Earthly Things

Henry and I were invited to a New Year's Eve gathering at the home of some new friends this year, and it was an event that included children and adults. I was sitting with the womenfolk, a couple of whom who tending to their young children while we chatted. P., the little boy whose home we were visiting, had pulled out his prized toys, some kind of little animal figures. He was sharing nicely with one of the other little boys, J., when J. decided he wanted to play with P.'s very favorite. Of course a tug of war commenced, and finally, in exasperation, P.'s mom said, "P., it's only an earthly thing."  

I would have loved it if P. had responded, "You're right, Mom. Thanks for reminding me that this little horse thing will soon be corrupted by moths and rust. I'm going to build up treasures in heaven, where thieves don't break in and steal." And even though that wasn't P.'s response and he didn't seem to be overly inspired by his reminder that his toy was only an earthly thing, I found myself wishing that I had thought of that admonition when my own children were small and were tussling over some "earthly thing." I admire a parent who will get right to the heart of the problem, and maybe P. doesn't understand right now the unimportance of earthly things, but someday his mother's reminder will resonate in his memory, and he'll be saved from some financially bad decision or he'll recover more quickly from some material loss . . . which brings me to my own grappling with the concept that something is only an "earthly thing."

The earthly thing that I'm struggling to give up is a little more substantive than a small plastic pony, but the grip it has had on me is every bit as tight as the grip the little pink pony had on P. My struggle began last November. After a little over a year of marriage, we had finally gotten my pre-marriage house cleaned out and fixed up to the point where it was ready to go on the market. It had been a real albatross around Henry's neck, especially since he had been paying the mortgage, utility bills, and insurance for a place that we weren't using--and he had even physically worked hard on several occasions to remove some of the remaining debris from the premises so we could sell it. He was ready to let this earthly thing go.

And so was I. I had a picture in my mind of the new owners--a nice young couple who were going to cash in on the tax credit being offered to first-time homeowners. They'd have the time and energy to fix things up a bit in a way I'd never been able to. Maybe they'd even put a garden in the back yard. And probably they'd turn Jonathan's bedroom into a nursery when that first little one came along.

So we put the house on the market about midweek, and amazingly, before the weekend was over--in this horrible economic mess that is Michigan--five couples went through. By Monday, we had an offer. But it was an appallingly low offer. And I was still reeling from having to set the selling price at over ten thousand dollars less than what I originally paid for the house back in 1998. Henry just wanted to be rid of this earthly thing, but I stood my ground and said I was basically insulted by the offer, and I just knew someone else would come along. It was, after all, a cute house--and there was that tax credit for first-time home buyers.

We countered halfway. At some point, it occurred to me that the people who had made the offer had only gone through the house once. I thought that was a little odd, but who knew what was going on. Maybe it was such a great little house that they were afraid of missing out. They accepted the offer, had already been approved for a mortgage, and were ready to close within a couple of weeks. And they wanted only the furnace inspected. Strange--but maybe that's all they could afford. So far so good.

Somewhere along the line, on some paperwork, we had read the names of the buyers. The names were very Eastern European sounding, and while that wasn't quite the vision of the buyers I had, I had a great new backstory. These people were probably immigrants from Bosnia. They had struggled mightily--back in Bosnia and here in America. But their years of hard work had finally paid off, and now they were going to be able to move out of the overcrowded apartment they were living in and purchase their own home. The American dream. I could hear Neil Diamond singing, "They're coming to America" as I saw the new owners moving in.

So we showed up at the closing, and I was still less than thrilled with the price we had accepted. When we got there, we found out that the buyers would be closing at another title company. We wouldn't get to meet them and see how nice they were and hear about their plans to finish off the basement. I was less than thrilled, and our realtor's rep picked up on that. She said, "Are you missing your house?"

I truly was not. The house Henry and I now have is spacious, beautiful, in a wonderful neighborhood with a park and sidewalks--more than I ever hoped of having. I hadn't missed that little single-parent-with-two-kids-home for a minute. I responded, "I'm just disappointed about the price we're getting. And I had hoped we'd at least get to meet the buyers."

"Oh, they're nice people," she said. "And they already have renters lined up to move in right away."

Renters? In my cute little house? The house I had stepped out on my own to buy--a single mom with two kids? The house we had just dropped a lot of money on, having it painted and putting new flooring in the bathrooms? The house that I had paids to have professionally landscaped after we moved in in 1998?

And so I try to remind myself to be grateful. So many people who are trying to sell their homes have to wait for many months--even years--before they finally get buyers. We didn't even have to wait a week.

And yet the horror stories from those I know who have owned rental properties continue to haunt me: walls with holes in them, stained carpets, strange smells, rusted appliances on the front porch, overgrown yards that haven't seen a mower in . . . too long. And then the poor neighbors--the value of their properties probably has been drug down because my house is owned by a slum lord. They're probably putting up with loud parties and empty beer cans and cigarette wrappers that somehow make their way over to their yards.

Andwhenever I think about this, I get kind of crazy and mad. A nice young schoolteacher bought Henry's house. And you know it's cuter now than it ever has been. And renters live in mine.

And then I think about P.'s mom, and I tell myself, "It's only an earthly thing."

But it was a huge step for me. And a courageous one. I was a single mom, and I bought that house all by myself.

It's only an earthly thing.

We have some great memories in that house--birthdays, Christmases, fun in the backyard . . .

It's only an earthly thing.

It looked so nice when we finally had it ready to sell. Clean, lightcolored walls, new flooring in the bathrooms, a new light fixture in the dining room.

It's only an earthly thing.

I'm working on it . . .