Wendell Berry once wrote, “There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places.” I couldn’t help mulling these words as we walked through our new property this weekend, laden with disrepair and neglect. Every corner of this space needs attention, from the dead, entangled tree limbs to the dark, ugly kitchen. And we plan to attend to them. Most of the large work will happen slowly, but we have vision for this broken place–vision of mended cracks and clean surfaces and un-boarded windows, of gatherings with friends and family, of the everyday nothings mixed with the more intentional somethings.
This weekend, the kids ran circles through the empty space, full of light and shadow, laughing. They cleared bags of cigarette butts from the yard and nails from the wood. As we pulled up dingy carpet and scraped discolored wallpaper, I realized how allegorical this work, this restoration, is to the ongoing work occurring in our hearts. All of our physical digging and cutting away and building and mending and painting in this home is a picture of another unseen work, the restoration of another kind of brokenness–my own. Across the room, the boys tell jokes to one another, sweeping piles of dirt from the floors. I smile at these tiny nothings happening in our new home, recognizing the desecrated becoming sacred.