At the end of 2018, I was fighting with my husband often. We would see each other every other weekend, and mostly I was home alone with my kids. My oldest was in second grade. My son was in part-day kindergarten. I had my two small ones home all the time with with me, and I was trying to potty train the three-year-old. It wasn’t going well. Life wasn’t going well.

I was tired. I had felt that this was supposed to be my home. We had done some work, but not very much. We didn’t have time. We didn’t have money. And Dillon wasn’t there very much. He fixed up the back wall, and we took trips to the dump, and then we had no real idea of how to move forward with the renovation. It wasn’t our house yet, either. It still belonged to my grandpa.

I had felt completely at home, and but then it didn’t work. I was frustrated and overwhelmed and confused. Wasn’t this supposed to be our home? It was too hard to live there with my little children and my husband working four hours away.

Dillon looked for jobs and applied for jobs. These perfect jobs came open, and then he didn’t get them. And imperfect jobs came open, and he didn’t get those either. I was giving up, disappointed and loosing hope. I felt broken.

We decided that I was going to leave that house and move back to Dead Horse Point State Park. I would take my kids out of school and resume homeschooling. We were turning around giving up on this house.

For the next year, I homeschooled my children. My mental health suffered deeply and in the summer of 2019, I was not functioning well, and finally had to go and find some help and start medication.

In that brokenness, I started to rebuild who I was. I found happiness that was independent of my circumstances.

I never thought I would come back to this house. I didn’t want to face the failure and disappointment I had felt when I lived here.

But then my parents were going on a mission. We had been so unsettled and uncertain for so many years, I prayed that we would find a better place before they left so they wouldn’t have to worry about us so much.

That was when I started thinking about the house again. My parents weren’t sure what to do with it before they left, and they considered selling it–but my mom had felt that this was supposed to be our home, and she brought it up to me again. Did I want this house?

I had felt it was the right thing to do, that it was supposed to be my home. But then I had given up on it. What if it just hadn’t been the right time yet? What if it was the right time now?

Before my parents left, we talked a lot about this home. We tried to figure out how to buy it and make it fair. But as we talked to Grandpa Claude (it was his house, after all), and he said he just wanted to give it to us. He was happy to have someone own and love his house.

So we got a house. This house. We didn’t live in it. We weren’t quite sure what to do with it. But we were stepping in the water again, and this time, we weren’t going to give up.

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