A Home of Her Own

Post Author: Laurie M. Brock

I blamed the puddle on the kitchen floor on my dog Sophie, who sat, wagging her tail and gleefully chewing on her bone as I ranted about her apparent issues with appropriate places to pee. Then I felt the
drip on my head. A quick sniff of the liquid I’d just mopped up was further proof that the puddle of water was from my leaking roof.

Yip – pee.

Oh, the joys of homeownership.

At least I live in a condominium, which means instead of stressing over roof repairs all by myself, I can call the front office, tell them of my newly acquired in-home water feature, then stress until it gets fixed. I became a home owner about a year ago, when I accepted a new call. My accountant, my parents, and my own common sense told me that I could afford to buy.

I would appreciate the break on the irrationally high clergy income tax, and I would not end up like many of the clergy I knew who were retiring in their mid-60’s with no place to live because they’d spent their life in church-owned rectories. So I did the most sensible thing a first-time home buyer could do – I came to my new city and allowed two days to buy a home. Sure, I did some research, and I did pre-qualify for a mortgage. But I decided that I’d have faith in the help of a new parishioner who, thanks be to God, was also a realtor.

Sometimes I push this faith in God a bit. 

After a frantic day of looking at homes with kitchens from the 1960’s, yards that resembled the deepest Amazon jungle rather than suburban Louisiana, and foundations with cracks like gullies, my faith wavered. A few more tours of homes of former smokers who scented their home via Marlboro and cat owners who allowed kitties to use the front living room as the litter box, and I wondered if a complete crying fit would be inappropriate in front of a new parishioner/realtor.

Then we looked at the condominiums, which were the last resort on my list. Three condos later, I found my new home. I never thought I’d own a condominium, but I fell in love with the screened back gallery and marble counter tops and the idea that I was the first to live here. No smokers, no feral cats, just me. After signing several thousand papers, I took the keys to my new home.

Okay, it wasn’t quite that easy. I endured the credit check and all the last minute snags that inevitably come with purchasing a home, including a frantic dash to the bank for a certified check for $38.17 because cash was not allowed. Then, I signed several thousand papers and received the keys.

After a short drive to my new home, I opened the door to the empty space, sat down on the newly-installed hardwood floors, and cried. All this was my responsibility, from hanging the curtains on
blazingly bare windows to fixing the pulls on the ceiling fans that were absent, and I’m not even that adept with a mop. The frightening words “sole responsibility” flashed before my eyes, and I felt sick.

This would all be so much easier if I had a husband. Wasn’t that on the rules of life for me? I was supposed to buy my first house with my husband, and he was supposed to know what to look for in a home and how to fix windows that don’t open and sinks that leak and all those boy things they’re supposed to know. That was the plan.

But God, as She usually does, reminds me that I don’t write the plan. My plan in college was to be a married agnostic, probably an English professor or an FBI agent (nothing like related career choices). I didn’t believe in religion then. I believed in spirituality, which meant I liked to believe in God on my terms without the annoying voices of others interjecting their experiences and thoughts which were likely different from mine. My boyfriend didn’t believe in God at all.

We talked of our plans, which were vague and mostly ungrounded, and we were in love. Then we weren’t in love, because love that’s vague and ungrounded eventually dissipates. In my alone-ness, I went to law school to become Episcopalian.

Then, eventually, a priest.

And now, some years later, a single priest who is also a homeowner staring at a puddle of water coming from her ceiling.

But I am a priest. I hold the hands of the dying and I baptize babies. I’ve married people who were young and in that vague, ungrounded love who showed up in my office months or years later wondering why grounding love is so difficult. I preach the gospel to those who want to hear an exclusive version of it and stand in the fire of their wrath and invite them into the still center of community. I’ve marched for the rights of the disempowered and laughed with young people over South Park episodes.

I am a priest, and I am a woman, and I am not married. God tells me that those are descriptions of me and not definitions of my limits. I can figure out how to hang my curtains (I did). I can fix my leaky faucet, and I’ve learned when to call a repair person (anything electrical). I’ve discovered that I am capable of caulking bathtubs and fixing clogged drains, even painting a room or two.

In my life, in my home, and in my vocation, God reminds me that I, like all of humanity, am capable of much more than I often think.

My leaky roof will be fixed, much more easily than some lives of my parishioners.

I find my mop and soak up the water. Sophie chases the mop, and I feel God’s laughter as She tells me to look at what I did, on my own.