Moving

I was 18, a freshman in college, and painfully sure of myself. I was there on scholarship – National Merit Scholars (that’s right – and it shocks me that I waited over a month to introduce that fact here online) went to my undergrad institution gratis. So I was smart, had my life figured out, was making friends, and lived close enough to see my family often.

In fact, I was on my way to see my family then. Pulling off onto a side street and parking behind Aunt & Uncle’s car, I headed toward the house where I spent my first 6 years. My parents decided to move after Brother was born, and bought the house I’m currently sitting in.

They rented the old house for a couple years, then discovered friends of friends who wanted to buy it contract for deed. I don’t understand exactly how things work, and recall that I was young, probably around 9, when this all began. But I saw it as kind of a rent to own arrangement. The Olds would pay my parents each month, and there was a contract where they had to insure and pay taxes on the property, and the couple and their 3 children would live in the old house. After enough payments were made, they would own the property outright.

I think it worked fine for about a year. Then the checks stopped coming. Mom would call, then when the phone was disconnected, would go over to see what was happening. We quickly learned that they were mired in debt, and eventually they stopped paying my parents completely. The last straw for Mom was when he was condescending. We don’t tolerate that well at all in my family.

Our assumption was that since they violated the contract, they would move out, we would sell the house and things would be fine. That seemed the fair way to resolve the situation. But bankruptcy and other legal issues kept them in the house for 8 years when my parents received little, if any, payment. They kept at it though, paying a lovely lawyer who diligently worked at getting the old house back for us.

I never went to court, but it always upset my mom. We never got the results we wanted – they continued to get chance after chance to make payments and tried to put themselves in a more reasonable financial situation. They would lie to the judge outright – claim they had loans, other jobs, alternate sources of income. But when it came time to pay, money never materialized. My parents were relieved when they saw the same judge twice in a row. The third time, he warned, would mean eviction.

The third time had come, and I had arrived at the house to move their things out. My parents understood that they would refuse to leave, and had planned to move their belongings out of the house. I was going to help because I was family, but also because I felt they deserved it. I had been angered on my parents behalf – what gives someone the right to take advantage of such great people?! – and was eager to express some of that irritation.

Until I saw the front lawn, littered after only an hour with bags and boxes full of clothing, bedroom furniture, shoes, and toiletries. A police officer was stationed at the front, and I learned another was located at the side door. I was appalled immediately, stopping to look around, standing still at the enormity of what was happening, until Mom saw me and motioned me inside.

She introduced me to the officer at the door, but I couldn’t make eye contact. We needed the money – I knew that. My parents had bought that house, paid for it over 10 years, made improvements. They deserved compensation when someone else moved in. But to do this? Pack up someone else’s things and put them outside? Where people could see?

I remember the little girl’s room most clearly. I’ve largely blocked the rest of the house – the roaches that moved under the carpet, the stench of the basement where they kept their dogs, the thick grime that coated the kitchen as we packed dishes and food. I remember thinking we should find them a cooler for the perishable items. The fact that their milk could go bad upset me greatly, though it only took a glance outside to see they had bigger problems.

But their youngest child, a girl, was perhaps 5 years younger than I was. She had a pink bedroom set, and her shoes were neatly lined along one wall. A pair of ballet slippers, one pair of dress shoes, brown boots, and pink boots for snowy days. Her clothing all neatly hung or placed in the drawers of her dresser. I think she had a single picture of her with some friends in an inexpensive frame. But everything was lovely.

She was there when the police came to notify them that they had to leave, my mom later told me. The parents weren’t around, and had apparently disregarded the earlier notices that had been posted. So the 2 youngest children, one my age, the other Brother’s age, were home alone. Crying, my mom said, tearing up herself, shocked at the thought of being forced out of their home.

I walked out of the girl’s room after hearing that. I wasn’t able to cope with touching her things – so lovingly cared for – and putting them outside. Instead, as punishment, I went to the basement where the smell of waste stole my ability to breathe, and carried up items I don’t remember save their weight. I then tackled the garage on one corner of the property.

It was repugnant – everything about it. I returned to the dorm, snuck down the hall to my room, and threw the clothes I had worn away. They were old anyway – work clothes worn to a job I thought I wanted to do, but was actually incapable of handling – and I could never have worn them again. Then I showered, spending long minutes crying and trying to remove the smell from my hands and arms, attempting to forget that I had played a role in someone’s horror, and trying to determine if what we had done was right.

Praying always gave me comfort, and continues to do so. But I got stuck on one line – many use trespasses, but our church never had.

“…Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors...”

I helped move Aunt and Uncle today. They built a house out of town, and it’s exquisite. And as I tread across the hardwood floors, put groceries in a stainless steel refrigerator, and lined up shoes they don’t often use in an extra bedroom closet, I thought about the Olds and their little girl. In her 20s now, I hope she’s well. I hope that someone out there gave her the confidence that I have that the world is benevolent, full of good people who want what’s fair and right and kind. That there are infinite possibilities, and that each path has some joyous turns and some rocky climbs.

But I didn’t show her that. And I still wonder if there will come a time when I won’t be forgiven my debts. I certainly don’t deserve to be. But God knows my weakness, understands how very sorry I am, and I’m sure answered my prayer to watch over her and hers and He cares for me and mine. For tonight though, my sore legs and back match a twinge on my conscience, the former from moving today, the latter from a time long ago.