Day 5

Friday, September 17, 2004

Every movement is calculated and nothing is quick. Rushing to stand unleashes glittery blackness in my eyes. Strategy is key. I find myself holding on to things and leaning against walls more. There is rarely a moment when I’m not conscious of the fast and the reasons for it. While a discontentment with my job is growing, so is gratitude for my home. Our house isn’t much—a modest ranch on an acre—but I get teary when I pull into the driveway. My emotions have been a bit volatile the past few days, welling up at Oprah, Celine Dion songs.

About seven months ago, a few months before our wedding, Kristy and I began looking at houses. We eventually narrowed our search to a price range and a stretch along Braselton Highway. My mom lives at one end of Braselton, while Kristy’s folks live at the other. We thought somewhere in between would be nice.

I’d driven by this particular neighborhood hundreds of times. Finally, I pulled in. The homes were nice—ranches and two-stories on decent-size lots with bunches of pines in the backyards. Kids were riding bikes and playing tag football in the front cul-de-sac. An elderly couple walked hand in hand out of their driveway for an evening stroll. Toward the back of the neighborhood the street curved right and a ranch sat off the road with acres of forest as a backyard. The driveway turned into a side-entry garage and a front porch had room for a couple of rocking chairs. Trees lined the left and right of the property, and a huge stretch of Bermuda grass welcomed me. I stopped my truck. “I like that,” I said aloud, sort of hoping the Lord was listening.

There was one problem; the house wasn’t for sale.

I kept driving and turned around in the back of the neighborhood. When I drove by again, I stopped and just stared at the house—stuck on it. I felt like the Lord was speaking to me, a voice in my heart, a nudge: “Put a note in the mailbox.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I responded. “I’m not doing that.” So I drove toward the front of the neighborhood, rehearsing in my head all the times I’ve heard people use the phrase “God told me”—“God told me to quit my job”; “God told me to break up with you”; “God told me to tell you that you are supposed to give me your house.” You can’t beat it. You can’t disagree unless you tell the person you spoke to God after they did, and God told you that what he told them was just a joke. As I drove back up the hill and passed the elderly couple, still holding hands, I thought about history, all the mess made by people beginning arguments, policies, even wars with “God told me.”

Just before exiting the neighborhood onto the highway, I felt another nudge: “Trust me. Put a note in the mailbox.”

I stopped the truck. “This is crazy. Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll put a note in the mailbox, and I don’t have to tell anyone about it when nothing happens.” I turned around, drove through the neighborhood, back past the sweet old people. I ripped a scrap sheet of paper and wrote,

Hi,

I was just driving through your neighborhood and love your house. I’d be interested in buying it if you are interested in selling. Let me know.

I signed the note with my name and phone number.

Two days later the owner called. Kristy and I looked at the house the following week and bought it a few weeks later. At our closing the owner told us she was about to get married and was going to put it up for sale in a couple of months. She said she kept looking at my note thinking it was some sort of real-estate agent scam. She’d thrown my note in the trash can and gone to watch some TV. Ten minutes later she got the note out and read it again, only to throw it away again. Back and forth she went; then finally she called. We settled on a fair market price minus the real-estate agent fees we didn’t have to pay. This left Kristy and me enough money to put in hardwood floors, have a sweet honeymoon in Hawaii, and still have some money left over for any homeowner emergencies we might experience.

I always say money doesn’t mean much to me, but really I do care. I care about what money can do. I want to provide for my family—better than I do now. I want Kristy to have the choice of whether to work or not. People say money ruins a person, but I know some wealthy people who are good and seem quite happy. Maybe the saying should be “Money can ruin a person.” That sounds right. I’ve also heard money can’t buy happiness, but one time a family member gave me six thousand dollars, and I was really happy. For months I was happy. I could be stuck in Atlanta commuter traffic on a hot August afternoon with no air-conditioning, with a wool sweater on, and if I thought about that money, I was happy—really, really happy; like how you feel when you jump in a swimming pool or when your grandfather hugs you. But now, a couple of years later, I’m not happy about that money—grateful, but not happy. I need more to be happy. I’m always thinking, if only I had x amount, I’d be okay—then I’d be secure.

A couple of weeks ago I found out how much money my friend makes. It was a staggering number, some three times my salary. I immediately slid into envy and jealousy. Ever since then my focus has shifted from the blessings and provision I do have to stuff I can’t afford. I think about the safer, nicer neighborhood. I remember the windows my office doesn’t have. I suppose I like money because all that stuff—the house, the car, the vacation—really promises me freedom. If I can gather enough, I won’t have to work two jobs or answer to anyone. I could hire people to do things for me, and I’d be free to enjoy the things I love. At times I honestly believe that money would quench this ache for purpose because money would free me to pursue whatever I wanted without concern for income.

Discontentment has been eating at me all day, and I went to sleep covered in it. In the morning it was still there. I had my morning V8 and began my slog south on the expressway. While commuting, right thinking slowly arrived: Life is about more than stuff. Stuff corrodes. One hundred years from now, Bill Gates will be as poor as you. Money can’t bring contentment or purpose. Money can only propel purpose that already exists.

This brought to mind the apostle Paul’s revolutionary words: “I know how to live on almost nothing or with everything. I have learned the secret of living in every situation, whether it is with a full stomach or empty, with plenty or little” (Philippians 4:12). Paul knew a secret most people try to buy. Paul had tapped into a life that wasn’t controlled by the flow of money and things. Paul wasn’t American.

I thought about being in Europe the summer after my sophomore year of college. I didn’t have anything—no net worth, just a bag full of smelly clothes—and I sat relatively satisfied and happy on a sidewalk in Italy eating an ice cream cone. From my seat, I could see hippies selling bead necklaces for survival. They had the necklaces showcased on a blanket in front of them. They were napping in the sun, drinking wine, and enjoying each other’s company—breathing in the breeze coming off the Mediterranean. They lined the streets in community. They lived poor, yet they were free in many ways. The hippies seemed happy. Maybe they were acting. Maybe they had drunk too much wine.