Our home, looking into the master bedroom, 9/17/2025.
It has been quiet here for a while. I haven't updated this blog, our home burned in September of this year. I haven't written not because there was nothing to say, but because surviving a season like this leaves very little margin for reflection. Writing requires space. Since September 17, space has been hard to come by.
That day changed everything. The fire did not just take a house. It erased routines, rhythms, and assumptions we did not even realize we were leaning on. Life split cleanly into a before and an after, and the after demanded action before it allowed words. This post is not written for sympathy. It is written for clarity. For those who have asked. For those who have prayed. For those who have walked with us quietly from a distance. This is where we are, less than a week before Christmas, still very much in the middle of the story.
The first real decision came quickly. The weekend after the fire, we purchased a travel trailer and parked it on our property. It was not glamorous or sentimental. It was practical. We needed stability more than comfort, ground more than options. Being back on our land mattered. It gave us a place to stand while everything else felt like it was shifting. That trailer became more than a temporary shelter. It became a way to regain a measure of control, dignity, and self-sufficiency when very little else felt familiar.
Living in a trailer on your own property teaches you things you cannot learn any other way. Space becomes intentional. Privacy becomes negotiated. Routine has to be rebuilt instead of assumed. You learn quickly what you actually need, and what you simply grew accustomed to having around. There are things we do not miss at all. There are things we miss deeply. Both can be true at the same time. This has not been camping. It has been living smaller, on purpose, because the moment required it.
If there has been a defining theme to this season, it has been learning gratitude. Not the kind that comes easily. Not the shiny kind. This has been the slow, disciplined kind that has to be practiced daily. Gratitude that does not erase loss, but sits beside it. Gratitude that acknowledges what is missing while still naming what remains. We have learned to be thankful for provision even when it feels unfinished. That kind of gratitude changes you if you let it.
One of the clearest gifts in all of this has been family and community. The love and support we have received has been overwhelming in the best possible way. People showed up without needing to be asked. Help came in practical forms, quiet prayers, steady encouragement, a hand made quilt, cash gifts, gift cards, meals, and simple presence. There were moments when receiving help was harder than offering it would have been, but this season has taught us that independence is not the same thing as isolation. We were not meant to carry this alone, and we did not have to.
Alongside the emotional and physical recovery came the less visible work. Insurance. Paperwork. Inventories. Recreating decades of life from memory, line by line. Listing what is gone is a strange kind of grief. It is tedious and emotionally draining in ways that sneak up on you. You learn quickly that recovery is not just about rebuilding walls. It is also about navigating systems that move slowly and demand patience when patience is already stretched thin.
There was also a stretch we did not expect. A season where access to insurance funds became uncertain due to fraud and theft, adding stress to an already full plate. It was resolved, and we are grateful for that, but it served as a reminder of how fragile a sense of normal can feel in the middle of recovery. When life is already unsettled, even temporary uncertainty can weigh heavier than it otherwise might. It required more waiting, more trust, and more grace than we had planned on extending that early.
In the middle of all of this, we made the decision to move forward with a custom-built modular home. It was not the fastest option. It has taken longer than we hoped. There have been delays and moments of frustration, especially when you are eager to feel settled again. But we chose to prioritize doing it right over doing it fast. Home matters too much to rush. We would rather wait and build something solid than hurry toward something we would regret later.
Waiting has been its own teacher. Living between loss and restoration has a way of revealing what you truly believe. We have had to learn how to wait without wasting the season. How to resist bitterness when timelines slip. How to recognize progress even when it is quiet and unremarkable. Faith in this season has not been dramatic. It has been exercised in ordinary days, small decisions, and steady trust without clear deadlines.
Now Christmas is almost here, and it looks different than we imagined. No decorations. Fewer traditions. Fewer distractions. But also more presence. More perspective. More gratitude for simply being together. We are learning to let go of expectations without letting go of joy. The story of Christmas was never about perfect conditions anyway.
So where are we right now? We are still displaced. Still waiting. Still rebuilding life before rebuilding a house. We are grateful. We are hopeful. We are not on the other side yet, but we are not stuck either. Progress is happening, even when it feels slow.
This season is unfinished, but it is not undone. Home is coming. Healing is ongoing. Gratitude remains. Thank you to those who have walked with us, prayed for us, and supported us along the way. We are still here, still trusting, and still moving forward.
Gratitude in hard seasons is rarely loud. Most days, it is a quiet decision made again and again. Not because everything feels good, or settled, or resolved, but because God is still present, still faithful, still working in ways we cannot yet see. Gratitude does not deny the pain or rush past the loss. It simply refuses to let the pain have the final word. In seasons like this, gratitude is less about how we feel and more about what we choose to hold onto. Even here. Even now. There is still something worth thanking God for.
“Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.”
1 Thessalonians 5:18 (NLT)
“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good. His faithful love endures forever.”
Psalm 136:1 (NLT)
“I will give thanks to the Lord with all my heart; I will proclaim all your great deeds.”
Psalm 9:1 (NLT)
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