Notes on a move? Did I not just write a whole series with that title less than two years ago? Yes, and yes.
This afternoon, if everything goes according to plan, Mr. S. and I will sign on about a thousand dotted lines and become homeowners.
Yes, homeowners. My fingers are wobbly as I type this. This feels overwhelming and exciting and humbling, all at once. I haven’t shared the news with many yet. God has used this entirely unexpected experience, and I find myself more keenly aware of God’s grace and provision, and humbled in it all.
As with many big moments like these, there’s a big story behind it. So for the next few days, I’ll be telling you the story.
It’s a long story, and it begins with a bat . . .
Less than a year after the epic move, Mr. S. and I were laying in bed one night at 3 am. His eyes were closed. Mine? Not so much. Given the aforementioned Great Mouse Incident of 2011, I knew the noise of a pest when I heard it.
Babe. Babe, I think there’s a mouse. I poked him.
He murmured something. I didn’t shut up.
Really, Babe. Hear that noise? It’s a mouse. We have to look for it.
It’s just birds, he said, and promptly rolled over.
NOT BIRDS, Babe. NOT BIRDS.
And then, a thud. A big holy-moly-we’re-not-the-only-two-here thud. The investigation wasn’t long: Mr. S. slammed the bathroom door.
BECAUSE THERE WAS A BAT IN THE BATHROOM.
(And I definitely had to pee, but that’s besides the point.)
So where do we run when we have a bat and don’t know what to do about it? The Internet, that’s where. It’s 3:30 am at that point and I’m googling and yelping and flipping through my mental Rolodex. Twenty-four hour pest control places weren’t picking up the phone. And the city had no pest folks on call until 8 am.
At four, Mr. S. got in touch with our property manager, and then our landlord. Around six, our landlord came by to save us. Gloves, long sleeves, boots, a big broom, a plastic tub, the works. Pretty much Ghostbusters, bat edition.
Things get fuzzy at this point: while Mr. S. and the landlord went to work, I locked myself in the office. I wanted no part of any of this. I heard flapping, I heard brooms, I heard footsteps . . . but saw nothing, and that’s exactly how I wanted it . . .
. . Twenty minutes later, Mr. S. and the landlord emerged, victorious. They’d set the bat free a few blocks away. The creepiest part of the experience was over, over, over.
As we thanked him profusely, we had a big conversation about what would happen next with our lease. It was set to expire soon, and so we agreed on a six month lease, going month-to-month after that, and we’d have to give 45 days’ notice before we vacated. We shook hands; sounded good to us. Later, we signed the lease for the six-plus months.
Now hit fast forward on that tape recorder, okay? Fast forward through getting Chaco, through Influence, the busiest time for my business, a few business trips for Mr. S., passing away of a family member, Christmas, my birthday, our anniversary . . .
(Still there? Hope so.)
. . And one Tuesday evening in early March, we heard a knock at our door. We weren’t expecting anyone. Mr. S. answered and a pretty gregarious man introduced himself.
He asked for a woman and a man, whose names just happened to be our landlord and his wife. DUN DUN DUN.
He introduced himself as their realtor, and he was there to sell the house.
Come back tomorrow for the rest of the story . . .