It’s taken me one day shy of a month to continue my saga. You might want to go back and read the last post, because I’m going to pick up where I left off:
I wanted to quit. I wanted to pack up my kids and our stuff and my books and head back home to the safety of our house.
Next up: the apocalypse continues . . .
I finished that post in such a clever way, setting things up perfectly for this next installment in Apocalypse Now.
January was dark. I really did want to quit. I doubted everything. But then the semester started. And my very first class on that very first day of my fresh start was with my very favorite professor in all the world. I walked out the door into the cold January air at eight o’clock in the morning on January 22nd. My fall semester had been the most challenging of all of our semesters in this fine institution. It was very heavy on the Church History. When I arrived for this degree program, I really was all fired up to study American Church History. I had left behind my former academic passions and was ready to pursue this new one. But as the semester progressed and I found myself in history classes and required, given the discipline, to bite my tongue on my
judgmentalism strong opinions, I realized I’m no Church historian. My passion for missional theology was reignited. So when I headed off for that first day of class in January, it was to reengage my passion with the professor who had ignited it in the first place: missional theology.
The first week of class held such promise for me! Professor Awesome’s words washed over me, feeding my spirit-hungry self, reminding me what it is all about. All of it. All of life. All of our lives: participation in God’s mission to the world! Once again, I was looking at Ph.D. programs. This time, in missiology. The future was bright.
On January 30th, 8 short days into this semester, I received a phone call at 7:15 AM. No one is dead, I’ll just take that fear right off the table. But some thing died that day. And it has taken me two full months to stop hemorrhaging from my heart.
Our house. Our home. The home we loved and wanted to hang on to forever. The home we daydreamed about. The home we planned to honor and do up right when funds were available. Our home had been irreparably broken.
When we got to the bottom of things, we learned that our furnace had failed, turning off the heat. This led to water pipes freezing and bursting and gushing water for over a day through from the second floor to the first floor, where it drained down through our basement. 7,700 gallons of water.
Our kitchen that we had renovated five years ago as part of operation “honor and do right by this house” took the brunt of the blow as it was below the affected pipes.
Insurance will cover most of everything, though we’re still working through all of that. I’m grateful for that.
But. The people that the insurance company sent in to “prevent further damage” ripped up our hardwood floors. Likely unnecessarily. Certainly in a manner that raised all sorts of questions for us.
Our house. Our home. My first home, really, despite the fact that I’d lived six other places in my life. This one was home. We knew we had entered a phase of moving about here and there, but our plan was to keep the house where it was, renting it out, so that we could some day return to it.
I can’t really put into words how deeply this blow has impacted me. I think that’s why it’s taken me a month to sit down to write this post. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t think through it. My floors that have eighty-eight years of footprints and memories embedded in them are gone. And this house will never be the same.
People have tried to point me toward the positive. And I appreciate their efforts, I really do. But our house was like the sixth member of our immediate family. It’s not about its value, it’s not about being fancy. It was our home.
I’ve spent the last two months reeling from this blow. I think I’m finally coming out of it, coming to a place of peace about it. But how I have arrived in this place is part of the larger story of these past two months that includes other blows, other challenges. It’s been a time of despair, of confusion, of more darkness. And through all of this, I’ve been trying to work on this degree. Dragging myself through classes, trying so hard to make it happen. That, too, is a story for another day.
For those who are keeping score, the apocalyptic signs have now included natural disaster in the form of a hurricane and now tragedy in the form of flood. Hold on to your seats, there are more to come . . .