In my kitchen, gazing at steep staircases, I wondered whether it was worth the Mount Everest-like climb, listening to my snapping, popping kneecaps, to retrieve eyeglasses I had forgotten upstairs. Unlike Sir Edmund Hillary, I decided it was time to stop climbing and make a last move.

What should “Heaven’s Waiting Room” look like? My daughter pointed out a high-in-the-sky one-floor condo, facing east for good feng shui, with an elevator to float you gently to earth, mailbox inside the secure lobby and a meticulous fellow with a summer guest visa manicuring the lawn. Nothing to do all day but cavort with other 55-plus “active adults.”

But my reverie was interrupted by the sound of the housing market grinding to a halt. Experts warned in that same tone of voice and background music used to report disasters that you must wait until 2009, when Paul Bunyan-like Realtors would clear the sluggish logjam of homes. By then, my colliding lumbar discs would join my knees in the cacophonous clatter.

The one plus I had going for me was “location, location, location.” Never having been a “hottie,” I had landed somehow in the lap of a “hot” neighborhood. Breaking up with my mountain of possessions after being under the false impression that I lived simply, like a nun, was the hardest reality check. For the next eight months I clung shamelessly to my children’s ankles as they dragged out unnecessary stuff. There was interesting diversity in the clutter. A 1955 handwritten note from “Gunsmoke’s” James Arness, packed away with a videotape of Iraqi children beating the head of Saddam Hussein’s statue with their shoes, next to a 1977 calendar — in case that great year ever returned.

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After upgrading, replacing and painting, the minimalist house was ready. Fighting the urge to equate my self-worth with my home’s asking price, I managed some humility and did “adjust, adjust, adjust” down with the market. I had a deposit on my almost-in-heaven condo. In four months, without a sale, I would need the dreaded bridge loan.

A concerned friend asked whether I had buried a statue of St. Joseph in the front yard. She assured me that he was a denominationally blind sales assistant. At the religious store, the grumpy owner groaned, “You must be selling your house,” and pointed to a large display. Hundreds of smiling green-robed St. Joseph statues were stacked artfully in colorful boxes, depicting him in front of a sumptuous mansion next to a For Sale sign. In bold letters over the sign was the magic word “SOLD.” Inside the box was the nine-day novena prayer to be recited each morning with instructions on how to bury him properly.

As I ran clutching my new $7 Realtor, the owner warned, “And don’t try to return him after he sells your house, like most people do, all muddy and miserable! You must give him a place of honor in your new home.” How ungrateful and crass did she think I was?

The burial instructions were a bit murky but covered all beliefs. Some felt he should be buried in the front yard, head down, feet toward heaven. Others opted to bury him feet first in the backyard. My front door was in my side yard, so I buried him there in softest mulch, head down in day lilies. My daughter warned that I had negated the whole process by protecting him in a Ziploc bag, reading that he must become “one with your home’s natural earth.” So California cedar mulch might be problematic too, but I was more worried about him being muddy and miserable.

Three days later, a buyer offered cash with no contingencies for the house. Obviously content inside clear plastic, surrounded by aromatic cedar, St. Joseph worked at warp speed. The house had been for sale 14 days. Because I intend never to cook again, but wanted to upgrade to that smooth glass-top electric stove, I’ve placed lush green plants on each of the five cooking circles at my new home, and in the center, in his place of honor, is St. Joseph.

 Stephanie Esworthy is a writer living in Bel Air. Reach her at steph21015@comcast.net.