Sterling

“My heart is full.  We get to build a life together . . .”  Ecclesiastes 4:9

 25 March 2018

When I opened the container, I felt guilt. I ran my hands over and between the pillowy-folds of brightly-colored fabric. I picked up a neatly folded square and let it tumble open towards the floor. The smell of my daughter’s childhood wafted past. Again, guilt. Anyone looking over my shoulder would have seen yards and yards of beautiful fabric, but I saw outfits that were never sewn from fabric that was never cut.

I wish it wasn’t so, but well-meaning projects can turn difficult. Building anything is difficult. Schedules change, priorities rearrange, dreams shift. Things can happen that cause us to close the door and walk away.  What if we never return?

On July 30th of last year, I offered these words, with all of my heart, to my guy. “I vow to be your sanctuary. I vow to be your biggest champion.  I vow to build a platform beneath you, so you can soar.” Yet the year before, things had turned difficult. This project–this relationship–had somehow shifted. It felt impossible. Our boots were muddy and I wasn’t sure just scraping off the mud was the right thing to do. So, I took off my work boots, closed the door and walked away. It sounds easy but nothing was further from the truth.  It was the single most difficult decision I have ever made. God knew that for me to feel hope and then hopeless.  .  .was pure devastation.

Projects are hard. Relationships perhaps even harder. . .

Muddy. Arduous. Heavy. Hard. I felt defeated. Yet, I was willing to open the door . . .one tiny crack of a sliver . . . to make room for something. . . or Someone. . . to offer the miraculous.

  Yes, the miraculous.

Today I can say that I’m grateful beyond grateful for the miraculous. Re-opening that door was terrifying. Lifting my foot without any evidence of solid ground beneath it, was terrifying. Walking on a road where I couldn’t see beyond the curve, was terrifying. But  . . . I chose faith. . . and walked on through complete darkness.

Today my boots are muddy, yet I can’t think of anything more fulfilling. “We are building a life together.” Matthew + Shari = Together we build. A dream, a Promise, a marriage and now, a house.

The excavator has started pushing dirt around and uprooting trees. A huge burn pile is melting away the carcasses of what we no longer need. This morning, a few deer came by to inspect the progress. The muddy driveway–stone-filled and barely a path– is beautiful to me. It arcs up and over the slightest crest of a hill to the perfect spot we will call home.

Yesterday we carefully positioned ourselves where the great room will emerge in just a few short months.  As we looked out at all the barren trees scattered across the ravine, my heart filled. I was home. My eyes filled. We were home. I looked down at our mud-caked muck boots, as the tears dripped off my cheeks onto my hoodie.

Home.

Someday when I look back and think about the first swipe of the excavator’s huge bucket, I know I won’t be thinking about a backhoe. For me, the real ground-breaking was yesterday.

“This  is Your Home, Lord. May all who enter, see You. Feel You. Find You,” we prayed. With Matt’s arms wrapped around me, I’ve never felt more sure, secure or loved.

I met with my designer a few weeks ago.  “We’re not building a house,” I told him, “we’re building a home. There’s a difference.” He nodded; smiling.

He gets it.

Shari