The Address Shift

I made a shift last week. A shift in the way I think and possibility in the way I feel.  I became a homeowner again.  I took the plunge and signed hundreds of white pages of bland, boring documents that will lock me down in debt for the next 30 years, if I so desire.  Before the signing of these documents, I located, scanned and emailed my life history over the past two years in order to qualify for the opportunity and privilege to sign these documents.  As a homeowner, I’m responsible for securing, and maintaining a safe physical environment while obeying the neighborhood rules and the county’s requirements.  To say the least, it’s quite a responsibility. A responsibility that I truly never saw transpiring in the last 5 years since I had to move from the home I shared with my late husband.

Our neighborhood

My former home was in a beautiful, older neighborhood in a community of original residents.   Most of these residents moved in the neighborhood because it was built in the ‘70’s by an African-American developer that sought decent houses for people “redlined” in the city.  So he built those wonderful large homes and it became a haven for professional African Americans.  We lucked out and found a house for sale and without hesitation, put a purchase offer on it, knowing that others would quickly discover this jewel of a house.  We spent 20 wonderful years in that neighborhood enjoying my spacious gardens and large trees.  A neighborhood without backyard fences,that encouraged me to cross over and chat with neighbors on either side of our lot.  We relished being a part of an established, settled neighborhood, with generations of kids growing up and providing the next generation of grandkids a safe place to ride and play.

Then tragically in 2015 I became a statistic.  One of those widows left struggling financially after my husband died suddenly.  Research says over 72% of widows are left challenged financially, with either less money or less financial skills to accurately handle the influx of financial decisions.  I was left with both situations, as my husband handled all the finances and I was left with 2/3 less monthly income.

Over the past 5 years, I have found “reluctant refuge” in a rented townhouse in a nice neighborhood not far from our other house.  A neighborhood with fences and people quickly entering their homes to avoid eye contact and discussions. A neighborhood with assigned parking spaces and homeowner association rules to help keep everyone civil.  While extremely thankful for being able to safely grieve in this townhouse, I so, so miss my former home.  The neighbors, the block parties, my wonderful, beautiful flowering gardens, all within the safety of others.

The transition

In September, my landlord suggested I look into purchasing the rented townhome. After all, I had lived peacefully in the past 5 years, tending to every possible leaks, hole and situation. Although I treated it like my own, no way did I allow myself the luxury of “being permanent” with residential roots.  In my mind, I am still a wounded, uprooted widow, living on the verge of what ever tragic event comes my way.  Truly, I didn’t even think I could qualify for a mortgage loan,  as I had lost so much stuff and my financial situation had changed.  But as God would have it- I did qualify and to my unbelief, I became another homeowner!  My Christmas gift to my daughter and me.  A place we can call home.  No packing, no moving, no resettling- just a mind shift to an owner.  Five years to the month we moved in as renters.

I know my husband would be proud to know I settled into a good neighborhood, intent to make new roots with nice neighbors in a safe home. I believe it will continue to be my refuge in a troubled world.  Sure I miss my old neighborhood, but that’s the past and I will always have those memories.  Now I’m going to make different memories, uphold past family transitions and be thankful we have an address to call our own.