Category Archives: Life’s disappointments

Celebrities get right in.

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There were no suburban shopping malls when I was a kid. Young teens rode cheap, safe elevated trains to downtown Chicago, where they found big department stores and double feature movies. Best of all for me was knowing that Dad was downtown, too, officing at 111 W. Washington Street. His architectural and engineering firm, employing more than 200 draftsmen, occupied half of the 8th floor.

Dad was a successful businessman with many demands on his time, but none of that impressed me at 14. Instead, I loved the thick glass double doors with his name on them, his polished oak desk and his wall of windows overlooking the city.

After a day of shopping, I’d inevitably end up in Dad’s office, hoping for a hand-out. Scruffy-looking that I might be, once the receptionist recognized me, she’d quickly usher me through the secretarial pool and right into his office, even if he was conducting a meeting. Dad always smiled when he saw me. Walking through his door, I felt like somebody special.

Many girls grow up without this kind of father-love. God knew that would happen and made a special effort to fill the gap. The Bible often refers to him as our Father and even as our Daddy, inviting us into this parent-child relationship. All are welcome, and the best part is that his skills as a father supercede those of even the best earthly dad.

My father was committed to many people. His time was spread thin, and he didn’t always know the best way to solve every problem, especially when I became a big one at 17. Dad was also a worrier, and he often met with exhaustion. Though he smiled when I came to his office, he wasn’t always glad to be disturbed, for example, during the night.

Father-God, on the other hand, runs the whole world without becoming worn out or spread thin. He knows the answer to every question and is never confused. Best of all, the heavenly Father is always glad to see me coming, even during the night. Maybe especially during the night. I’ve never gotten the vibe, “Oh no, not you again.”

When my dad died, he left me. He couldn’t help it. Since then, my longing to talk to him and get his counsel has sometimes made me cry, because I know I can’t get to him. No amount of wishing will make it so.

But Father-God says he’ll never step away from me. He is always available and repeatedly says, “I love you with an everlasting love. If you’re fatherless, I’ll be your Father, welcoming you, comforting you, advising you.” He says that to me and also to you. He has said it to all of his children, throughout the ages, and what he says he’ll do, he always does.

Finding Another Way

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Once we took our house off the market, I could focus on Mom, who had cancer. It was a great blessing to be able to spend extra time with her, walking through every stage of uncertainty, testing, trauma and pain as her life narrowed. In one of our many bedside chats, Mom said, “You know, Honey, you and Nate could probably sell your house without a realtor. We’ve done that four times. Why don’t you try it?”

Mom died in April, 2005. In May we needed to get the house back on the market and so followed her advice. We knew shoving a sign into the ground that said “For Sale By Owner” wouldn’t do much, since we were on a cul-de-sac, absent of drive-by value.

So we bought “Fizz-bo” (FSBO) signs and posted them at every nearby corner with arrows directing traffic flow to our address. We also made five-page packets describing our house and all its stats, complete with a dozen pictures. Once people turned onto our short street, they could see the clear plastic box of info next to the sign, beckoning them to take one.

Something else we did was lower the price of our home by 5%. After all, there would be no real estate commission when we sold it ourselves. Maybe a lower price would attract a new category of house hunters.

Over the next few weeks, as I worked in the kitchen keeping one eye out the window, an encouraging parade of drive-by vehicles moved past our house, stopping at the box of descriptive packets. As each person took one, I waved, smiled and thought, “Mom was right. This time it’s going to work.”

Quite a few families called and then toured our de-cluttered, squeaky-clean home. To go the extra mile, we held an open house every Sunday afternoon, locking the dog in the car and chatting with lookers by the hour. But an unproductive trend emerged. Most of those potential buyers had no potential. They fell into two categories: 1) “tire-kickers” wanting a peek, and 2) families visiting open houses as free entertainment.

About this time, Nate began clipping articles from newspapers that detailed a slight negative downturn in the real estate bubble. Several columnists predicted real estate doom as pie-in-the-sky prices were forced back “to reality.” Little did we know how far we still were from reality.

As the downward trend continued, we made the difficult decision to lower our price another 4%, spending hours discussing the issue. As a matter of fact, the sale of our house was all we ever talked about.

Falling into the “if only” trap produced days of hopelessness in both of us. Our kids begged to talk about something else, anything else, at the dinner table. And finally we declared a moratorium on talk of house and financial problems, at least while we ate. It was difficult to comply with the new rule, probably because it’s hard to fight fear.

When we lowered the price on the house for the second time, we printed new info sheets, noticing that we’d topped the one-thousand mark in our copies. One thousand people had removed packets from the plastic box on our front lawn, and still we hadn’t had a bite.

Even subtracting the months we’d been off the market when Mom was ill, the house had been for sale well over a year. Most of that time our suburb was, as the realtor put it, “Hot, hot, hot!” But by this time, our hope had grown cold, cold, cold.

Looking at porn

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A couple of weeks ago I saw a pornographic movie. It was entirely by accident, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Our 19 and 21 year old daughters were next to me, and I’d bought the tickets for them, rewarding the girls for helping me organize the basement that day.

I try to stay away from “R” movies, but that night it was either “G” or “R”. We questioned each other before we went. “What’s the “R” for?” I’d asked.

“Probably just a little bathroom humor, Mom.”

We should have done our homework and hunted for a review, because before the first ten movie-minutes had flickered past us, we were gasping with shock and turning away.

“Let’s get out of here,” I whispered. But once we were on the front sidewalk, our disgust bubbled up like vinegar on baking soda. “How dare they try to pass off that movie as acceptable in a family-friendly theater,” I raged. The newest Harry Potter movie was showing at midnight, and children filled the lobby. “I’m going back to find the manager.”

A smiling twenty-something asked how he could help, and I gave him what-for. Polite and calm, he used his headset to inform the front desk we’d need our $23.50 back. “But that’s not the point,” I fumed, feeling a wall go up between us. “Have you seen that movie? It’s raw porn.”

Still smiling, he said he hadn’t had time to view it but had fielded other complaints about it. Then he played his trump card. “We have to show what corporate sends us.”

Buck-passing is always ugly. “This movie has spoiled a mother-daughter evening. How do we get that back after being assaulted in your theater?” I pressed.

Security hovered a little closer. “Feel free to fill out this complaint card,” he suggested, sliding a form across the counter. His eyebrows went up with optimism when he said, “It’s got pre-paid postage on it and everything.”

Trying to burn the look of anger and frustration from my eyes into his, I couldn’t come up with words that would either convince him or change the outcome, although I did have the urge to leap over his granite-topped desk and shake the daylights out of him.

And so we left, complaint card in hand. The girls and I had a good chat on our 25 minute drive home. Although all of us felt betrayed,  the one positive was having had an opportunity to show the girls its ok to walk out of a movie, should the need arise again.

I didn’t sleep well after our disturbing experience and started the next day’s morning by filling out the complaint card, and I do mean filling it. Covering every inch of space with comments, I ended up needing an envelope and forfeiting the pre-paid stamp. It will be interesting to see if we get a response. I’m fully expecting one, because the youthful manager assured me, “If you mail the card, corporate will read it.” We’ll see.