Of Dreams Past (Passed)

 

Today marks the culmination of approximately nine months of preparation for the transfer of a landmark.  That timeframe could be called a gestational period in which four of them were spent deconstructing my parents' homestead.  This "real estate" property was built by my grandfather, a fact that was always a point of pride as I remember going on the final walkthrough with my father before we occupied it as a family.  These reflections are what has made this process at times gut wrenching as my sisters, and I sifted through fifty plus years of accumulated memories.

From the moment we compelled our mother to realize that living alone in a place where she had spent decades building her life was no longer safe, we began in earnest the daunting task of preparing to sell, at her request, what to us felt like a sacred place.  I am sharing these thoughts because many of my peers are facing similar transitions in which, if we're honest, can be turbulent emotionally and financially if you have not soberly planned or pondered the delicate scaffolding that accompanies this decision.

I asked God for wisdom and compassion.  This process can be traumatic for our parents who had crafted and curated a life in a homestead that shaped our initial sense of society and family. There was an internal conflict wherein I felt with each piece of furniture moved or clothing packed in boxes, I was ripping up roots while simultaneously planting them for the new owners.  As the listing agent, I had to vacillate between my professional obligation to make decisions that made the property the most appealing to potential buyers while ignoring the kid in me who remembers when his dad built the now weather-worn storage shed for his lawn equipment and other tools.  

This long, ranch-style home seemed endless when we first moved in.  As we began to strategically clear each room, at times we had to pause, breathe, reflect and yes mourn.  My parents provided a plethora of wonderful experiences not just for us, but for countless college students, church members and neighbors. Fish fries, Sunday dinners, friends, and neighbors gathering and most of all a purposeful habitation for the Lord’s presence. Each room of the house had its own unique history, including the “Do Not Touch” living room which still looked like it was suspended in time.  We chose to be stewards over this preparation/process because of a sense of sacrality and respect.

Four months later, she stood barren, stripped of her covering of furnishings, books, appliances and my mother’s enormous wardrobe. Her makeover required a new roof, restored front porch, minor landscaping, plumbing and drywall repairs, and fresh coats of paint all of which gave us a glimpse of her former glory. As I finished the administrative requirements to list the house, my finger struggled to press the key to actuate this transaction. Memories began to cascade of what this address meant to me, my sisters but most of all my mother. I wanted to preserve that, “keep it in the family” maintain legacy. Truth is that you must have an astute grasp of what that decision requires financially, and the ancillary responsibilities bereft of the emotions. Having managed a similar transaction showed me in high definition that owning and managing older homes will quickly jar you from the HGTV version of what it entails.

As I walked through what now felt like a cavernous abode, even barren, decades of love caressed me as I walked from room to room to inspect the contractor’s work. I was okay until I glanced at my dad’s empty study and the open space where my mom’s baby grand piano once occupied. The Psalmist and the Berean were no longer here. At that moment, it felt safe to cry a hybrid mixture of mourning and celebration that my sisters and I had honored my parents in preparing their home for a family that I prayed would provide the kind of experiences we were so fortunate to receive.