If you follow this blog you know we bought a house recently.
It’s been a journey to get to the place where I could say those words. At one point along this road I felt I would never say them at all because the trip was long. And let’s get real, at another point I really didn’t care if I said them or not because I didn’t care if I lived or died. No, that’s not true, my friends, not true at all, there was a period of time, months perhaps, that I honestly and fervently prayed to die EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.
I look at those words now and I am shocked, embarrassed almost, that I wanted to die. It seems so shallow, and I knew it was then. In my sane times I knew that there more people who had it way worse than I, people who had lost way more than I had, even though my family had lost our home.
The story is long, not very pretty, and old…very old. Short version…we owned rental properties. In 2008 we joined the ranks and made the decision to let the banks take them back. Unfortunately (and stupidly) we listened to the wrong people and ended up losing our personal home as well. Read about it here.
Fast forward three years -which is the amount of time one must wait after a foreclosure before a bank will loan money toward a house-and we began the hunt. I told the story of how we had two offers on two houses that we were anxiously awaiting a few days ago. One I loved and the other a great deal and location.
The one I loved didn’t make sense for our family, not really. It wasn’t a great fit and it was more than we wanted to spend. We had grown accustomed to having a landlordfix the broken whatever and liked saving money. We are wiser for the three years we have spent in the wilderness, the wilderness of not owning a house.
Here’s where I get real people, I loved the house we didn’t get for several reasons. It was move-in ready. It was in the country where we lived for 13 years, in the house we lost. It had a great pool. It had a nice fire pit. It had elbow room. I loved those things about that house because it reminded me of the home we lost, only better.
When we moved from that house my kids were 20, 18 and 14. My two oldest had spent their teen years in the house we lost. They had the pool, the fire pit and room to have their friends over and do what they wanted. My 14 year old missed out on that.
That is what I hated most about losing the house. It wasn’t just about me and what I had lost. It was about my kids…and more to the point, my youngest. I wanted to give him back what we had lost. I wanted to make it up to him.
And then it hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t give him back those three years. I’m not God. I don’t have the power or ability to do that. As much as I wanted to give him the same teen years my other two had experienced, and spare them all the pain of the loss, I don’t have that power. I had to let it go.
That was when I became ready to make the best decision for our family.
What took me so long to get real?