My Worst Failure

I’ll keep this short. I hate admitting failure. 

There’s nothing worse than learning the hard way—and having no one to blame but yourself. I suppose the silver lining of failure is that, with a speck of humility, you can glean a thing or two for next time. So, what have I learned by failing in my little business as I help neighbors attain homeownership? If I had to sum it up, I’d say: slow down and stay engaged. Here’s what I mean.

Let’s rewind to 2011—nearly 10 years back when I boasted a fresher face, no idea how to change a diaper, and a contagious idealism. As you may remember, I’d just helped my neighbor Santos to finance his place, watching him transform a shell of a house into a cozy home. It must have been a lot less magic and much more hard work than I realized. But you can’t blame me. This place of ugliness and blight next door became a home radiating warmth and friendship. It does to this day. 

So when the next guy knocked on my door inquiring about a house, I felt great about it. Though it wasn’t next door to me, I’d just bought another boarded-up shell very nearby and had no plans for it yet. We discussed the numbers and terms. Though I didn’t know him like I did Santos, he and his wife were sincere. They gave me a downpayment and we signed the contract. It felt effortless. 

But it didn’t take long to realize that something was off. The house was not magically improving this time. I assumed things were just starting out slow, but it wasn’t long before payments were missed and citations from the city appeared for code violations. Domestic disputes and separation ensued. Finally, after months of pleading and struggle, tensions came to a head when I started to receive fines for leakage of raw sewage into the environment. To make a long, tragic story short, we settled the case in court. To this day, garbage and clutter cover the dilapidating property—an ongoing reminder of my immature idealism. A hard lesson learned.  

The dark part of me would delight in scorning these people to you. In airing their dirty laundry. In justifying myself. But it won’t give me relief. To be honest, no matter who is at fault, my heart aches to this day. Because in spite of how the blame is divvied up, I’ve still failed. Instead of eliminating blight and strengthening relationships on my block, in this ironic nightmare, I’ve fostered more instability and contentious relationships here on my block. How can this be? How is it possible that I’ve facilitated this—the very opposite of my dream for our community?  

Of course, now I see that not everyone is ready for homeownership. In this case in particular, I now realize that many in the community would have advised against going into business with these people. But the real problem is that I wasn’t listening—or even asking questions.  

I love how my model opens access to homeownership for under-resourced people, insisting high levels of participation from people who are economically vulnerable. This ain’t Habitat for Humanity—nothing will be built for you that you don’t create yourself. But, where could I better slow down to listen and learn? Like the Slow Movement’s challenge, our work should aim to be done as well as possible, not necessarily as rapidly or efficiently as possible. At the right pace and size. As a practitioner of community development, I claim to live and breathe these ideas. To focus on existing assets. To start by listening to the community. In practice, however, here is a clear example of how I’ve failed to do this slow, discerning work. I’ve had to learn the hard way how important it is to take the time necessary to build relationships and vet buyers carefully. Since I’m not a formal financial institution pulling credit scores, this discernment is imperative. And while this example was by far the most difficult case in which I’ve been involved, surprises and challenges have been common in every single contact I’ve taken on. 

Since even undertaking this with trusted friends in the community is difficult, I’m to the point where I would not consider entering into a new contract with someone unless I know and trust them in some other relational context. In that regard, another thing I’ve had to reckon with is the inevitable relationship shift from peer to business that I’ll face. The dynamic will change. The relationship becomes more formal and even distant. For the most part, I’ve become alright with that because it’s worth the benefits of homeownership for a family. I look at their young children and pray that owning this asset will shift the tide for them, boosting this generation toward financial stability, better education, and a sense of place their parents didn’t have. 

Because my failures have caused me to slow down and discern upfront before making agreements, I now insist we have the hard conversations in advance. Tough issues will arise. The kindest thing I can do is be clear and direct when negotiating every detail of the contract—and then stick to it carefully. Before the final signing, I’ll bring a trusted third party to talk with us together before we sign on the line in front of a notary. The gravity of what we’re entering into must sink in, and there’s a better chance of that happening when it’s discussed aloud across multiple meetings and in front of someone else that we both know and trust. 

Once things begin, I’ve also learned that my role is to stay engaged throughout the duration of these contracts. If one stage is negotiating and signing the contract; the other is working through the implications of what we’ve agreed to. It’s always better to get ahead of problems or violations as they germinate, even when it requires ongoing, sometimes uncomfortable conversations. For example, when a family breaks code or fails to pay on time, I explain directly how this violates our agreement and give grace once. While this creates some tension at first, it sets a standard for ownership that allows for smoother years ahead.  

I’m in this with families for the long haul—at least 5 years—because I want them to be homeowners for life. You can do this for a family, too, but you’ll have to play the long game also. And at some point, you also may fall flat on your face in these well-intentioned attempts. You’ll pour yourself out—and then fail.  

And failure stings. But when we embrace it’s instruction, recognizing we’re never really fully in control, we’ll see how God is working our spiritual muscles, building them up for greater work ahead. If we slow down and stick it out, then even when things burn down, the ashes of our failure create fertile soil for new things to grow.