I still remember the elation I felt when I saw the ad. “Look!’’ I said, tossing the newspaper to Derek, my fiancé. “There’s one I think we can afford. It’s a Colonial, and it has three bedrooms, two full baths, and a huge backyard.’’

The next day we drove from South Boston to Hanover. The house looked just like its picture: bright white with black shutters. Inside, amenities included built-ins in the dining room and solid hardwood floors in the living room. Natural light poured through the windows. Upstairs, though, two of the bedrooms had stained carpet and dated floral wallpaper. The master suite was freshly painted, but the master bath looked as if it should have an “Out of order’’ sign taped to the door.

Despite these drawbacks, we were cautiously optimistic as we headed to the basement. Washer and dryer, more built-in storage, a sump pump. A decent boiler. Tucked under the stairs was an unexpected find: a sooty cast-iron wood-burning stove with ashes spilling onto the concrete floor. The romantic in me disregarded the mess. The house lacked a fireplace, and I pictured the stove in the living room, all cleaned up, with candles glowing inside and picture frames artfully arranged on top.

While I daydreamed, Derek peered into the cabinets above the washing machine. “Jen,’’ he said, “you’ve got to see this.’’ “This’’ turned out to be a framed portrait at the back of an otherwise empty cupboard. I looked again to be sure. Long hair, flowing white robe, illuminated face and hair. Definitely Jesus.

I’m a Christian who was raised in Episcopal and Congregational churches; Derek is a Unitarian whose beliefs tend to be more diverse. We were both awed by his discovery. “There’s our sign,’’ I said.

“I know,’’ he replied immediately.

Our fate was sealed a few minutes later in the yard. Derek bent over and plucked something from the ground. He stood up to reveal a perfect four-leaf clover nestled in his palm.

In 2000, two weeks after our August honeymoon, we moved in and resumed our teaching jobs at a nearby middle school. We reveled in the shorter commute and spent our free time settling in.

We peeled and painted, sanded and scraped. Somehow we were able to lug the absurdly heavy stove out of the basement. It looked even better than I had imagined. Upstairs, one bedroom became a guest room and another, an office. The master bath regained its utility.

In December we wanted to host a party, but our living room was a work in progress. Nonplussed, I bought matte holly berry wrapping paper and stapled it to the walls.

I was kneeling on a sea of plastic, painting those walls one day, when my doctor called, confirming I was pregnant. We converted the office into a nursery for our baby boy. Twenty months later, we redid the guest room to welcome his new brother.

Our yard had plenty of room for a swingset and vegetable garden. Neighbors became friends, and we wore a path between our house and the home next door.

Jesus remained in the cabinet, where his low-key presence was a continual comfort. When we moved out five years later, there was no question that Jesus would stay to watch over the next family.

Jennifer Woodworth Sulc, a teacher and writer, lives in Hanover. Send comments to jawsulc@gmail.com and a 550-word essay on your first home to Address@globe.com. Please note: We do not respond to submissions we won’t pursue.