First published in the Baptist Times - OUTSIDE EDGE column - 16 April 2010
Our house is up for sale. Not the best time to sell. But I knew I’d had enough of living in London.
Ten years ago.
I love the countryside and sea; my husband loves his job. This suburban semi-bungalow was an interim measure in the Big Plan to leave the city.
When we moved in here I sat by the murky pond that occupied most of the garden and prayed, ‘Lord, I asked for the sea but help me be happy with a fishpond,’ and heard a chuckle, so I reckoned he hadn’t finished.
He hadn’t, and now living part-time by the sea, my husband’s ready to leave his job and London. Hence the For Sale sign.
I have no emotional attachment to this house but am surprised by how many memories it harbours.
Our cat died here and is buried in the garden.
The fence has not been repainted since I sprayed it brown then noticed next door’s conservatory was now freckled. Miming, ‘Please phone your landlord and tell him I’ve sprayed his conservatory,’ to Iraqi tenants with minimal English was a challenge.
Thankfully the owner forgave me. It took a lot of cleaning.
Another neighbour, who celebrated her 90th on the London Eye, phoned one day to ask for a sticking plaster. I found her with a gashed leg pouring blood. She threatened me if I called an ambulance so I called her son, who forcibly drove her to hospital. She also forgave me, eventually.
Then there was the dead fox in the garden. I rang the RSPCA who told me to ring the Council, who said it wasn’t their job if it was on our property: we’d have to have it cremated, no binbag jobs, to preserve the environment.
‘It’s on the verge,’ I said. It was on the verge of not being on our property.
I carried it out and left it on the roadside.
Two days later, a mechanical grabber arrived and removed the small dead animal and the entire grass verge. So much for the environment.
It occurred to me after we’d been here a year that I should pray for the neighbourhood as, without being critical, it seemed to have a few social problems.
I prayed seriously for peace before we left on holiday.
The conservatory neighbours visited us at the seaside. ‘All hell’s been let loose at home!’
One neighbour had been jailed for internet porn. Another’s dementia had worsened. The lady with 11 dogs now had 17, who barked all the time. Bailiffs had broken our neighbour’s door down. A new resident had built a workshop in the back garden, complete with curtains and a Pakistani family. Muslims had moved in opposite and black-clad men had filled the street, raising their arms and shouting prayers.
We arrived home as the boys three doors up who sold drugs and dismantled stolen cars were being arrested.
We met the Muslim family, swapped plants and invited their kids to meet Jaws the koi carp. The mother complained the older son was troublesome: ‘He stays at school playing table tennis and comes home late.’
I told her the local boys played football with burning car parts. ‘Your children are angels.’
‘Thank the God!’ she exclaimed, horrified.
The elderly man with dementia complained his garden was full of brambles and nobody cared. I cut them and neighbours emerged, encouraging or helping. Next day the old man was outraged: ‘Someone’s stolen my bushes!’ He was only appeased by apple cake.
The mother of the boys who sold drugs and stole cars was thinking of moving, then one son’s baby became very ill. I said I’d pray and ask the Muslim lady too, who whispered, ‘Shall we also pray for them to move?’
The baby got well. The son became friendly. They didn’t move. Now we are about to.
It was only ever an interim home. But God, who wants all to be one, chose to join together this disparate bunch of people, for this interim period until the Big Plan is fulfilled and we all meet again, I sincerely pray, in the Eternal Home.
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