November 16, 2006 11:24pm

To the person who taped the note to my front door:

I am the renter at the most run down house on North 8^th street and it is ironic that you found it necessary to demean me by pasting the note on my door this evening when I was coming home from work with joyful plans to do some much needed repairs and yard work this coming weekend.  As I sit at my second hand desk, tears in my eyes, pondering what possessed you to walk up to the front door of my sanctuary and tape the note to it, I can’t help but feel alone and violated.

 I am well aware that the appearance of my home leaves much to be desired, but it is still my home, the place where I once lived as a child, full of my own fond childhood memories, the place where I came back in the hopes of giving my own young daughter the chance to build those same memories for herself, to experience the wonder and joy of a small town childhood, the place where I come at night to rest my weary soul at the end of a long and tiring work day. My refuge, my haven; imagine my shock, my dismay to see that piece of notebook paper stuck to my front door with painter’s tape, the white paper glaring in contrast with the warm brown color like an open wound in the wood. I left work with such joy knowing that it was the last time I would be working the night shift, looking forward to a long stretch of days off for the holidays which would be spent painting and cleaning and removing the unsightly items from the carport without the fear of catching pneumonia in the cold rain. With these plans set in place, I left my car, humming a song softly under my breath only to stop in the middle of my front porch to stare at that note and to feel the humiliation and the shame that I suppose you felt were my due.

 But you missed something, something very important; if you were to open that door you would see a warm and inviting space, a family room full of second hand treasures and warm cozy afghans on the couch, perfect for snuggling up with my daughter on our family movie nights.  The antique mirror on the far wall which my mother refinished before the surgery on her hands rendered such work too painful for her.  The antique dresser against the wall by the picture window which I got for a song at a yard sale when the seller found out that I was a recently separated and newly single mother trying to put the pieces of her broken life back together and make a warm and loving home for her child.  The Jody Bergsma prints that my father bought for me with their inspiring messages of hope and faith. The old oak table in the dining room, scarred and scratched as it is, came from my parent’s home as well and I adore it for the memories of nights spent in long conversations with my siblings.  This is a house full of the cast off items from other households, old and scarred and even more precious to me because I know that even though they have seen better days, there is much life in them still. The art on the walls, the photos, all there to strengthen my spirit and to show my daughter that even though we left with nothing, here we have a place of our own, a place to love and to live and to grow past this sad chapter in our lives.

 You may look down on me because the siding isn’t finished, and though it may appear that because the outside of the house still needs a lot of work, and the carport is full of junk that should be on the way to the trash heap that I don’t deserve any respect for my property, I assure you that I have as much pride in my home as you do yours.  But I’ve spent my time making sure that the INSIDE was beautiful; though the exterior may appear shabby and worthless by modern standards, I know that when people walk into my home it is warm, comforting, and inviting as a home should be.

I imagine you felt it just to put that note on my door, to cross that line at the edge of the sidewalk, walk along the path onto my porch and tape it there, but you don’t know me and you don’t know what is inside of this house, the love and the warmth I feel for my daughter and my family and the hard work it has taken to bring this house as far as it has come in the few months that I’ve been here, nor are you privy to the plans that I have to make it as beautiful on the outside as it has become on the inside.  All that you see is a shabby, worthless piece of property and a tenant who does not deserve even the common courtesy of having her space and her refuge respected.

In this season of rest and reflection, with Thanksgiving just around the corner, I am thankful for this place; this shabby, run down house holds within it all that is precious and dear to me and I am blessed to have the wonderful family that I have and the wonderful friends in my life who have helped me with the repairs thus far.

This house has a beauty in it that cannot be seen from the outside, but can only be seen from within. I am sorry that you lack the capacity to see it and felt the need to hurt me in your blindness.

I wish you and yours a blessed holiday,

The tenant at the shabby house on North 8^th street.