I Guess We’ll Have to Stay

“Here’s how we are going to do this,” he said matter-of-factly over the phone.  

 After living my entire life in one part of Texas or another I had accepted the call of a congregation in Des Moines, Iowa.  I didn't know the first thing about Des Moines.  Its neighborhoods were foreign lands to me; its style and norms were unknown.  But I had to find a place to live.  I had spent the better part of two weekends “house hunting” in the company of Jerry Aldrich, a longtime member of the church and even longer-time realtor, and had finally identified a potential residential candidate.  

But in the course of assembling my financials to make an offer and apply for a mortgage it became absurdly clear to Jerry that I was ill-prepared for securing a mortgage.  Having lived in church-owned parsonages up to that point, I had no equity.  My credit rating, while not altogether bad, was flaccid enough to invite any bank’s rejection.  And as for assets, there weren’t any.  As for consumer debt, there was too much. To most eyes — including my own — this all added up to a hopeless dead end.  But not to Jerry.

I have no idea how many phone calls he made, or what sales pitch he employed — all without my knowledge—but in a matter of days the phone rang.  “Here’s how we are going to do this,” he said from a thousand miles away.  He gave me the name and address of a then-faceless couple in the church and said that I would be making my monthly payments to them.  I didn’t understand the technicalities until much later, but in essence Jerry had arranged for that couple to buy the house outright and then sell it to me — at the current mortgage rate — on contract.  

And that was that.

Until about 20 years later when I once again found myself over my head with a very different real estate challenge.  His life had changed considerably in the ensuing years, as had mine; in fact it was in the process of changing, still.  

I had been claimed by the cockamamie conviction that I needed to learn how to grow food.  As the idea fleshed itself out it was obvious that the townhome in which we were living offered very few agricultural options.  Some friends had pointed out a property they thought might interest us.  And it did — at least it interested me.  Lori was the rational one who readily comprehended the lunacy of us purchasing it.  It was too big, too far, too fraught with managerial complications, and too expensive.  Nonetheless, we visited several times with the listing agent, but when it all reached the point of put up or shut up we thought we should have our own agent.  In stepped Jerry.  And when our meager offer was summarily and conclusively rejected by the sellers, Jerry waited a few compassionate seconds (to honor my disappointment and Lori’s relief) and said, “I know of some other properties that might better suit you.”

And indeed he did.  After internalizing our various criteria — our “must haves” and then our “want to haves” — Jerry methodically went to work.  Over the subsequent few weeks we placed our necks in Jerry’s yoke and visited several possibilities, ultimately settling on this one that has happily and gratefully been our home for nearly seven years.  

Throughout the process of purchase, and in the cracks and crevices of life in the subsequent years, we talked through the ups and downs of church life, world affairs, family life, cancer, ballroom dancing and soil composition.  He even gifted me several of his geology books from college.  

When I visited him last month I had to wait for him to complete the final frames of a Wii bowling tournament he was enjoying with neighbors down the hall in the care center.  Once back in his room he pointed to the calendar and noted the date by which time he was supposed to be dead:  the last day of the month.  He wasn’t morose about it.  Indeed, he was concerned that he was, thus far, too healthy to make that date.  With true business pragmatism — like he had exhibited to me for the previous 25 years — he lamented how much this heightened level of care was costing him, and how he hated the thought that those expenses would spill into a new month.

When I prepared to take my leave I asked him if he wanted me to have a prayer. After responding in the affirmative, Jerry went on to coach me as to the prayer’s needed content.  “Ask Him to move this process along.  Tell Him I’m not having any fun down here.”

Jerry missed his deadline by 18 days, a fact that no doubt rankled him.  But albeit late, he ultimately got his wish.  He always told me that he intended to beat this cancer, and at last he has succeeded.  

Whatever else his passing means, and along with my sadness and multiple layers of gratitude, I’m guessing it means that we, too, are finally home.  I don’t know how we would ever move without him.