On Friday my wife Cat and I went The Escrow Office, and while a notary watched and directed us signed a trillion papers attesting to the fact that we really and truly wanted our new townhouse; that we could pay for it; that we would pay for it; that it was insured; that we wouldn’t sue anyone if it suddenly sank into the ground or floated off into space.
Today all of that should come to its fruition, and we should at some point today, in some way, from someone or other (the seller’s Realtor, I think) receive one key to our new front door and one remote control for our new garage door. At that moment the place will be ours. The months of waiting and hoping and waiting and waiting will finally be over—and we’ll nary be renters again. (We won’t move into our new place until the last week of this month. First comes the air conditioner install guy, then the painter, then the cleaners, then the carpet cleaners. Then comes we. Us. Whatever.)
I’m now a bit of a basket case. Nothing is staying in my head. I can barely imagine living in a place I actually own. Living in my own place involves an emotional paradigm shift I can ride—but that’s about it.
As a kid, my home was taken from me. That fact fed informed and helped solidify what I had already learned about life, which is that Everything Changes: Nothing is permanent; constancy is illusory. To me, the moment has always been where it’s at. That’s always been my Big Philosophy of Life—my bedrock assumption, my Constant Context. “Everything Changes” is an excellent philosophy; throughout my life it’s served me very well indeed. It definitely altered when I became a Christian—and now it’s undergoing another Major Overhaul.
Signing a 30-year lease will do that.
Anyway, today’s the day the place below becomes Exhibit B in God’s effort to present to me evidence that some things do, after all, last at least a little while.