I won't get into a heavy religious discussion right now (it's 9:00 p.m., after all. Wine and Arrested Development on Netflix are calling my name), but something really, really amazing happened.
Our house in Mulletville has been on the market for almost a year now, and Chuck has been praying about it. Nightly. Praying that we get an offer. That the pipes don't burst. That Mulletville scumbuckets don't break in and vandalize the place.
One tends to worry about things like that when the realtor tells you she held an open house and that "Good news! Only one homeless person showed up. I don't think he was casing the place..."
Chuck has been so consumed by prayer that even as he is trying to put the moves on me he's saying his Amens.
(Hi, slight buzzkill.)
Sooooooooo, I got an email from the realtor this afternoon. The subject line was "We have an offer!" and I thought, Wahoo! Finally!
Then I opened up the attachment and saw who the buyer is:
That about says it all. Jesus not only heard Chuck's prayers, he decided to buy the house Himself.
I really hope he likes the color I picked for the foyer.
For reasons of privacy I didn't include Jesus's last name. Obviously.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.