The move to this house was difficult for me.
Not at first. At first, I was excited and pumped up to transform this place into all I could envision it being. I could see the rooms finished. The gardens blooming.
But, as the months went on I slowly began to find that I just couldn't paint fast enough or strive hard enough to make it all happen... soon enough.
And the reality of the torn apart trim and the mildewed windows and the filthy previous owners began to set in. This was where we were living. This was where our children were growing up. We had just commited ourselves to years and years of constant work during precious moments of our children's lives.
Before long, I began to struggle with depression. I literally had to take deep breaths as we drove down the street toward our new home. At first I thought it was kind of like sighing. I just needed more oxygen or something.
Then I realized I was having panic attacks.
See, our former home had been large. And brand new. We didn't build it, but we were the first family to live in it. It had large windows, nine foot ceilings, bright white doors and trim. You get the picture.
This house was nothing like that.
But I didn't really think that would be a problem. It was hardly awful. It had definite potential. We mainly bought it for its location. A quiet, safe street less than 10 minutes from both work and church, and less than a mile away from my sister's house.
With almost an acre of wooded lot.
Sold.
I truly did not think I would have a hard time with it at all. I would've told you, sure, I really liked our previous home, but I didn't need a newly built house. I didn't need shiny, bright floors. I didn't need a soaking tub. And, of course, I really never did need them. But, I had no idea how hard the transition from a home like that to a home like this was going to be for me.
There were some dark wrestlings in my soul during those months. I'm not being dramatic. There were other factors at play, too. Not just the house. But the house was the straw that broke the camel's back. The camel being me. Dark.
At the time I'm writing this, we've lived in this house nearly 4 years. Actually... I just went back to check. It will be 4 years this weekend! Things are much better now. By the grace of God, the spell of depression only lasted around 5 months. There has been progress on the house. And, I think, it's easier now because I'm not used to living in a new home anymore. The memory of life without drywall dust is more distant now. I'm used to the new normal. Things are easier.
But, the struggle is still there.
Not so much a struggle against depression these days (although, Sam and I always have our feelers out for triggers now). But, a struggle for my heart's affections. A heart so easily wooed by shiny tile and gleaming windows... without me even realizing it.
It's a fight to keep my eyes Heavenward. To not be entangled with the affairs of this world. To live in it, but not be in love with it. To have it, but to hold it loosely.
Most difficult of all for me right now is the struggle to be thankful for it... for the physical and the spiritual blessings... yet, keep the higher reality ever before me. Am I crazy or do you all deal with this, too? We're supposed to make our homes... we're supposed to work in them! It is a blessing - a GOOD thing from God - that we can give our children warm, clean, cheerful homes. Homes that communicate love and care to them... to our husbands. Yet, ugh! The stuff creeps in where it's never meant to be so easily.
And this side of Glory... I struggle.
Contentment - March 2012
It's Not About STUFF - March 2012
Enough - March 2012
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