My mom and dad loved the extended winters they spent in Arizona for over forty years. Since my dad died 13 years ago I’ve had no reason to go back to where they lived in Arizona. But when my schedule on a recent trip to Tucson allowed me to sneak away for a few hours, I took a little nostalgia tour past my parents’ home and some of the real estate my dad was famous for developing.  

Calling my dad a real estate developer is a bit misleading. A typical “development” for my dad was finding an old block of real estate in the middle of the Arizona desert that was littered with dilapidated and often abandoned mobile homes, buying a dozen abandoned lots for less than $100 each from the county, installing a used mobile home, a deck and a shed, and putting out his hand-painted sign that read “For Sale, Will Carry, Zero Down, 100 per month.”  For years I didn’t even know what “Will Carry” meant, but everyone knew what “Zero Down” meant, and my dad never lacked for buyers.  

I have fond memories of riding with my dad to these isolated communities over the decades. I marveled at the ease with which my dad would call over some kids from a nearby yard to translate English and Spanish as my dad talked to his mostly Spanish speaking buyers. 

Everyone knew my dad. Dozens of people were happy homeowners because they found one of Melvin’s “Zero Down 100 per month” houses.  

Less than an hour into my nostalgia tour, I came upon the section where my dad had done the greatest number of these deals. It’s a good thing I grabbed some addresses from his business files because I didn’t remember any of these places. Many had been torn down and the lots were vacant. Others had newer houses built there now.  

But very quickly I came upon one of my dad’s original deals.Even I, very accustomed to my dad’s peculiar real estate ventures, was taken aback at how dilapidated the place looked. Old cars and piles of tires and jacks were strewn across the “front yard.” A black plastic tarp enclosed a side patio littered with old motor parts, kitchen cupboards, tools, car batteries and anything else you can imagine.  

I asked a neighbor who was outside whether Esmeralda lived there. Yes, he said. And are there any mean dogs? No, he assured me. So I ventured down the narrow path, between car parts, and made my way to the door.  

Esmeralda answered the door. Elderly, her skin weathered by decades in the Arizona sun, she walked with a cane. Before I could introduce myself, she pulled out her phone and called her granddaughter to translate for us. 

“I’m Duane Kelderman,” I explained to her granddaughter on the phone, “Melvin’s son, the person your grandmother bought her home from.”

A small smile across her face told me that Esmeralda remembered Melvin. I explained that I was visiting Arizona and wanted to see some of the places my dad had set up decades ago. 

I don’t think Esmeralda was used to talking to professional-looking white guys. She remained very subdued. I told her how happy I was to meet her. She nodded. After just a couple of more interchanges through her granddaughter, I thanked her for answering her door and talking to me, and thanked her granddaughter for translating for us. 

As I wished them well, I noticed that Esmeralda was saying one more thing to her granddaughter. When Esmeralda had finished talking, she held out the phone to me, and her granddaughter said to me, “My grandma says that you seem like a nice man, like Melvin was.” 

When Esmeralda saw my reaction, she broke out into a smile and leaned her head into my arms. She had blessed my dad, and in so doing blessed me. There was a bond. We all were standing on holy ground.

After getting a bystander to take a picture, I slumped down in my rented car in amazement at what had just happened. Here was a person who was so poor in so many ways. I was so close to driving by and not even stopping at this sorry-looking place. But this poor person who seemingly had nothing to offer anyone gave me a gift that was priceless. She remembered my dad. And blessed him for being a nice man. And blessed me.  

I’ve had many occasions over my lifetime to get into homes that from the outside are very humble, even dilapidated, total wrecks by middle class standards. I’m thankful for countless times that I have had holy moments in those homes, that I have been privileged to spend time with some of God’s most beautiful children there, on holy ground.  

I wonder if Esmeralda knows that beatitude of Jesus, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God.” One way or another, I think she does. Or will.