Rebuilding a Home After Complete Destruction
As counterintuitive as it may sound, the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to endure is witnessing my marriage transform from chaotic and traumatizing to something utterly different, something sacramental and holy. It’s surreal, to say the least. Talk about wandering into Wonderland and not being able to figure out the topsy-turvy landscape …
Isn’t this what nearly all women in abusive relationships dream of, yet so few actually achieve? My husband and I have beaten the odds, we’ve done what the secular world has told us can never happen—we’ve defeated the evil influences raging against our marriage. I should be filled with joy that my husband has traveled the Road to Damascus rather than staying on the delusional Yellow Brick Road.
And I am. Truly. But that doesn’t mean the transformation has been easy or without major bumps. It also doesn’t mean my wounds are instantly healed, that all trust has been regained without any remaining scars to show where the battle was fought.
Quite the opposite, in fact. We must travel slowly along this healing journey.
And that’s ok.
There are times when I still experience grief, confusion, anger and frustration because of everything that has happened during the course of our marriage. Now, with this unexpected turn of healing events, I feel anxious and exhausted when thinking about all the work we’ve done, and all we have yet to do.
One thing I’ve come to realize is that it’s impossible to restore something that has been utterly destroyed. The only option is building a completely new structure.
The quaint town of Thomaston, Maine boasts a grand Colonial-looking mansion called Montpelier, supposedly the home of General Henry Knox, who was a Revolutionary War hero and close friend of George Washington. Knox was General Washington’s right-hand man throughout the war for independence. He stood by Washington’s side at the crossing the Delaware; as Chief of Artillery during the war, General Knox was at Bunker Hill, Trenton, Yorktown, Brandywine, and Valley Forge. Because of his war-time heroics during the birth of our country, his mansion is now famed for both for its beauty and historical significance.
Yet modern-day visitors to Montpelier aren’t touring his original home. Built in 1794, the original mansion fell into disrepair in 1854 when Knox’s two surviving daughters were unable to manage the upkeep. In 1871, the mansion was destroyed to make room for the burgeoning railroad system. What we have today is an exact and precise replica, built in 1930. But it’s not quite the same.
The upkeep of the original mansion was too much for his daughters to endure, and the home fell into disrepair despite all their efforts. It fell apart, bit by bit, until it had to be sold. Although the “new” Montpelier closely resembles the original, it’s not quite the same. Even so, it’s stronger and more resilient than the original.
This is how my marriage feels. There’s no restoration of a falling-apart structure. Annihilation has already taken place, and the railroad has run straight through my heart, destroying any rooms or keepsakes that were left inside the house. And right now, I’m too tired to lift a hammer, or pick out flooring, or arrange for a professional to come in and do the electrical work needed to construct a new home.
My heart has been broken, completely shattered and destroyed by what has happened in my relationship. I used to feel despair at my brokenness, wilted by loss of self, yet now I realize this inner destruction isn’t such a bad thing after all.
When a caterpillar undergoes its transformation into a glorious butterfly, its previous self must be completely annihilated. Amazingly, the caterpillar has to actually digest itself, which causes enzymes to be released in order to dissolve all of its tissues. Despite this inner annihilation, certain cells remain that enable the caterpillar to reform itself into something even more amazing and beautiful than before.
The process takes struggle, and release, and surrender to the ways of nature—in other words, to the ways of our Eternal Creator. Yet in the end, it’s always worth it. The glorious resurrection of the caterpillar into butterfly is an amazing way to look at our own healing journeys.
At least this is what I’ve discovered. The process from being crumbled to dust by another, and rebuilt by my Divine Physician, has been a glorious struggle that I wouldn’t trade for anything. The journey has allowed me to take my shattered heart and offer it to Christ, through the pierced wound in His side. My heart to His. He can put my heart together again like a piece of kintsugi pottery, securing the pieces with His Precious Blood.
He heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds (Ps. 147:3).
Our Lord, our Divine Physician and Bridegroom, has sealed the pieces of my heart back into their proper places, sealed and cemented them together with His gloriously Precious Blood. It’s at this point that I begin to run—toward Him, toward wholeness, toward my Imago Dei—my true self, made in His very image and likeness (Gen. 1:26-27).
“Draw me in Your footsteps, let us run!” (Song of Songs 1:3)
This is the place where I can feel His peace surround me, where I can be open enough to allow His Divine Mercy to pervade my entire being and take over my soul.
And this is the place where He will come in and help restore my marriage—now built upon a foundation of stone, not of sand.
