I went to a lease signing today. The landlord, the tenant and I all met at the house in question at 4 p.m. I did the introductions (the parties had not yet met) and produced the lease document. The tenant brought his checks and the landlord brought her keys.

It was all very pleasant.

Funny thing, though, the house wasn't ever offered for rent.

My company's "for sale" sign has been stuck out front of this particular house for over a year. It's an artsy offering in an odd little neighborhood. I've never gotten many calls on this house, too quirky on the inside and too fortress-like on the outside, and need I mention, too expensive.

It had been a while since anyone had even asked to see the house. When Mike first called about my sign and to express his interest, I jumped.

"I'll meet you there at noon," I replied, rearranging that day's schedule to get the prospect into the house.

Mike is a lobbyist with a convertible and a winning smile. When he said he'd like to rent the place I told him there had been a mistake, that the property was for sale, not for rent.

My explanation didn't slow Mike down. "I'd really like to rent it," he repeated.

And later that day when I took Mike's request to the owner she told me what I already knew. "The house is for sale, not for rent."

But the rest, as they say, is history and there we were, signing a lease that two of us had not offered, not expected and not planned for.

What happened was the owner embraced the unexpected. She made way for a new idea, for something unplanned. And after a year of waiting with a good outline of how the last chapter should read, well the owner let in the unexpected in the form of Mike and his proposal, all because Mike asked and the owner made room for the unexpected.

Unexpected: Take Two

Street musicians. You don't see street musicians in the country much. Out in Adams Township we leave the music making to the birds in the morning who caw and cackle and coo and just make a collective thunder around our house just as soon as the sun peeks out of the morning sky.

In the big city there are street musicians - everywhere. There are the teenage kids who drum on five-gallon plastic buckets. Rat-a-tat-tat it's not. Thunder and vibration and precise attack, that's what these lads do to entertain.

In the high rent district there is a family of five who assembles on the street corner and plays classical music. They set up folding chairs and music stands. It's ever so often odd,

but fascinating just the same.

They all want money, perhaps it is their due. Not enough foot traffic out in the country for "county road" musicians to collect much of anything. There's too much competition with the crickets and bullfrogs and all that rural background noise.

At least folks in the country are spared those saxophone players. Oh how they wail and carry on. Certain of the sax players seem only to know one tune and this they play and play and play.

Walking home after work late the other evening, I was ready to cross the street because of my sighting of a guy pulling his sax from its case.

But instead of the wailing pieces I'm used to, on this night and at this moment we were all, quite unexpectedly, heading off to a bit of church and inspiration right then and there on Michigan Avenue. The saxophone player cued up and then belted out the most inspiring rendition of "Amazing Grace" I've been blessed to hear.

Unexpectedly, all of us in this involuntary audience were transported to that place where faith and chills up the spine meet inspiration and holy.

Sometimes we need to welcome in the unexpected.