Bury the saint

We have new neighbors. 

A young couple. Two kids. The most adorable dog you can imagine.

He doesn’t even bark.

They seem perfect. 

Or at least as perfect as we were when we moved in a decade ago. Our kids were as itty bitty as theirs.

Of course we were nervous. Then and now. 

New is scary.  

Will they like us? 

Our dog barks.

The mower sits idle sometimes, in the middle of its job, waiting on batteries that take forever to charge.

I don’t always remember to retrieve the recycling bin from the curb in a timely fashion. Occasionally it sits out there for days.

A part of me worries our new neighbors will be too perfect. 

The house they bought had been for sale for a while. In a buyers’ market this lag time might worry a person that a sluggish sale could have something to do with the state of our volunteer garden or the patchwork motif on the front lawn.

Still, it is a big house. On a main street. Needing a little updating. 

Houses, after all, are a major purchase, and moving a huge undertaking.

Our old neighbor, bless her heart, had already done everything in her power to move the homestead along. For a generation she and her family had kept the place in tip top shape.

The only thing left was to leave it to God. 

Which, according to ancient Catholic lore, meant she had to bury a statue of Saint Joseph in her front yard. 

Which, she did, paying careful attention to all the rules you may never have heard of, but I can attest exist thanks to occasional insomnia and the fortune of watching comedian Stephen Colbert and actress Patricia Heaton one late night engage in a who’s more Catholic throw-down.  

You obtain a statue of Joseph, patron saint of families, carpenters working men and evidently realtors — a small one from Catholic Supply will cost about $10, though shipping and handling may be extra) — and you dig a hole next to the For Sale sign. Next you invert the statue and place it in the hole, feet toward the heavens and facing the house you hope to sell.  It could be yours, or could your neighbor’s. The import part after that is for you to pray. 

You keep praying to the saint until your house sells, at which point you dig up the statue and give it a prime spot in your new house.

You may laugh ... but just like Comedy Central predicted ... and in fewer than two weeks’ time ... God delivered.

A sold sign came down from above.

And for a month of Sundays, our new

neighbors came to work on spiffing up the place before moving in.

Mostly at night and in their spare time. Gently revising. Removing carpets, painting walls, and other stuff we couldn’t quite see with the subtlety of our awking eyes.

They waved through the window when they saw us. We waved back.

Move-in day came and we waited another week before we traipsed across their lawn bearing a heart-shaped plant and a local highlights guide.

Our new neighbor was all smiles

as she let us in and apologized for the mess. 

“Truth is it probably going to be a

mess for a long while.”

And then we proceeded to talk about life and moving and kids and running and Christmas and dogs and school teachers for the better part of an hour.

When I checked my watch I knew for sure they were perfect. But time was up. Maybe next time I see her I’ll tell her about the saint.