The older I get, the more aware I am of what I like. Or so I thought. Sometimes it’s easier to determine what we don’t want. Daniel is fond of accusing me of doing this when it’s time to pick a place to eat (though I maintain I’m usually the one who plans our dates). He says he asks, “Where would you like to go?” and I’ll tell him, “Not x, y or z.” I’m not sure whether this scenario is accurate, but I know I do it in other areas of my life.
The funny thing about our Virginia Beach house hunt is that it actually began a year and a half ago. When Daniel was offered the first position he had with this company, the one that would eventually move us to Tennessee, we had the option of choosing to relocate from Baltimore to Southeastern Virginia or Nashville.
We wanted Virginia to work for a plethora of reasons, not the least of which that it was closer to almost all of our family. So for several weekends we drove aimlessly around coastal Virginia cities trying to envision our life there. And it didn’t work. Our low point came in a deserted factory parking lot in Newport News, then in a perfectly fine Chick-fil-A in Suffolk where I broke into spontaneous sobs. Even though I didn’t know what I was looking for, I knew I hadn’t found it and that we would be choosing Nashville, sight unseen, 12 hours southwest of our closest family member.
The funny thing about our Virginia Beach house hunt is that it actually began a year and a half ago. When Daniel was offered the first position he had with this company, the one that would eventually move us to Tennessee, we had the option of choosing to relocate from Baltimore to Southeastern Virginia or Nashville.
We wanted Virginia to work for a plethora of reasons, not the least of which that it was closer to almost all of our family. So for several weekends we drove aimlessly around coastal Virginia cities trying to envision our life there. And it didn’t work. Our low point came in a deserted factory parking lot in Newport News, then in a perfectly fine Chick-fil-A in Suffolk where I broke into spontaneous sobs. Even though I didn’t know what I was looking for, I knew I hadn’t found it and that we would be choosing Nashville, sight unseen, 12 hours southwest of our closest family member.
Our relationship with Nashville could be described as love at first sight (I found it kind of ridiculously easy to love), and though our transition there and to my staying home with the kids had all the loneliness and lost feelings you might expect, we came to love living there. So when it became clear that Daniel’s next promotion— the one that held the promise of almost no travel for him and a sense of geographical permanence for our family—would be to Virginia Beach, we scratched our heads. We had prayed our way through the decision to bypass Virginia in favor of Tennessee, and we had experienced much personal growth, closeness in our marriage and maturity in our faith from the move. But what was the point if it turned out we were just moving back to the place we had rejected before? Why couldn’t we have known earlier that that’s where we should have been? It might have saved us moving for a third time in three years and the heartache that has come with that.
Of course these are the kinds of questions that don’t have answers, though I have my hunches.
Of course these are the kinds of questions that don’t have answers, though I have my hunches.
When we returned to Virginia at the end of this summer to look for a place to live, it was with more direction, a more targeted focus, and the intent to buy a home we wouldn’t have to leave for the foreseeable future. We like traditional styles and old houses—colonial farmhouses with wide front porches, Cape Cods and arts and crafts and bungalows—homes that were built in the 1950s or long before (or at least look like they were). But the areas we looked in were big on brick executive style homes, 1980s colonials with vinyl siding, new homes on top of their neighbors or more generous yards that housed ‘70s ranchers.
That first long weekend we came upon a sprawling, single-owner brick ranch from 1979. It was impeccably cared for, but had few recent updates. Yet something about it struck us both enough to want to visit it again before flying back to Nashville. It smelled musty, it had extensive wood paneling in the largest part of the home, original Formica and linoleum in the kitchen, and it would need eventual full kitchen and bath gut-jobs.
But it also had built-in beds in a finished room over the garage, an expansive loft with built-in book cases, a large sunroom, and a beautiful deck and cedar fence surrounding a 50-foot saltwater pool. All this in a neighborhood with mature trees and a great elementary school a mere 10 minutes from Daniel’s office. When we arrived for our second showing, the owners, who were no longer living there, were there cleaning up the yard. Daniel toured the home with William, a man in his 80s who, along with his wife, raised four children in this house. He walked Daniel through choices he had made, customizations and updates he had built with his own clearly capable hands. I had the feeling Daniel felt he was seeing himself in 50 years.
Both of us flabbergasted by our choice, we signed the offer on the plane.
A few days later the owners countered, but it didn't make sense for us, so we walked away. We spent the next few months looking at a barrage of other homes and even making offers on a couple, but never feeling the way we had about that first one.
At the beginning of November, when I was well along in my seventh month of pregnancy and after a disappointing inspection led us to back out of a contract, we began discussing that first house again. “What if we just see if they’d be willing to reconsider?” I said.
Our long-suffering Realtor reached out to the listing agent and, to our surprise, this time the sellers ended up accepting our offer (which was almost identical to the first one) without condition. I tried hard not to get excited, as we’d had so many false starts already. But this time, we sailed through underwriting, the house had an amazing inspection, and we ended up closing a week before we had planned.
Both of us flabbergasted by our choice, we signed the offer on the plane.
A few days later the owners countered, but it didn't make sense for us, so we walked away. We spent the next few months looking at a barrage of other homes and even making offers on a couple, but never feeling the way we had about that first one.
At the beginning of November, when I was well along in my seventh month of pregnancy and after a disappointing inspection led us to back out of a contract, we began discussing that first house again. “What if we just see if they’d be willing to reconsider?” I said.
Our long-suffering Realtor reached out to the listing agent and, to our surprise, this time the sellers ended up accepting our offer (which was almost identical to the first one) without condition. I tried hard not to get excited, as we’d had so many false starts already. But this time, we sailed through underwriting, the house had an amazing inspection, and we ended up closing a week before we had planned.
Today as I sit on one of those built-in beds while my little one sleeps and cleaners and contractors come and go in anticipation of our move next week, I can’t help but marvel over the difference between what we think we want and what we need. I never would have imagined myself or our family in a house like this, and yet each of us is elated. Mirabella sulked through most of our other showings; the first time she saw this house she jumped up and down and squealed.
It’s not the house I always dreamed of, and even a year ago the prospect of settling in this city made me cry in public. But somehow now the idea of raising my children here and setting down roots is thrilling. I didn’t want a fixer upper, and this house presents us with projects to keep us busy for years to come. It doesn’t look like the house I always pictured, and yet I’m feeling like it may still be our dream home.
We are ever thankful for God’s vision that is so much more than what we are able to dream for ourselves, even though it’s often worlds away from what we thought we wanted.
It’s not the house I always dreamed of, and even a year ago the prospect of settling in this city made me cry in public. But somehow now the idea of raising my children here and setting down roots is thrilling. I didn’t want a fixer upper, and this house presents us with projects to keep us busy for years to come. It doesn’t look like the house I always pictured, and yet I’m feeling like it may still be our dream home.
We are ever thankful for God’s vision that is so much more than what we are able to dream for ourselves, even though it’s often worlds away from what we thought we wanted.
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