Oh, the house you built brick by brick,
holding every piece in your hand,
understanding it intimately,
and giving your blessing
before you lay it down.
What a blessing it is.
How much more do you love the house you built by hand?
I ask this as someone with no construction experience, as someone you shouldn’t allow near your new build.
As someone who has never looked good in reflective yellow.
Follow me into the metaphor anyway.
Let’s say we were all given a house, one that is ours to love, develop, and exist within for the duration of our lives.
This house represents our spiritual life.
Our parents help us build our first one, their values and our relationship to them informing every beam and door.
And as we grow, we outgrow some things.
It is a natural progression.
The years pass, and we need new windows or a new roof.
There are even times in adolescence and young adulthood when we have to knock out walls or build additions.
But in 2018, my whole house had to come down.
Are you following still?
The house that existed before was a good one. My parents taught me profound and lasting lessons by simply living their values.
They opened their home to foster connection and provide safe spaces for the vulnerable.
They prioritized personal spiritual practices within their faith tradition.
They sang and played and made space for creativity and joy.
They volunteered their time for causes they cared about.
Witnessing the simplicity and goodness of their lives was a gift, one that I’m beginning to understand the magnitude of as I age.
But the faith tradition they handed me carried baggage unrelated to them.
And that was why the house had to come down.
There were parts I could reuse, yes, but the structure itself was unsound.
Ultimately, the land we’ve been given is ours to build upon—we are the only ones who can know when something needs to go.
The beliefs I was handed that were repressive, dualistic, and authoritative stopped working for me as I grew to understand God in a more intimate way.
So I tore the house down, brick by brick, and I wept as I did.
What a grief it was.
I left pastoral posts and stopped attending church altogether.
I released my tight hold on dogmas and doctrines that I was taught were essential to my salvation.
I tore the house down, and I asked God what She’d like to build in its place.
So I’ll ask again.
How much more do you love the house you built by hand?
For years, I pitched a tent where a seemingly sturdy home had stood.
It was terrifying. I was cold, it was dark, and I felt exposed.
I didn’t belong anywhere.
I was uncomfortable with the uncertainty.
There were times when I wanted nothing more than to run back, to wade through the ruins of what had been and pretend they’d be enough again. In those moments, I resisted from a deeper place of knowing.
There was a part of me that knew I was being called to faithfulness.
I was being called to trust the process, to stay put through the pain and discomfort, to be present and allow not avoid.
One day, without realizing it, I started building something new.
It came slowly and prayerfully.
I sang when the rain fell, believing that this feeling of instability would pass.
Over the years, I adjusted to the discomfort, asked for healing in the broken places, and allowed myself to release the need for control and certainty.
By the seventh year, something spectacular happened.
A new house stood where the old one had been.
It was small but, my God, was it strong.
No storm could shake it.
And let me say with the clarity of someone who had to let it all go:
I was in awe of the work that I did, sometimes without realizing it, but I was also in awe by how much I didn’t do.
In my faithfulness, God was able to work.
I knocked, and He opened the door.
I was in wonder at the co-creation that had taken place.
We are vessels for goodness, yes, but we are also called to build.
We aren’t responsible for our own transformation, no, but we are called to do our part.
Who would sow seeds on infertile ground?
During those years, I read all the books.
I did all the therapy.
I cut ties in all the unhealthy relationships.
I was doing my part.
And God knew what They were doing all along.
Friends, how much more do you love the house you built by hand?
So much more than the one you never knew.
The bible is full of stories of people who were called far away from home, far away from the comfort and safety of the familiar.
Perhaps this is the spiritual journey.
To allow the undoing—to mourn, detach, and break.
To trust that God has promised to meet us there.
And then, to work with our whole soul to rebuild, brick by brick.