Market Value

We sold our house this week. I think.

Our residence back in Illinois has been on the market for two years. Hip hip hooray, someone finally wants the big American foursquare that we called home before we moved to Michigan. At the time of my deadline to submit this column, the closing has not yet happened. I’m afraid of jinxing it by saying it’s a done deal. But hopefully, by the time you read this, my house will no longer be my house.

I love my house - the one that is, I think, no longer my house. It was built one hundred years ago, and Eleanor Roosevelt once had lunch there, really and truly.

The trim around doors and windows and walls is a thick golden oak – the real stuff, heavy and solid. The windows are large and numerous; most of them won’t stay open on their own, so you have to prop them open with a stick.

But that’s okay. There are a lot of things in the house that aren’t quite the way they’re supposed to be.

The screen on the big front porch with the swing that squeaks still bears witness to the day Jonah decided to “help” me paint the house. The spiders have probably moved back into the basement, down in my cool, sawdusty workroom, with the water stains from the year we had that big flood.

The wooden banister creaks and jiggles fearsomely when feet thunder up and down the main stairs. There’s the corner patch of rug that got torn up when Oscar the cat got locked in the attic and was convinced he could dig his way out. And we never did get a replacement handle for the side door, or a new knob to replace the one that broke on the farm-style kitchen sink.

I knew just how to wiggle the broken right-hand latch to open the tall kitchen cabinets, the ones that reach all the way to the ceiling. There is a large brown stain on the carpet in front of the refrigerator (who puts carpet in a kitchen??) where one of the kids decided to draw with a stick of butter.

The pocket door sticks, the one that closes off the butler’s pantry and turns it into an elevator that, if you close your eyes and open your mind, will take you up a floor and land you in the bathtub. We laid the bathroom floor tiles ourselves, you know. And they’re mostly level, except for the wiggly one in front of the sink.

The pink-on-pink stripes and polkadots in Emmalyn’s room are a little grungy, but when she was little they were a perfect backdrop for princess dresses and stuffed animals. There is a spot on the rug in Jonah’s room that is a pale tan now, much better than the red that it used to be ever since the time…well, you don’t really want to know how that spot got there. Isaac’s room still smells faintly of fish bowls and pet rats and sneakers.

I worry a little bit about these new owners. I wonder if they will see only the butter stain and the broken windows. I hope not. I want them to appreciate the real value of my wonderful house. I want them to know why it’s so special, despite all its flaws.

My house is not extraordinary, and it is not anyone’s dream house. But it is where my family lived. What has given it value is the life inside it. What makes it special is how much it is loved.

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I will make my home among them. I will be their God, and they will be my people.  Ezekiel 37:27

God. Living in me. It gives me pause.

Goodness knows I’m not a perfect place to live. I’ve got all sorts of stains and broken parts on my inside. Some of my blemishes may look okay because I’ve scrubbed over them and hidden them away from outside eyes, but I know they’re still there.

We’re not going to be able to do much to boost our own market value, you and I. As fast as we try to fix our flaws, new ones pop up. We may look good on the outside, but even a cursory inspection would reveal a multitude of problems that would defy remediation.

And yet…. And yet these imperfect hearts are where our Savior decides to dwell.

The empty cross and the empty tomb shout with Easter joy: He is not here. He is there. There, in the heart He has chosen. There, with you; accepting you, forgiving you, giving His all so you could be His.

The stains and broken parts are still inside. But, despite our imperfection, we are of infinite worth. What gives us value is what lives inside. What makes us special is how much – how incredibly, breathtakingly much – we are loved.

First published in the Alpena News, May 3, 2014

Update from the author:  We sold the house!!!