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NOTE: Saturday is Prose & Poetry Day here on the blog, a time to take a moment once a week to relax the mind, open the heart, and access the soul through the gift of prose from one of the many books of The New Spirituality, and through the poetry of m. Claire, author of the forthcoming volume, Openings.
This week’s prose…another excerpt from Moments of Grace…
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BILL TUCKER LEARNED THE LESSON OF FAITH THIRTY YEARS AGO, a lesson he has never forgotten. He has called upon it many times to remind himself that nothing is impossible. Only one thing is required. Belief.
In those days Bill had never sold a house, although he had an agent’s license and managed a real estate office. He would often stay late in the evenings to be available to the agents coming in from their evening showings. It was his responsibility to review the Offers to Purchase, and he didn’t want to hold up any deals—or lose any–by not being available on the spot.
Ten o’clock, however, was late enough for any office to be open, he decided one night as he glanced at his watch and yawned. I’m heading home, he told himself. I’m calling it a night. But then he heard voices coming from the front of the office. I must have forgotten to lock the door, he told himself as he rose to investigate.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized to the young couple he found standing at the counter, “the office is closed.” They were a diminutive pair—she barely five-feet tall and he only slightly higher. Two small children hovered shyly behind them.
“Well, the lights are on,” the small woman observed. And you’re here, aren’t you?” she added sweetly.
“Yes,” Bill answered, “But, you see, I’m the manager, not an agent. I’m just waiting for the agents to return so that I can close up for the night.”
“We’re the Johnsons…Ted and Amy. We need to buy a home tonight, so you will have to help us,” she insisted.
“Why tonight, Mrs. Johnson?” Bill asked.
She took a breath. “Because we have to move in tomorrow.”
It was all Bill could do to stop from rolling his eyes.
“That’s impossible, madam,” he smiled patiently. “First of all, even if you were to find a house you like at this time of night, we would have to submit an offer to the owner. Then we’d have to wait for a possible counter-offer. After that, you have to apply to the bank for a mortgage. The house has to be appraised, and the bank must qualify you. There is absolutely no way you can move into a house in less than six weeks.”
There, that should explain it adequately enough, he thought. People never failed to amaze Bill. He chuckled inwardly. Did she actually think she could march in here at ten o’clock at night and get anywhere with this ridiculous notion?
He opened his mouth to suggest that perhaps she should come back tomorrow so that he could introduce her to an agent who might be able to help her, but Mrs. Johnson apparently had other ideas.
“Oh, it won’t be any problem at all. We’ll be able to buy a house tonight,” she said.
Okay, Bill thought. Maybe they have the cash for a house. That, of course, would certainly expedite the process. “Oh? Why is that?” he asked politely in response.
“Because I asked God to give us a home by morning, and He never lets me down.”
“I see. Well, even if I had an agent available, it’s way too late tonight to look at anything.”
She didn’t seem to get his point. “You are licensed, aren’t you?” she persisted.
Bill answered that he was. “But I’ve never sold a home and am not expert enough at this for you to trust.”
“You believe in God, don’t you?”
Bill smiled indulgently. “Sure. On that issue there’s no question. But…”
She interrupted, “Do you believe in miracles?”
“Well…yes.” Bill has, in fact, experienced many of what he considered to be amazing occurrences in his life.
Mrs. Johnson drew herself up, stuck out her chest, and said, “Look. I prayed today and asked God to give me a home…um, could we just sit down?” Bill nodded, pointing to a couple of seats in front on an agent’s desk. He sat in the chair behind it. “I asked God,” the woman went on, “to give us a home that we could move into by morning.”
Bill’s eyebrows shot up.
“We have nowhere to live,” Mrs. Johnson said simply.
“We thought we’d bought a house on contract from a little old lady here in the city that agreed to finance it for us. We’re from about 200 miles north, but my husband just found a job here, so we packed up and moved. When we arrived, the lady wasn’t out yet…and when we asked her when she would be leaving, she said she wasn’t going to be leaving. She thought she was making a deal with us to live with her. So, she’s put us up in her basement.”
Bill whistled softly, shaking his head. “That’s a very strange tale,” he offered. In his 20 years in business he’d heard lots of horror stories, and this one qualified for a place near the top of the list.
Mrs. Johnson continued, “Of course, we can’t live in this lady’s basement. We have our children here. We’ve been washing daily at the gas station restroom down the street. Tonight I asked God for a miracle because we can’t go on like this. So we’ve been driving around looking for an open real estate office. And here you are!”
Through the front window Bill could see the couple’s old, beat-up car in the parking lot. “How much money do you have for a down-payment?” He almost didn’t want to hear the answer.
“Oh, we don’t have any money at all. Ted has been unable to work for the past ten years. You see, he’s a recovering alcoholic and we’re getting a new start, but it’s not easy. I’ve been working part-time as a waitress.”
This situation is getting worse, Bill thought. How in the world do they think they can buy a home with no money?
“You’ve been supporting your family on a waitress’ salary? Why were you only working part-time?” Bill wondered aloud.
“I had to,” Mrs. Johnson explained, “in order to volunteer at my church. That’s important to me. But we get by…that’s not the problem. The problem is, we have nowhere to live. And you know, we’re not picky. We’ll take the least expensive house we can find.”
“Why not just find some place to rent?” Bill suggested. “Get back on your feet, pull some money together and save for a place.”
“We’ve been renting for years,” the woman dismissed. “It’s time we had a place of our own. And we can, with God’s help. Look how he brought us to you!”
Yeah, well, good luck, lady, Bill thought. At the same time, he was intrigued by the strong faith this woman was exhibiting. And, he mused, who was he to interfere with her miracle? He took out his multiple listings book. Might as well at least see what there is to see, he told himself with an inward sigh…

“Well, here’s one for $54,000. It’s not in the nicest part of town, but it’s a pretty low price. How much will your husband be making in his new job?”
Mr. Johnson had been quiet up to this point, but now he spoke up.
“I’m darned lucky to have a job at all. I’m starting as a janitor tomorrow, making six bucks hour.”
Bill looked askance at both of them. “That’s not much,” he observed. Getting out his calculator, he punched in a few numbers. “Less than $12,500 a year.”
The man nodded.
Bill said, “The most you can afford on that salary is a $36,000 house. There just aren’t any houses in that price range. And even if there were, the bank is going to require a down payment. All this is very unlikely, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson.”
“But, you said you believed in miracles,” Mrs. Johnson said quietly.
“Yes,” Bill smiled meekly, “but I didn’t say I could perform them.”
The couple only stared at him. Okay, he thought. I’ll just have to prove how impossible this is going to be. He picked up the phone and dialed the realtor listing the house he’d just talked about. “We’ll make an offer,” he said, but he already knew what the outcome would be.
The realtor was delighted with the call at first. Bill saw from the listings book that the house had been on the market for over a year, so he expected this reaction. But when the realtor heard that the offer was $36,000, Bill got the second reaction he’d expected. She became indignant. Bill had to insist that she convey the offer to the owner, reminding her of the law stating that all bona fide offers must be presented.
A few moments later, the realtor called back. “The owner has a counter-offer,” she said, less annoyed now that at least some kind of deal seemed possible. “It’s a God one. $45,000. I think you should take it.”
“Thank you,” Bill replied sincerely. “But let me explain the situation here. My clients have no money put aside, and they earn no money to speak of. They’ll be lucky to find a bank that will loan them the 36-thousand, much less 45.”
“I’m sure my owner won’t accept that,” the woman realtor said matter-of-factly.
Bill replied, “You don’t have the right to make that assessment. You’re required to present our counter counter-offer.“ He was starting to get into the spirit of the negotiation. This might be an interesting exercise, after all.
The realtor rang back in five minutes. “I’ve made the offer and the owners are willing to have me show the house. We think that when the buyers see it, they’ll want to meet our price.”
“I don’t think they can,” Bill told her again.
“I’ve seen stranger things happen,” the selling realtor said. “Let’s show the house.”
“Okaaay,” Bill agreed, and said goodbye. He told the Johnsons what was up. They just sat there, smiling. Bill could hardly believe they’d gotten this far. Of course, in the morning they would all understand the futility of this exercise, but that was part of the real estate business. They were nice people, and he was willing to go through the process with them until they got the picture.
The next morning as Bill drove to the house, he was unhappily imagining what it would most probably look like. It was, after all, the cheapest house on the market, and in the very worst part of town. The street was full of potholes. Abandoned cars and unkempt lawns were everywhere. Bill sighed as he pulled up to a modest front gate.
The selling realtor was waiting for him, the Johnsons standing with her, looking hopeful. He dreaded how sad they were going to be. Bill was glad his job didn’t usually entail selling houses and having to sometimes be the instrument of peoples’ disappointment.
As the realtor swung open the gate, Bill caught his breath. The little house was lovely! Mr. and Mrs. Johnson smiled broadly. It was an adorable red and white Cape Cod, complete with dormers and shutters on all the windows. When they entered through the front door, Bill noted new carpet and linoleum. All the woodwork had been stripped and stained, there were new appliances and brand new cabinetry in the tiny kitchen. The house was immaculate and fully decorated with new furniture, which would be going with this house, in all the rooms. It was a jewel!
“We’ll take it!” Mrs. Johnson blurted happily.
“Great. Let’s drive over to the owner’s home and conclude the negotiations,” the realtor beamed.
The little party caravanned its way out of the slum-like neighborhood into a lovely suburb, pulling up before a spacious ranch. The troupe was met at the front door by a bear of a man dressed in overalls. “Good day to you. I’m Jerry Rockwell,” he greeted them warmly, and led them into a cheery kitchen where his wife was pouring coffee for everyone.
When they were settled in chairs, Mr. Rockwell looked Mr. Johnson square in the eye. “What’s the matter with you, mister? Why aren’t you willing to provide at least the minimum basic house for your family at a reasonable price?”
“Well, sir, “ started Mr. Johnson, looking down at his cup, “I am willing. My realtor here says I just can’t afford any more.” He was having difficulty with Rockwell’s confrontive approach. “You see,” he went on, “I am a recovering alcoholic. I’ve been unemployed for the last ten years. But I’m sober now, and I just got a new job over at the Harnischfeger Plant.”
Mr. Rockwell looked surprised. “Harnischfeger! Who hired you over there?”
“A nice fella by the name of Rogers. Charley Rogers.”
Rockwell stood up and extended his hand. “You can have the house for $36,000!”
Bill almost choked on his coffee. “Excuse me,” he interrupted as soon as he caught his breath. “We’re not even sure we can find a bank to give them a loan.”
“No problem,” came the answer, “I’ll finance it myself.”
“Mr. Rockwell,” Bill continued, “this buyer hasn’t even been qualified.”
“Just who are you representing, Mr. Tucker?” the owner of the house now asked. Then his voice softened. “Look, I just retired from Harnischfeger’s maintenance department after 36 years. Charley Rogers came to me fifteen years ago, a reformed alcoholic. I took a chance on him, and he worked out just fine. If this man’s good enough for Charley, he’s good enough for me. I am giving him the house for his price right here and now!”
Now the two realtors looked at each other in disbelief. Second cups of coffee were offered all around, and Rockwell began telling the story of the house that was soon to belong to Mr. and Mrs. Johnson — a house, it turned out, that was very dear to his heart.
His father had built the home, and George Rockwell lived his entire life there, marrying and eventually raising his own family in the dwelling. He’d done all the remodeling work himself. His wife had picked out the carpet and the new furniture. The only reason he and Mrs. Rockwell felt compelled to finally move was that they wanted to invest their money in something a little more substantial since their son, who suffered from Down’s syndrome, would have on-going financial needs.
The Johnson’s were glowing now, and as the morning sun poured through the windows, Bill felt a little tear squeeze from the corner of his eye even as he noticed the selling realtor dabbing at her mascara.
“Can we move in today?” Amy Johnson inquired hopefully.
Rockwell reached into the pocket of his overalls and pulled out a set of keys. “Be my guest!” he grinned, and put them in Mrs. Johnson’s hand.
She looked over at Bill and winked. He winked back. So this is what selling homes — and what life — is about, he thought. Just one miracle after another.
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This week’s gift of poetry
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It’s as if we lost a child
even as we held it,
rocking it
clothed & warm.
And now we hold
a Grief between us.
It wails; it goes quiet.
We tiptoe through
the rooms
afraid
that it is either
awake
or
sleeping again,
not knowing
which is worse.
The first –
the one we lost,
was named Innocence.
The second –
the one we try to love –
Shame.
But God trusts us with every child…
(Every Child – m. claire – copyright 2007 – all rights reserved)

For more of the work of this new American poet, go to www.mclairepoet.com.