At the end of my street stands a large heritage home—handsome and stately yet charred by fire. For over a hundred years, it sheltered those who lived within its walls and offered a presence of beauty to the whole neighbourhood.

That all changed very suddenly one terrible night last October when fire engulfed the home being built next door. The fire leaped to the heritage home, too, causing significant damage. Water from the firefighters added another layer of destruction. 

Even so, the heritage home remained standing. After careful evaluation by fire specialists, the longtime owner decided the home would undergo an intense six-month restoration and rehabilitation. She was determined that one day it would return to its original beauty.

Next door, a great rebuilding is occurring. Where once was only a giant pile of burned rubble, now rises a new home being constructed. Day by day, I watch the rebuilding unfold through a bevy of work crews with cranes, trucks, and tools.

And I cannot help but see the parallel to my life and that of my family. The house being rebuilt from the ground up reminds me of my own journey. I was on the cusp of adult life when an accident left me with lifelong disabilities and a severe form of chronic pain. My life changed without warning. Much of the adult life I had dreamed of became very different.

Since then, I have spent decades both rebuilding and learning to live with my body as it is. Early in my recovery, I felt God bring me to a point where I had to stare into the depths and decide how I would continue to live. I could choose to allow bitterness to rule my life, or choose to live with joy, meaning, and contribution as best I still could. The disability, struggle, and pain were not a choice, but how I chose to respond to that situation was. I became like the house being rebuilt. 

Meanwhile, the heritage house undergoing a long period of restoration and rehabilitation reminds me of my family. Years after my accident, my husband Eric and I began adopting older children from foster care. Sixteen years later, we are a family of six, with our four kids coming to us between the ages of nine and twenty.

Even before my accident, adoption had always been Eric’s and my dream, our first choice for building our family. However, we also recognize this was not in any way the dream of our children. 

Experiencing great hardship in early childhood, being ripped suddenly and traumatically from their birth families, cycling between foster care and group homes for years, and then having to adjust to a whole new family mid-childhood is no one’s dream. Adoption in these circumstances is often born from a foundation of terrible pain and immense loss.   

It’s been a very fine line to walk as parents—a juxtaposition of loving our children deeply and yet recognizing the pain and sorrow they carry. Children often tell their stories through behaviour and actions rather than words. Over the years, we have seen so much anger in our home. Defiance. Rejection. School problems. Relationship challenges. Health problems directly stemming from nervous systems that lived in pure chaos for years. Struggles in functioning. Shutting down. Apathy. Acting out. Attachment difficulties. At the root of it all is grief, loss, trauma, and heartbreak.

Two of our children have now reached adulthood. When they were younger, I believed that enough love, prayer, good care, therapy, and support would make everything okay. It wasn’t. Pain and struggle persist, albeit now on an adult level.  

But, step by step, like the beautiful heritage home at the end of my street, healing and restoration are happening, too.

Sometimes that healing is linear, and sometimes it’s not. One night, thieves broke into the heritage home, spray-painting windows black to obscure their flashlights and ransacking rooms. For safety reasons, the owner herself hadn’t been allowed back inside yet to check which of her possessions had survived the fire and water, and this was a devastating setback.

And yet, day by day, the restoration continues. More and more, hope flourishes. Perhaps by summer, the owner will be able to move back into her beloved home. Once again, the walls will ring with the laughter from her grandchildren. Once again, they will offer her safe shelter, and once again, this home will be a marker of beauty for all who pass by.

This hope mirrors my family’s story. Hope is why adoption out of foster care has always been our first choice—because restoration is possible. Day by day, and year by year, we have the honour of seeing our kids heal and grow one step at a time. And just as the restoration specialists, carpenters, and plumbers show up faithfully to rebuild the house, therapists, tutors, and caring friends show up for our family, holding us up in hard days and joining us in the trenches. 

These acts of love embody the teaching of the Apostle John: “Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another” (1 John 4:11).

It reminds me of how, on the night of the fire, the owner of the heritage home was surrounded by neighbours who brought her to their front steps, wrapped her in blankets, and sat closely with her.

The homes at the end of my street are a daily visual reminder to me that beauty can rise from destruction, and life can be rebuilt even after devastation. Step by step, piece by piece, restoration is possible. And in showing up for one another, we participate in the work of hope, healing, and love. This is what it means to live out Micah 6:8: “Act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.”