I’m digging in the garden, in the rain. I’m not planting anything. I’m not weeding, I’m looking for a body. One I buried there a few months ago. It’s St. Joseph.
St. Joseph was supposed to help sell my house. A few months back, I heard if you bury a statue of St. Joseph upside down in your backyard flowerbed, the house will sell. Dozens of callers on my show swore by this, my real estate agent dropped off the statue with instructions, a nun even called me to see if I needed the extra statue she had on her desk (so nice, thank you!). What did I have to lose? Handsome fiancée and I headed to the backyard, shovel in hand, buried the Saint, said a prayer, and waited. Two months later, St. Joseph is pushing up hostas and we still haven’t had one offer.
I am a superstitious person. I believed. My bible teacher laughed. She said, “Jordana, you don’t need statues, you have God.”
Still, I believed. When you’re desperate, you’ll believe almost anything. But she’s right. So I headed out to the garden with my shovel again. I couldn’t find St. Joseph—maybe the rain or the landscaper have sunk him deeper than where I thought we buried him. But the lesson also sunk in. I am not in control, neither is my realtor, nor is a $6.95 statue.
The house looks terrific. We painted nearly every wall, fixed every damage, replaced anything worn out. We spent $10,000 getting the house ready for sale and was assured it would take 1–2 months to sell. 90 days later, and after a $20,000 price reduction, not even one offer. Disappointing.
We still can’t find St. Joseph. We’ve dug the garden up a few times now, and he’s a no-show. But I guess that’s part of the lesson. He’ll surface when he’s ready, just like the next owner of my house. There must be a reason I haven’t sold it yet. I guess I’m supposed to still live here for now. So I’ll wait, as patiently as possible, for the saint who’s destined to buy my house to make an appointment for a showing.