An offer!

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After we passed the second set of holidays without a nibble on our house-for-sale, the phone finally rang with the call we’d given up hope of ever receiving.

“We’ve got an offer,” our realtor told us in a strong, steady voice that communicated confidence. “Can I come over tonight for your signatures?”

“Yes, indeed!” was my happy response. They’d offered less than we wanted, but an offer of any kind had come to be what we wanted most.

Sitting on the edge of our dining room chairs, Nate and I studied the stack of legal papers. I was thankful I married a lawyer. “Just tell me where to sign,” I said, “and I’ll get the celebration coffee!”

Later, we once again gathered the children still living at home. “We got an offer on the house today,” Nate began.

“What does that mean?” Birgitta asked.

“It means we’re really going to move, but not for a few weeks yet. The people who are buying our house don’t have enough money, but they’re going to get it from a bank. That’ll take a while.”

And quick as a wink we were looking again into faces with teary eyes. Never mind that they’d known about the need to sell the house for nearly two years. Suddenly it was on top of them, and it felt awful.

“Give them a little time,” I reassured Nate. “They’ll come around.”

He and I decided to begin house hunting ourselves, flipping from being sellers to buyers. Where should we look? We had four more years before the youngest would be out of high school and had hoped to stay in the district. But if high prices in our suburb dictated a distant move, the last two girls could always go to the Christian school they’d attended through 8th grade. It might be a long daily drive from a distant location, but it would step around the problem of a new school. The girls had friends who still attended there, and they already knew the ropes.

Nate and I drove to the end of the train line he currently used to commute to downtown Chicago every day. Property values that far out were spectacular. We toured half a dozen homes, chatting excitedly on our drive home about the lovely possibilities.

Two days later, our daughter Louisa received a letter from a friend. She tacked it to the wall over her bed:

“I’m so sorry someone bought your house. I know how bad that feels, because the same thing happened to me. I’m here for you.”

The letter went on to empathize with Louisa’s crisis as only a good girlfriend can. Later, when I broached the subject with her, she burst into fresh tears, clenched her fist and shouted, “I hate those people who bought our house! I hate ‘em!” It wasn’t going to be a smooth family transition.

Real estate roller coaster

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Hopes up, hopes down.

House on the market, house off the market.

Price high, price low.

Gas on, gas off.

Wheee!

We were whizzing along on the real estate roller coaster without ever having wanted the ride, especially in the winter. It was February in Chicagoland, and the Nymans were freezing, both outside and inside, where our thermostat had bottomed out at 44 degrees. The gas had been turned off.

A cold shower in the summer is refreshing. In an unheated house with unheated water, its agony. Our kids were angry. We were angry. It had taken nearly a year to sever our emotional ties to our much-loved home enough to put it up for sale. Now another year and a half had gone by. Why wouldn’t it sell?

We had a variety of friends who had needed to sell their homes during the same time period. All had met with success, marveling at the high prices they’d gotten in the process.

At our house, now that the gas was off because we were late (months late) in paying our bill, most of us left for work and school each morning with dirty hair, dressed in outfits we’d worn twice already. “Shower at school if you can,” I told the kids as they stepped out the door.

Meals were a challenge. We had no oven or stove-top burners but were thankful for an electric fry pan and a microwave. Although the dishwasher worked, at the end of its cycle dishes weren’t clean because of the greasy residue cold water refused to remove. We got good at boiling water in the microwave and adding it to cold sink water for hand-washing plates, silverware, pots and pans after meals. Although my winter coat got dirty and wet as I did dishes in it, my cold, stiff hands appreciated the warmth of that water.

It took more than a week for us to assemble the nearly two thousand dollars needed to pay the gas company what we owed. They wanted it in cash, paid in person. As I slid the many bills into a metal tray beneath an extra-thick glass window, the clerk scowled as if to say, “I hope you learned your lesson, stupid. Go home and get your act together.” I felt like a criminal.

Eight days passed before our gas was finally turned on. The water heater resumed its job, the furnace whirred back to life and the oven began smelling good again. None of us will ever take for granted the simple pleasures of a hot shower or a heated home.

It was a good thing we couldn’t see into the future. The coming refrigerator break-down would have been too much to bear.

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.