“Not again!” I said as I wiped away angry tears.
This was the third time my daughter’s car had been vandalized. I didn’t feel safe in my own neighborhood anymore. I woke up several times a night, pulling the curtain back to peer outside. I wanted to move, but every time I mentioned it, my husband, Bruce, would say, “The market’s all wrong. When the time’s right, I promise, we’ll move.”
I started leaving real estate ads next to his coffee cup and making appointments to look at houses. But Bruce was right: The timing was bad. To make matters worse, a neighbor suspected some people were selling drugs. “Haven’t you noticed all the strange cars?” Then her car was stolen.
By the time my annual visit to my sister’s place in Oregon came around, I couldn’t wait to escape for a week. If anyone knew how to soothe my spirit, it was Barb. “There’s got to be a house in another area we can afford,” I said.
“Write a letter to God,” Barb said. “Give him the specifics of what you want.” A letter to God? I’d been praying for months with no results. What good would a letter do? But, really, what do I have to lose? So I poured out my fears and wishes and asked for my new home, a white Victorian with gray shutters, a two-car garage and basement, ending with, Lord, I’m putting this into your hands. Until the right place comes along, please keep us safe.
A year later I was back at Barb’s when my phone rang. It was Bruce. “Sue, I found our house! It has everything, the two-car garage, a basement and gray shutters!” I remembered the letter I’d written here a year ago. Chills ran up my arms. Our home. I knew it. I knew something else too. In the year since I wrote that letter we hadn’t had a single incident on our property.
