Monday, July 12, 2010

Tearing Things Up and Crushing It: Part 1

So there’s a pretty huge aspect of our community life that I haven’t really talked about yet. The house is a bit of a fixer upper, and we’ve already entered into a stage of massive construction. My landlords are looking to add value to the home and bring a good return to their investment. As a community, we are also looking to transform the space into one that is better suited to hosting our friends and neighbors.

The construction started a few weeks ago on the third floor unit belonging to the married couple in college campus ministry who I described in the intro post. (FYI, I haven’t actually asked my roommates yet if I can use their names, so that’s why I’m still using only descriptions). I’ll give you a quick glimpse of what renovation stage looks like on the third floor. The kitchen, bathroom, and living space are sectioned off by painter’s plastic, sealed tightly so that lead paint dust from the walls that are being ripped out doesn’t infiltrate the rest of the house. Speaking of lead paint, we say those two words no less than 600 times a day between the group. The third floor’s once-gorgeous claw-foot tub is in pieces on the bathroom floor, which has also been ripped up. The walls are skeletons of their former white plaster selves, and saw dust abounds.

In the process, I have carried sheet rock up several flights of stairs, have ripped up sticky linoleum flooring, and have become more intimately acquainted with the aisles of Home Depot than I ever thought was possible. And I have it EASY compared to the others (roommates and generous friends) who have been working there for countless hours a day. The quarantined space has no fans or airflow, and they have been up there every day of the near-record July heat. The construction has also affected the remaining two stories of the home, as we are compressing three floors of people into two bathrooms and two kitchens. My unit has a living space that resembles Goodwill, crammed with spatulas, toaster ovens, artwork, headboards, and myriad other items that have become displaced as we make room for power sanders and pry bars.

I say none of this to attract pity, but to paint a vivid picture of what life in the house looks like on a concrete level (no pun intended). I think there are many valuable spiritual lessons and symbols that can be pulled from the demo zone that identifies much of our house at this point.

Early on, it became clear that this wasn’t going to be as easy or fast as originally expected. And it’s even clearer now, given the meticulousness required to comply with the EPA’s new standards on how to handle and dispose of surfaces that may or may not contain lead paint. There’s really just no way around that at this point. The situation is far from ideal, but we there are a few ways we can handle it. We could complain a lot. We could complain a little, and bottle the rest inside. Or we could look to this time as one in which we truly rely on God to carry us through it. We could ask Him to bring beauty out of what is a not very beautiful process, to make us more patient, trusting, willing, and easy-going people. In the process, we could learn that having a perfectly put-together home pales in comparison to having a rich community and intimate relationship with God.

Here’s one of my favorite verses expressing that idea of looking to areas of exhaustion and helplessness as spaces in which we draw closer to God:

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong. 2 Corinthians 12: 9-10

So as we continue to rip up and replace walls, floors, and studs, I’m asking God to bring strength to our weakness. I see this process of being refined in a less-than-perfect environment as similar to the process of learning to live in and relate to what God has for us on this Earth. It is a reality that things on this planet are not living up to an ideal or a state of perfection. In reaction, we can sit back defeated, or we can ask God to transform us and use us as part of His greater transformation in the meantime, until a better day comes. We can use the Earth’s state of disarray as a time to become more intimately acquainted with and connected to God, and use that bond to guide us through turmoil that will inevitably arise.

I’ve found other spiritual implications of this renovation process, in addition to asking God to teach us patience and show us that His grace is enough to carry us. This post is already getting long, and I don’t want to lose you, so I’m going to list those in a Part 2 entry tomorrow. I’ll close below with another verse that always reminds me to look beyond that which is just in front of me.

For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. 2 Corinthians 4:17-18

1 comment:

  1. Erin, I understand every statement of every stage of the remodel that you describe here. The process can be overwhelming, but the day-to-day approach is the best. What is accomplished in each 24-hour period is a real victory; each battle helps win the war, so to speak. Keep your head up and your mask on, and thanks for your presence in that house-soon-to-be-home!

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