Board by board, nail by nail, and layer by layer of paint, our house was rebuilt. Those days in late May and June were agonizing, just waiting to be a resident of my own home again.
During this tough time I was finally able to come to terms with my depression as an illness. I began steadily taking my medication and practicing coping techniques. Occasionally, I felt like a child going through the motions of a silly song, but the truth is, these things helped.
I regularly saw my doctor, made intentional visits with friends and family, and practiced journaling, exercised more, and began eating more. (I had lost a significant amount of weight during this time.)
Life was finally beginning to move forward for me. God revealed to me through all of these small little changes that He was still there. That even though the fire destroyed much and that illness had racked my body and mind for months, He still was holding out His Almighty Hand of Hope.
I remember the day my daughter’s nursery had paint on the walls. I sobbed. I cried out of sheer relief and unadulterated hope.
The construction workers must’ve thought I was a crazy person.
(Okay, maybe I am…)
But the truth was, that shiny new coat of yellow paint and newly installed windows took away, if even for a brief second, the horrific pictures I had in my head of my infant’s previously destroyed bedroom. The smoky imprints of photo frames on the walls, the shards of broken window glass, the torched rocking chair from my mother-in-law faded into the background of my mind, as hope of a new beginning finally came into view.
This transitional time was about to erupt into several monumental changes that brought on the really tough renewal process.