Life Doesn’t Happen Overnight

I have spent the past few nights in our new home.

Even writing that sentence feels a little surreal.

This morning I am sitting in what will eventually become our library, looking out over a massive garden. The morning breeze is gentle and cool, and the sun is slowly making its way through the trees, casting soft, moving silhouettes across the grass.

It is quiet. Beautifully quiet.

And yet, at the very same time, I feel deeply exhausted. Physically and emotionally.

It’s strange to live in two worlds that seem to oppose each other. On one side there is joy, excitement, even disbelief at the beauty unfolding in front of me. On the other side there is the reality of what it has taken to get here.

If I only look straight ahead, the picture is almost perfect.

But all I have to do is glance to my left.

There are endless boxes, some opened, some still sealed. Children’s masks on the floor, and I have no idea how they got there. A vacuum cleaner lies on its side. Carpets are rolled up against the wall. Just a few hours ago the kids were scrambling around trying to get ready for school, searching for things they could not find. Somewhere in this house are football boots that were meant to be packed and a lunch bag that's still missing.

And yet, even in the middle of all this chaos, there is something undeniably beautiful.

This house already holds both worlds.

On one side there is charm, calm, rest, sanctuary. On the other side there is still so much disorder and work to be done. Small things, basic things, and some things that will need to be completely undone and rebuilt.

It’s funny how life mirrors the house.

Over this past weekend I tried very hard to make everything feel perfect as quickly as possible. I wanted it to look the way I imagined it would. I pushed myself to get it all done. And then my body reminded me that the goal was never perfection. Immediately, I became sick and incredibly tired. My body forced me to slow down and take everything in. The pretty parts and the not so pretty parts. The calm and the chaos. The easy moments and the exhausting ones.

There are beautiful moments of quietness, you can hear the birds chirping and the river by my window. And just as quickly as I savor that moment, a plumber lunges into my room, dirty, wet soggy boots on and instantly the beautiful moment evaporates taking my serenity with it whilst introducing me to dust and tools scattered everywhere.

But perhaps that is the metaphor for this house - right in this season.

It is a beautiful home. Truly beautiful. But it still has so much work ahead of it. And the beauty of what it will become cannot be rushed.

The same is true for life.

The most meaningful things are not designed and completed overnight. They are built slowly. With patience. With effort. With moments of mess and confusion in between moments of clarity and joy.

So I am writing this publicly, partly to remind myself, and partly to remind you if you happen to be in a similar season.

Slow down...

It does not all have to happen at once.

Yes, parts of the journey will feel messy, overwhelming, and exhausting. But there is also so much that is beautiful. So much that aligns with purpose. So much that will, in time, make the hard work worth it.

March has arrived and is almost over. Here in the southern hemisphere the season is beginning to change. The air is cooling and the pace of summer is starting to soften.

And perhaps this new season is teaching me a lesson I thought I had already learned.

Slow down.

Take it all in.

Life does not happen overnight.

“He has made everything beautiful in its time.”

Ecclesiastes 3:11