The Fixer-Upper

Paul and I looked at a house today, to hopefully pick up at a bargain, in order to clean it up and resell it. I had great plans for this place, a foreclosure that has been on the market for almost a year. I called the realtor to set an appointment for a look-see and he informed me that it was government owned and had mold, so a release would need to be signed. Honestly, the thought of dealing with the government was more daunting that the thought of a little mold.  But we boldly signed the release and set out to buy a house.

We arrived and upon the front door were stickers plastered all over warning:  KEEP OUT, UNINHABITABLE, CAUTION. The realtor handed us face masks to protect and guard against the rogue mold spores that might be lurking, ready to pounce on anyone who dared entered its lair. Like I said, I wasn't afraid of the threat of mold, so I went in maskless and ready to envision all the ways I would breathe new life into the place.

We stepped in and it was clear that any updating and cleaning up would not make a dent, this was going to be a total gut job. I stood in this place, totally aghast at the ruination. If I had to guess, by all appearances, I would say it was some kind of crack house in the ghetto, not a little ranch in suburbia. The walls were filthy, dirty, nasty, and stained with anyone's guess as to what was splattered all over them. The carpets that had once been burnt orange, were now grungy and black having years of filth ground in, until the filth itself had become the very fiber of the carpet. The kitchen was unbelievably squalid. Ripped vinyl flooring, food stuffs ground into the walls, and counters dirty and unwashed. There was even evidence of a rat or two. The grime in glaring contrast to the homey, gingham check and apple border that had so lovingly been lined around the ceiling at some far off distant time. In the family room the floors heaved and buckled and the air was dank and stagnant. Loneliness oozed from every nook and cranny. But curiously, along one wall, was the faded evidence of a parent marking the passage of time and growth of the children that once inhabited this home, also from a far and distant time. I wondered about little Celia and Wade, and the other children, whose names and height had been captured for posterity sake. What had happened to those children? Were they victims of drug addicted parents? What tragedy had ushered them into this neglected atmosphere. Was there a sickness that caused them to fall into poverty? Did they ever have a clean stitch of clothing to wear? Was there ever a clean bed to sleep in?

We made our way to the basement steps and stopped, as if perched on a the edge of a great yawning abyss, the entrance to some monster's den. Peering down we saw the villainous mold that had begun its creep, making its ascension up along the walls, all with the intent to envelop every wall and surface like the kudzu along the highways of the South. I finally relented and put on my mask. I don't know if it was my imagination, but my eyes were itching, actually, I began to itch all over. Down, down, down we carefully trod, determined not to touch the living monster that was swallowing this house. We stood in the basement, mouth agape at the sight. There all around, the walls and ceilings were  plastered with the black furry mold; evil little spores ready to release and attach to any carbon based form that presented itself. It almost breathed a sigh of relief at the new blood that had entered its sanctuary. The feeling was creepy and desolate. I could imagine this being the setting of some horror movie, easily envisioning some poor soul chained in this chamber of doom. The concrete floors were cracked and bulged as if some giant below was trying to make its escape from its entombment. It was obvious that a little elbow grease, paint, and carpet was not going to save this place. Its life was long past due, the foundation completely off kilter; it was DOA, no life, just a growing, seething cancer of mold choking and squeezing its future away. The death knell had rung, and burial by razing was eminent.

We walked out disappointed and I felt a little melancholy. I wondered what grand dreams and schemes were planned in 1971, when this little ranch house was built and its new owners moved in. Did they plan on filling the bedrooms with lots of babies? Did they plant flowers in the yard? How many holiday meals were cooked and served from that kitchen? How did the Christmas tree look in front of the picture window in the living room? When did things start to go wrong? When did the foundation begin to slip and the repairs begin to look daunting and overwhelming? When did the first couple drips of water turn into a constant bombardment of moisture that fed the living, breathing black mold beast? Why didn't anyone try to stop it? Why did they wait too long until things had gotten so far out of hand and unfixable?

While driving home, I couldn't help but feel sadness for that little home that once held the dreams of a life. I started thinking of ways to revive the old girl and save her legacy. But it was obviously beyond saving and the sorrow settled in. And then I awoke from my reverie and realized this was not a living thing, like a person, but an inanimate object. I began to think of this house as a metaphor for a life of poor choices or circumstances. And I began to think about how I had been actually grieving about this house's lost dreams, yet, how many lost and consumed souls had passed me in my day to day, in the grocery store, at the library, or even at church, and I had never even given a second thought to them.

I began to refocus and think about what it is that I could do to help those who hadn't been afraid of the foothold of immorality, or didn't notice that first crack in judgement, or the swallowing vortex that inaction brings. Those who are on the brink of the abyss, those who are going to be swallowed by the beast of sin? Jesus tells His disciples that He will be leaving them soon and that He is sending a Helper (the Holy Spirit).  He defines sin in John 16:7- 11, where He says, "If I do go away, then I will send him to you. And when he comes, he will convict the world of its sin, and of God’s righteousness, and of the coming judgment. The world’s sin is that it refuses to believe in me. Righteousness is available because I go to the Father, and you will see me no more. Judgment will come because the ruler of this world has already been judged."

I made a decision to look and see, listen and hear those around me. To watch for settling and cracks, the faint palor of neglect, a hint of the mold that may be poising itself in a bid to overcome those souls. I want to offer help, comfort, and encouragement.  Provide them with the keys to a new dream, a way for a clean heart, and a new home. Tell them about a hope and a future that can be found in life built upon the firm foundation of a faith in Christ, the one true Cornerstone. And while I'm at it, I'll keep looking for the little fixer-upper that needs some fresh air and new life breathed into, as well.