I have been house hunting recently and found a home I adored yesterday–it was a 1924 renovation project. Behind the front door there were rich brown and creeky hardwood floors and gorgeous tall bay windows. My inner Joanna Gains came out of me as I walked through the front door that was tucked away in the middle of a wraparound porch. One room in particular caught my interest as I stood there for a minute looking around and observing the walls. I somehow connected with this room. It was a cold day and the wind creeped through the cracks, but as the sweet realtor was telling me about how structurally inconsistent it was, I saw light breaking through the boards that were scattered, bent and shifting. And even though it was cold and the room was unsteady, that little sunshine and breeze brought about a peace. This home constructed hopefulness inside of my emotive heart. I saw the unique quality of what it could be, what I’m sure it was in its prime, and honestly, I saw the splendor of what it was in its present state.

When I couldn’t sleep last night, the picture of those walls made me question why I stood there looking for so long–why was a torn down, structurally sad room the place I couldn’t get out of my mind? Especially out of the carefully composed homes that I visited and walked through that day?

Here’s what this particular room stirred up in my heart:

There is an indescribable loveliness in the dark that seems to surround the emptiness and the silence of our pain. It surrounds a life that looks so different than you thought it should or would be. We may not have chosen it, but here it is. 

I am not “normal.” I’m not the picture perfect room with sturdy walls. I am not without cracks. I may be a mess in the midst of a messy world, but there’s beauty there—beauty not of my own, but beauty found in the light that shines throughout these flaws, deficits and irregularities of my thoughts of perfectionism. I fight every day to be a pretty house with unshakable walls, but the truth is, I’m the room that doesn’t make sense. But isn’t that the point? I would rather be a fragmented and flawed room who has space for God’s goodness and light to luster, then one that’s closed off to the world and closed to the possibilities where God’s power can break through. I’d rather have the firm foundation beneath me than the warm comfort of aesthetics around me. This room was a form of lamenting for me—a form of worship and rejoicing. Because it’s not always in the most picturesque places where we find his light, his grace and peace—It’s often times in the unexpected areas that don’t fit our specific ideas and stereotypes.

Sitting here in the motionless hours of my 2 am lamenting and prayer, I feel these words and cry them out to a loving and present Father:

Here is the pain experienced from the ones we chose to love and let in, who, in turn, saw the cracks and passed them off as unworthy. Here is my heart, time and time again, giving thanks for your unconditional love and your unwavering presence.

Here is my life—the one you gave me that I daily give back to you. It’s not the life I may have expected, but it’s living and growing and accepting that my life is not my own. I can’t always paint over cracks and throw away the bricks that have collapsed and the boards that have been torn apart. I can only pick them up and rebuild again. When I can accept that you create purpose from pain and beauty from ashes, I can learn to live abundantly with what I have been given and live beyond merely existing.

Let us not grow weary in doing good, in getting back up, in trying over, in loving unashamedly, in rebuilding, in failing, and in the reflection we see. Let us rejoice in the wind and in the sunlight that breaks through, and not focus on the other things in this world that seem to draw our attention.

Thank you to this old house on Jennings and to the lessons we can learn from everyday things.