Ghosts

Our old house in Minneapolis was very lovingly haunted. During the eight years that I lived there, I regularly had the sense of feminine delight. Something in our house approved of us, even loved us, and I think it tried to keep us safe. Although I have loved all of my homes passionately, none of them has returned my affection with so much warmth. The only downside of the haunting is that it sometimes disturbed my sleep. I regularly woke up in the night feeling that a woman was watching me. It never made me afraid, only restless as I hovered at the edge of sleep, slipping off into random dreams and then coming back to the awareness that I was being observed. It was especially awkward in the summer when it was hot because I wanted to kick the covers off of me, but I would wake up feeling that I was being immodest, not because of my sleeping husband, but because of the unseen presence in the bedroom. All in all, this did not bother me much because it infused my house with greater joy and security. I was thankful for that.

I was aware of the spirit in my old home almost as soon as I moved into it, but I am still not certain what I am dealing with in my new house. There is more grief in this house, and more complexity. I am not aware of anything taking great delight in my family here, but I am also not aware of being watched while sleeping. One fall evening, as I sat by myself on the deck after the children were in bed, I could feel the presence of a farmer. I could almost smell hay, and I sensed softness under his feet and the earthiness of his movement. He was curious but somewhat disapproving of what he saw in me. I hugged my knees and told myself several times that I was imagining things, but I was not imagining anything. I just knew. I stayed there in the dark for a while until I felt ready to go back inside. This presence wants to see what we will do with the land, and we could earn its respect by farming well. I will not hold my breath waiting for that to happen though. We are too green, and even if we gather enough expertise, I doubt that this presence will ever give us glowing approval, just as my Swedish grandpa never did. The highest praise my grandpa ever heaped on anyone was to say, “It’s all right, I guess.” Still I would be thrilled beyond measure to have that kind of approval—from my grandpa or from anyone like him.

I am also terrified of something on the basement stairs. To get to our basement, you walk down the five steps and find yourself on landing in front of the metal door that leads to the side yard. You have to turn to your left and go down the rest of the stairs into the basement. There are some really unfortunate similarities between that landing and another landing where I tried unsuccessfully to prevent a murder many years ago. This is probably why I have a feeling of terror whenever I need to go find a tool or change the cat litter in the basement. I hope that is the case, because if it is not, then it means that there is something scary in our house.

I have considered inviting some Friends over to have a meeting for worship on the basement stairs. It might help, but they are not here tonight. Tonight, I am the only grown-up in the house and I still need to change the cat litter before going to bed. I think I will skip the basement litterbox. The cats don’t use that one very much anyway. It is late at night, and I am not going to go down those stairs.