A Soul Reconstructed
The remodeling of a soul is a bit like the rebuilding of our house after a terrible fire. This imagery has been unfolding in my mind for the past couple of years since a spark in our dryer ignited, engulfed the laundry room and garage in flames and spread heat, smoke, and destruction through the rest of the house. As I have talked about this with God and listened to the painful stories of other women, the house fire has become a helpful metaphor in exploring the work God may be doing in souls who have experienced trauma.
Several hours after standing shoeless in the cold, watching flames pouring out the side of our house, the firefighters finished their work and we were able to get our first glimpse of the extent of the damage. We entered what felt like a dark and petrified museum, our lives laid out before us, frozen in time at ten o'clock that morning. A charred laptop sat open on the kitchen table next to a charcoal donut and a half empty cup of coffee, the remnants of a life that would never be quite the same.
Is this like a soul experiencing trauma: a moment frozen in time, never to go back, not sure how to go forward?
As we walked through the kitchen where shelves had crashed to the floor and dishes were crushed underneath firefighters’ feet, we moved into the dining room where the wood table was perfectly preserved under a smoky cover and tablecloth. China plates were revealed to be practically clean inside a dusty buffet. How could all this have survived right next to the destruction of the kitchen? And how could the living room look almost normal next to the melted plastic and bubbling paint and lights that fell out of the ceiling in the family room?
Is this like a soul in distress: some parts left intact, others completely decimated?
We felt such relief after descending into the finished basement to find nothing burned, nothing melted, nothing even smoky! We hoped to move some things down there to clean and save them, maybe even live in the basement while the upstairs was renovated. However, when we returned the next day we were horrified to find that the basement had become a lake, not only unlivable, but also impassible and terribly dangerous whenever the electricity had to be turned back on.
Is this like a soul in shock: the very foundation which stood firm through a trauma now flooded and inaccessible?
And then we waited. And waited. And waited. The insurance company said we could not remove our belongings; but we should take out valuables such as money and jewelry. As I took necklaces, bracelets and earrings to be cleaned, the real gold came out shining; the rest stayed tarnished, dulled, and peeled. I asked about my mother’s paintings and was scoffed at by an art expert. They had no value to him but were of inestimable value to me! I rescued them, not only from the fire, but also from the judgmental eye of the adjustor.
Is this like a soul being sifted: what is real and true and valuable and more precious even than gold?
After four months, we were finally able to claim our possessions. We had to decide what was worth keeping and what should be discarded. It seemed that cleaning everything was a task beyond my strength. But load of laundry by load of laundry, I began to see how capable I was and how much was salvageable. Many clothing items were able to be worn again if a few wearings with lingering smoke smell did not bother me too much. Some favorite souvenirs came clean in the sink, while others disintegrated.
Is this like a soul being cleansed: picking and choosing what to discard, how much smoke and soot can be tolerated, not knowing if we have the strength to clean it all?
Then the demolition crew came in to finish what we started. They carried out furniture, tore down drywall, ripped out electrical wiring and plumbing. It took weeks and weeks. Sometimes we saw the crew keeping items that we did not think were salvageable. How nice that more things could be used, even be a blessing to others!
Is this like a soul in community: others doing for us what we do not have strength to do for ourselves, sometimes ripping and tearing, sometimes gently carrying old pieces away, sometimes even benefiting from the help they give?
Finally the contractor got to work. Of course he was working all along! He ordered windows just weeks after the fire when all I could think of was finding a temporary place to live. He knew what I did not know, that there were supply chain issues with windows and that they needed to be up before any interior work could be done. He also hired the demolition crew and was supervising their work behind the scenes. He had accompanied me to the landscape company, knowing how uncomfortable I was picking out a large stone for our fireplace hearth. He surveyed cabinet manufacturers and determined that he could make what we needed better and cheaper. He divided up tasks for us to do and only told us the next one on the list so we would not become overwhelmed.
Is this like the contractor of our souls: always at work behind the scenes, even when we cannot see, knowing what we do not know, bringing others to help, accompanying us when we most need comfort and help?
Some of our load bearing walls were burned. Some smoky boards had to be painted over with special paint that removed the smell. Some had to be cut out and reframed because they were no longer safe. Supports were put in to hold up the house while these load bearing boards were cut down and new ones put in. It was impossible for me to tell which boards needed to be cut down and which simply needed to be painted over; only the contractor knew.
Is this also like the contractor of our souls: having the expertise to make the right choices, to lock in the supports, to cut out what is rotten and keep what can be redeemed?
When others came to see our house at this stage, they were shocked and dismayed. They didn’t know that the whole interior of the house would have to be torn down. Everything seemed gone! But I would tell them that actually it was almost finished. The plumbing and electrical were in. The most important functions were ready. Pretty soon the walls would go up and people would recognize our house, but for that moment it was still a tragedy to them. However, a bright light of hope shone for me.
Is this like the initial reemergence of a soul: others seeing the emptiness and all that was lost, even though the contractor has been working and life is flowing through it again?
Finally, the walls came up, the rooms took shape, the doors, cabinets, and floors went in. We worked together joyfully with the contractor and friends gave opinions on colors and light fixtures. Though still overwhelming, this phase of rebuilding was fun!
Is this like a soul imbibed with hope: so much to do, so many to involve, God at work?
Ten months after the fire, we moved back in. Nine months more and the doorbell is still in the wrong place, the thermostat has stopped working, and a board on the deck is loose. Newness is not perfection and a house is never completely finished.
