Our story so far: We made an offer on a 126-year-old Methodist church with the intention of converting it to our home, but we became impatient when the closing was delayed twice and drawn out two and half months.
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For all the buildup to closing day, the closing meeting itself was uneventful. We arrived at the designated location for the hand-off of the keys, and within 45 minutes, we’d paid our cash, signed the papers, shook hands with our long-suffering real estate agent and the poor pastor who just wanted to write sermons not track down 100-year-old paperwork, and we were done.
We drove straight back to our rental house, where Tyler dropped me off so I could change into something more … suitable for demo.
“Grab a couple of cups,” he instructed as her put the truck into gear. “I’ll meet you at the church.”
I changed into my new pink work boots (yes, because if I’m going to get dirty, I might as well do it in style) and grabbed two red Dixie cups. I put poopy puppy, our 10-year-old miniature schnauzer, on a leash, and we walked the two blocks to the church.
Meanwhile, Tyler stopped at the liquor store (conveniently, only two blocks from the church in the other direction) and invested in the finest bottle of champagne, er, sparkling wine, the village had to offer.
Tyler was fingering the key to the front door when I arrived.
“Oh, you waited for me.” I smiled.
And then we were sitting on an abandoned office chair and a 25-year-old padded banquet chair in the middle of our sanctuary, sipping champagne from red Dixie cups.
“Here’s to the church,” Tyler said.
“The church,” I said, looking around the quickly dimming room. We’d turned on the electricity (and, glory be, it worked) but we couldn’t find switches to the sanctuary lights, so as the winter sun began to set, the room took on a romantic atmosphere.
“Are you ready for this?” he asked.
Methodists don’t have confessionals, so I had to own up in the dimming light of the sanctuary.
“Now I’m scared.”
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Tomorrow: First things first. Read it here.