The Courage it Takes to Lose a House

I was born by the sea. As a small child,  I would sometimes sit by the ocean and stare sleepy eyed through sandy eyelids out into the great unknown. I would squint my eyes and peer into the horizon until I got lost in it. I would imagine that the grey flickering shape in the far-away-distance was ... England? Africa? What was out there? Who was on that other side staring out towards me? What was their life like? Could I swim there? Probably not. But what would it look like out on the great expansive ocean in the monotonous grey unknown? 

Last week, with intense and careful planning, my husband and I managed to escape our life in the city with our 6 children, during a pandemic. We ran off to the sea. We were celebrating 9 years of marriage, and really hadn't had a moment alone, let alone together, alone, since our entire family went on Stay-At-Home orders (for us) March 12. We had a lovely weekend. Moments that will stick with me forever, are walking along the beach at night and just hearing the roaring waves, and feeling all the stress and anxiety I've carried around just melt away. Nursing school from my dining room table, while my children cried into their homework, melted away. My husband working from home on top of a pile of laundry in our bedroom, melted away. 8 people living on top of each other in without a single dedicated space for me to hide my introverted brain, drifted out to sea. Children who need us every single minute of every hour of every day, melted away. A child with special needs, requiring intense sensory input, but no therapies or anywhere to get that outlet, melted away. The thought of returning to school in person, or teaching them from my dining room while I cried into my coffee again...  Fredy leaving our home in just a few short weeks for college, gone. The only thing that registered was the roaring sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, and the intense darkness of the night sky which swallowed us up. Big Dipper. Little Dipper. O' Ryan's Belt - shooting stars sealed the moment, and I said out loud... "what if we just lived here? What are we waiting for?" My husband put his arm around me. 

I don't think I ever planned to leave the city. The thought of a quiet, suburban life where all the houses look the same, and all the neighbors look the same... It just doesn't feel good to me. Philosophically, I've always felt a strong pull to live in a diverse neighborhood and to have my children grow up in a world filled with colorful people, and noise, and bright lights. Morally, there is this issue of "White Flight", with white families fleeing the cities when things feel too chaotic for whatever idyllic life they've reserved for whats good enough for their children. Don't get me wrong... there isn't anything wrong with wanting to live in a safe, comfortable neighborhood. But not everyone has the same access to that, and when white families with resources leave mixed neighborhoods it widens the socio-economic gap and creates divides that unfortunately marginalize groups and enforce systemic racist policies. I just can't be about that. 

9 years ago, my husband and I walked into a big ole' 110 year old house, in a diverse neighborhood dubbed the "PhD Ghetto" and we giggled with newly-wed delight. "We are going to fill this house up with babies!". We went from 2 to 4 in a single day. Over the next 3 years we endured 5 pregnancies (2 losses), and eventually doubled in size again, with the addition of an adopted teenaged son. ALL BLESSINGS. Even the losses counted in fortifying our marriage and stretching the yawning hallways of our hearts. My husband changed jobs 3 times, and I changed careers twice - From Relationship Manager, to Stay at Home Mom, to Nursing Midwifery student. The change didn't always come easy for us, sometimes we went down kicking and screaming. But we had a pattern of trusting the process and not being afraid of the unknown. 

But over time, as happens, we became overwhelmed with the busyness of our complex life. Our children committed to amazing public schools in the far reaches of town. Driving our kids to school became a 3 hour round trip on any given Tuesday. Was it worth it? Absolutely. I convinced myself that we could never afford Private School, and even if we could, again, philosophically, that just wasn't our bag.  So, as with any education if you can't pay with money, you pay with time. The commute, and time I spent on the PTA, as classroom mom, and otherwise invested in my childrens' diverse, language immersion school was merely, paid dues. Our house required constant care, and we poured what little money and time we had left into it over the years. No matter how much money and time we put into it, it was never enough - and became a constant source of anxiety for us. 

Suddenly, sitting there together in the darkness in front of the great expansive sea, it became painfully obvious to the both of us. We didn't have to try so hard. What matters is we are together, and safe, and simple sounds like a luxury that we possibly can afford. We searched for houses on the web the next day. We called a random agent, and booked 5 showings for Sunday, mostly in jest as the power of the moment wore off. 

Sunday came, and we reluctantly gathered our wit for the showings. I almost canceled. Twice. "Why are we doing this? We can't move. Not in the midst of a pandemic. Sofia is a senior in high school." Phil looked at me. "Because we are in the midst of a pandemic, this is actually possible." He was right. This was no ordinary year. Phil's job had flexed into a remote position for the foreseeable future. Nursing school was online. School was starting off virtual. In an ordinary year we could not have stretched our imaginations into some far out coastal-town-life. But in this special moment of time, we could. So we showed up. 

We looked at all 5 houses, and they were just... houses. Except one. One we walked into and we instantly connected to it. It's funny what a home will bring out of you. Phil and I walked in and imagined all the days of our life living out within the walls of this home, instantly. We were home.  We walked through the smaller, comfortable, tastefully decorated musings of someone else's dream, and we just knew we could spend the rest of our days in this quiet neighborhood 10 minutes from the sea. We left that property and immediately prayed. We asked the Lord to put us in that house or shut the door quickly - if it wasn't meant for us. We spent the  next 2 days scrawling facts and figures and were surprised at how easily everything lined up. We called the agent. We put an offer in. It was strong and fair, and one that we felt good about. "OK" she said, "but 2 other people called today and want to put offers in". "Hmmm, OK" we said, dubious. 

Over the next few days we continuously prayed. It never felt more then a 50/50 shot, but it was likely the most peace I've felt in a long while. To completely give yourself to fate, and trust that wherever the chips land, that is exactly where you are supposed to be, well, it was glorious and exciting, humbling and somehow made us feel very small against these roaring waves. If we got the house, it'd mean we'd have 3 weeks to put our house up for sale, pack, and move. If we didn't get the house, it'd mean we were committing to another 2 years, at least, in Philly... because I'd lock into my Fall Nursing program. It truly was a special flicker of time that could pivot the entire trajectory of our lives. To be aware of this special pocket of time, and living fully into it... was truly a special gift.  What a house of cards we all live in pretending we are creating something, when really, we are just blowing in the wind of our own choices and circumstance. It is WILD. 

So, I don't have to tell you that the offer went to a "Best and Final Foot Forward". My husband and I were authentic and thoughtful about what made the most sense for our family, but also considerate and ethical. I had no misgivings that ours would be the strongest. Bidding wars are just not our style. But, we are a family of faith, and so we put together a beautiful letter of intention, and submitted it with our final offer. We waited. We checked in with each other. We both felt like the house would become ours. Not arrogantly, but because we just felt the power of the Spirit moving this entire process. It wasn't too much longer until we got the call. The house went to the highest bidder. It wasn't us. Yes, disappointment rose up in my throat, but also a peace. "Good for them" I said. "We truly wish them the best". I hung up the phone, and my husband and I smiled. Tears streamed down my face, but they weren't because we "lost" the house. My husband put his arm around me. 

"Look at us" I said. "Look how much courage we have. We saw a moment that could change our life, and without question we went for it with our whole heart." "You're right." He said. "And you know what else? I love you here, or there, and our life is what we create it to be." 

The next day, we received a letter from the Sellers of the house. It explained how much they honored our letter, and how much they connected with our story. It broke their heart, they said, to give the house to another couple. But in the end it came down to business. We understood. They closed the letter with "It's funny what a house brings out of our souls. But we know what is meant to be ours, always finds a way to us". And yes, somehow I know that to be true. Nothing has changed, but we have changed. Our complex life has already melted into a peaceful simplicity as we survey what we already have, and begin again with new eyes, from where we are.

Thank you Cape May, for an experience I will take with me forever. 
And only God knows, where the next chapter will take us. 

Cocooning

Sometimes I wonder whether I would've done this, become a parent, if I'd known about this kind of love. Mostly, and obviously, I think: Of course. Don't be silly. But sometimes my love for this child feels almost like an affliction. Like my heart is in the fist of a beast, and I'm utterly helpless. Some tiny thing will catch my attention... Sofia quietly watching a squirrel at the feeder, or the way her lips look while she's sleeping and that love feeling will start to bang around inside my chest like a huge, flapping bird.

Just tonight, I was helping Sofia dry off after her bath, and I noticed the pale blue veins that run under the skin of her lower back, like marble. She was babbling away in full color ("Do you think if I mixed vinegar and spices and green oil, I could actually make peas?"), but just for a second the sight of those veins and of her blood coursing so visibly through her made her seem so fragile, and made life itself feel so precarious.

Which, of course, it is and it isn't. This love it's like an ocean of joy, but with an undertow that's something else. Grief, maybe, or fear. In Shakespeare plays, all those characters who are just stricken with love are always tossing out expressions like "over-fond." That's how I feel about this child of mine.

Yesterday, I arrived to Sofia's after-school early for pickup, so I secretly watched her on the playground for a while. Being a systematic rule-follower, my daughter is very intent on staying in the same after-care program, year after year. And many times, early on in the school year, most of the kids are strangers to her. They'll get close enough before the school year is over, but for now, she is a little shy. She observes everything intently, seems to enjoy herself, and talks a blue streak as soon as she gets in the car ("Gracie threw me an invisible star today? And I caught it andphhtttstuck it right here to my forehead."). Her teachers, who are lovely and really seem together, tell me that Sofia is very friendly and empathetic, but that she often keeps to herself not that this is a problem, just a tendency they notice.

Still, sometimes Sofia tells me a little something about her day that just kills me like, she'll mention how some of the kids sit on a row of pillows during morning meeting. "Would you like to sit on the pillows, too?" I ask, and she shrugs a shy little shoulder. "Well, Imightlike to," she says, and smiles, "if someone wanted to save me a little spot one day."

But yesterday, I watched Sofia swinging by herself on the swing, raising her head up to look around every now and then, watching the other kids streaming by in noisy packs, and my heart just seized up. It's so hard to let go of this desire to protect her to fold her up and stuff her in my pocket so that she'll never get hurt. Whether or not Sofia's lonely on the playground now, certainly at some point in her life the world will turn a cold shoulder her way, and she'll need to make her own warmth. It's hard to reckon with.

We all go through this, I know the wistful side of parenting. I was in my friend Jen's office yesterday, admiring the photos of her son. Every child is a work of beauty, but hers happens to be beautiful in an illuminated oil-painting kind of way: red, red lips, shining gold ringlets. "Could you die?" I asked, and then asked again, because Jen was distracted. "Could you justdie?" She finally sighed and looked up at me. "Of course," she said. "That's how every parent feels."

Exactly. I think about the things I didn't understand at all before I had a child. Like the Pieta.

The past couple of weeks have been stressful for me, and surely she can pick up on my tension in certain areas. 

It makes me sad to think about how our idiosyncrasies can wholly affect our children's perception of us and the world at large. I know with certainty that I haven't been perfect on this journey. Surely, I have been selfish at times. And often my emotions ruled, bringing poor judgement into play. 


Also it isn't always easy being a single mother. It isn't always tough either, if you have the right kind of support...  but, it definitely brings things to a whole other dynamic in regards to truth and consequences. It's a whole other kind of game. 

This last weekend, I took Sofia to the beach to relax. My hope was that we could just spend some time away from the city, and chaos and just be on a new adventure together. We mostly accomplished that,  although not without colliding headfirst with a situation that was years in the making, and certainly put a dark twist on the weekend.


The little darling, she didn't even notice any of that. She only seemed to notice the waves, and the fire, and the woods, and the fresh air. I tried my hardest to pay close attention to her changing moods throughout the day, and stayed present to who she is, and who she is becoming. By the end, it was her soft constance, that was soothing to me and ultimately brought me back to balance. 


It is her, Sofia, through her wonder, and laughter, and raw love, that bring me into the best version of myself. It's a strange push-pull that we are in, as mother-daughters, teachers-students. 

here is a love that I carve out myself for this tiny little person, who grew inside of me, and grows into herself every day... But that love can hardly contain itself and the line flirts dangerously close with an overwhelming fear. The kind of fear that only exists in knowing that you have something so precious, and that there is always the potential to lose that precious. The fear grows parallel with the love and hides cautiously in the shadow. It's like this big shovels just reaches into your soul and begins to create a space for this little person. You can't help but wonder what would fill that space, if that little person were to one day go away. It is like a glass tremendously full. But, at any moment, you are aware, the glass could be knocked over and become desperately empty. 




Tonight, as I tucked my daughter into bed, she asked that I put her in a cocoon. "What's that?" I asked? "You know..." she said, "It's when a Mamma puts all of her love into your blankets, and the love protects you, so you can sleep better. That's what happens with butterflies. Did you know that?"


 I kissed her forehead and tucked her in, and my heart went flapping again, around my chest like a bird.

"Yes, my dear, I did know that."