The House That Built Me…

Driving home one evening and I was feeling frustrated after a listing appointment. Because I was sure the clients were serious this time, when they called to have me come over and get their house up on the market.

This happens more than I would like to say… people will call and want me to come out and get their house on the market.  But when I get there, I would feel so much resistance from them that I wonder why they even called me to begin with.  I would feel so frustrated, having taken the time to spend with them, the research and reports I put together prior to viewing the property in order to help with pricing opinion,  and to just know as much about the property as I possibly can in order to do my best job for them.  (Not to mention that this is my career and how I support my family; so that pressure is there too.)….and this was how I was feeling on that drive home….and then the song  “The House That Built Me” by Miranda Lambert came over the radio.

“I know they say you can’t go home again.
I just had to come back one last time.
Ma’am I know you don’t know me from Adam.
But these hand prints on the front steps are mine.”

Listening to this song made me start thinking that maybe their resistance is more about letting go – not their unwillingness to seriously want to sell their house, but maybe even they didn’t know how difficult it would be emotionally until they saw my car pull into their driveway.

In the rat race of life, you just need a long drive home after a trying day of work – going over in your head whether or not you have been making the right decisions or choices for your own family.

And then something as simple as a song comes on and my thinking goes from “why the hell did they bother to even call me?!” or “I’ve been spinning my wheels all week, am I going to be able to pay my own bills this month?” To …”maybe all they see when they look out their front door is their kids getting off the school bus after their very first day of kindergarten…” or “they thought they were building a life with someone that came apart, and the memories and moments within those walls was all they had left and the only thing keeping them together.”

Or, where I see a beautiful patio or garden that will enhance a showing and help generate a sale, they remember building that together with someone or maybe a beloved pet was laid to rest under one of those hosta.

I have to try to remember that when I am walking into someone’s home, it’s as if I am entering their heart and soul.  It may be whole and filled with joyful memories or it may be broken and torn or it could be both and just still trying to figure things out.

We attach so much emotion to places, I can drive around Medina on any given day and point at certain houses and tell you exactly what happened on a certain day that was a first, or a last, or caused me joy or pain; sometimes I could even tell you what I was wearing and what song was playing.  I know when people who have moved away, come back to town for a visit,  some of our conversations consist of reminiscing of what happened in a house we just past while en route to our destination.

Its small moments like this car ride home, that are slowly sculpting and shaping the type of agent I want to be.  I hope the next time I am feeling frustrated with the pressures of my own life, that this song will resonate in my mind…I’ll take a deep breath…and remember, these are hearts that I am dealing with most of the time…not necessarily houses.

“I thought if I could touch this place or feel it
this brokenness inside me might start healing.
Out here it’s like I’m someone else,
I thought that maybe I could find myself.
If I could just come in I swear I’ll leave.
Won’t take nothing but a memory
from the house that built me.”

 

This is my hometown…

3 thoughts on “The House That Built Me…”

  1. Beautifully written Kat and so very true! When I was 9 years old , we moved from a house I loved to a new place in a different community. I used to cry myself to sleep at night because I was so homesick for “home” . Little did I know that 4 short months later my Dad would die from the effects of a stroke at just 52 years of age. Yeah, lots of varying and deep emotions attached to my memories of that season in my young life in that particular home. Thanks for sharing your insight!

    Liked by 1 person

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