I don’t know if Blake remembers the first time he felt it, but I do.
It was winter. I want to say February. I stepped into the cold house I didn’t want with my arms tucked around my waist, the safety inspector already on the roof with a tool belt and a clipboard. I remained on the cusp of being sure about this place. The decision to buy a house came from an argument with my dad where I failed to convince him of the lack in my bank account. My mom couldn’t get her mind off of this particular block, which is what usually happens when something big is about to occur. My roommate at the time had a dream that I laughed at, loudly and with gusto. I had 100 dollars to my name. What was I doing?
I stood in the middle of the living room and surveyed my surroundings. Cracked doors. Missing doorframes. Chewed up drywall. Graffiti all over the garage. Chipped linoleum in the kitchen. Windows that were at least 50 years old. A carpet of unnamed color that should have been replaced 10 years ago. A sliding back door that would perpetually stick. Rotting eaves. Old tile. Odd light switches. A wobbly bannister around the stairs that was just asking for a fall. I think we called the color used in the bathroom, “salmon,” air quotes included.
Someone had once loved this house. Then fell apart in this house. Then took their anger out on the banks in this house. It was impossible to miss.
The inspector smiled as he handed me the report, but became more serious as he pointed out his concerns. I listened intently, examining each photo, too afraid to even try to run numbers in my head. There were so many pages. Splinters. Holes. Sagging wood. Worn out shingles. I was told to basically expect a plumbing emergency at some point.
I thanked him for being honest and he politely left. I sat on the floor with the new book of repairs, flipping through page after page of problems I was incredibly under qualified to repair. As each photo passed, my smile grew a little bit more. A glow set root in the base of my heartstrings—the one that signs me up for foolhardy things. I glanced around the house once more, and laughed.
I was going to fix all of it.
Fanny Mae made it clear that I shouldn’t have even been in the running. I was up against cash buyers and corporate sellouts who would gladly smear some paint and cheap drywall around and leave with a profit. I went toe-to-toe with mortgage companies and sellers and selling agents, aggressively putting my name in the hat and accepting the things I couldn’t change,* for now at least. I knew what flippers did to neighborhoods like mine. If I could stop them from taking at least one, then it was worth
I didn’t even know WHY it was so important to me. I didn’t want the stress of a house, much less a fixer upper. I’m not a landlord: I turn to jelly when confrontation is present and I don’t like managing people. I don’t know how to repair furnaces or replace floors or fix kitchen sinks. I may very well do more harm than good if I wasn’t careful. None of this process was remotely something Normal Me would have done. But I kept making it crystal clear to everyone involved that I would be getting this house and deep down, I knew why. Me and this house were the same.
There were remnants of happiness left over, if you really looked. It was etched into the stickers that covered the bedroom closet. It floated through the clouds painted on the bedroom wall, and glowed through the stars stuck to the ceiling. It sifted through the perennials and the garden beds and the lilac bush someone carefully planted. It wove through the little antique cabinet door someone kept in the bathroom on purpose. It lived on the names spray painted over the garage window in hot pink and gold.
Love lived here once.
Then life happened.
I knew what that felt like.
Change was slow. Roommates moved in and patiently took each one in stride—waiting two weeks for a new air conditioner because the first one was stolen and learning to share a tiny, crumbling kitchen, for example.I bought projects as I could afford them—with my salary, it averaged to a couple of things per year. By the time I met Blake I managed to fix the furnace, replace the garage door, get a few new windows, put something livable on the kitchen floor, and do some minor plumbing. He caught the bug and insisted on trying his hand at the downstairs bathroom.** Somehow I managed to pay for a new roof and a wedding at the same time. The more we were in the house, the more we gained momentum. A new back door that didn’t swell in the summer heat. Smooth drywall where there used to be holes. Electrical wires rerouted and brought to code. The bannister replaced with a sturdier half wall. Fresh paint over the old accent wall. Primer over the graffiti in the garage. The “salmon” bathroom replaced with lavender. Clay pipe under the basement jackhammered and repaired. And my pièce de résistance: restoring the original wood floors.
The glow would return in the quiet places, landing in a blank room and watching between the shushes of fine sandpaper and the low growls of cotton rollers. The little nymph rested between the folds of my messy bun and giggled at the schlups of stray paint on my cheek. The warmth of something true held me close every time I sat and marveled at a freshly restored floor. It swelled in the tiniest catch of my breath— if I listened close enough.
He is a God who loves to restore.
There is a facet to Deconstruction that is the most true, but is often left out of the conversation.*** Deconstruction is lonely, yes. It is confusing, disillusioning, vulnerable, an odd clarity, a new grief, tiring, scary, maybe trendy, very real, and arguably a necessary component of faith. But it’s also, most importantly—temporary. You may be there for days. You may be there for years. There is no set timetable. How long it takes to work through it is between you and Jesus. But it is temporary. Deconstruction is always followed by a rebuild of some kind. You won’t look the same after but don’t worry, you aren’t supposed to.
Take heart, friend. It is a rest stop, not a home.
I am not sorry for my gloomier days. There are problems that cannot be fixed by prose, and I have never known Jesus to be someone who shoulds us out of our sorrow. He is constantly reminding me that my hard things are not too much for Him. It feels weird to declare new things at a time like this, while I am in my warm home with a full belly and others are not. But when the timing is right, this God of porch swings and dusky windows, of dogwoods and fairy rings, of mushrooms and lilac bushes and broken houses, will give you a glimpse of His heart. The one that gains so much joy in taking what’s laid bare and making it new.
When I was so sure in all the ways that I couldn’t, I needed a teacher. Nothing less than a carpenter would do.
To be honest, I’m still not sure about it. I don’t know if this will pan out, if this will have unintended consequences, or if it will be satisfying in the end. But at the very least, it’s becoming less about profit or risk or escrow or the stack of things I’m acquiring under my belt, and more about being a participant in joy. The kind that tentatively partners with hope. The kind that rebuilds. The kind that sees.
So if you’re in the middle of it, I see you. We can get coffee or sit in pajamas in front of a movie or I can come do your dishes. It’s valid, that thing, whatever it is.
When you’re ready, I’ll also grab you by the hand and show off my house. I’ll be way too proud of it and excited about little things that wouldn’t even remotely matter to a buyer. I’ll point out the new curtains and the freshly painted closet and the flower pots I’m going to plant. We can remember together the God who makes things new and remind Him of His promises—persistently, and specifically, and often.
After all.
He loves to restore.
Footnotes:
*That’s why my siding is a hideous color, FYI.
** I mean if you want to test out the solidity of your relationship, renovating a crusty bathroom together is one way to do it. You will know by the end of the weekend.
***For good reason. A lot of us ended up here because we hate platitudes.
