at the rancher
I pray.
And pace.
Grieve.
And growl.
Mostly growl.
Therapy Option #2: Bake
Anger spits and sizzles in me like a downed power line. I was so sure the house was meant to be ours. I imagined Dreamer’s faith being renewed in the process of buying the dream house.
Heat works its way up my throat. A hard lump. I swallow it down.
In my one-butt kitchen with its erupting linoleum and elderly laminate counters, I mix cookie dough. Granite and cork are overrated. So are kitchen fans. Around me the air congeals, laden with sugar and fat. I breathe it in. Maybe it will sweeten my thoughts.
Nope.
I slip cookies onto the rack to cool. This, I can control. Unlike crushing dismay.
I am breaking my heart over a house, looking behind me with longing. Like Lot’s wife.
Tears come, briny and fast.
As do reminders of mercy.
No brimstone. No judgment.
Relief, finally, is remembering God is good. And always, always worthy of trust.
Then believing it. Slow work, sometimes.
My knee goes down, my gaze lifts.
I have a goofy song.
Fresh cookies.
And Time.
I eat 6 cookies, still warm and gooey, taste the sweetness, a promise of things to come …
UPDATE: Friends, thank you for your prayers! Parkinson’s has been ruled out. Dreamer recently underwent a brain MRI and will have an EMG on Dec. 21. He’ll consult with an M.D. specialist sometime in the New Year. Both our daughters are also experiencing acute physical challenges, including surgery in December. I’m learning a lot about grace.
We’re dialing back the moving process, for now.
Catch up on our story here.
Photo by Jamie Strett for Unsplash.
