Making a whip of cords, he drove all of them out of the temple, both the sheep and the cattle. He also poured out the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. . . .The Jews then said to him, "What sign can you show us for doing this?" Jesus answered them, "Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up." John 2:15, 18-19.

Don't get me wrong--I'm grateful! Grateful to have a handy husband who can do most of the work himself. Grateful to have a kitchen to fix up. Grateful that for the first time in my married life I will have a stove on which every burner and element will actually get hot. But good and needed work can be as stressful as catastrophe--and as revelatory.

Two words: lath and plaster. With Mark in the basement failing magnificently to ram electrical wire up through the wall, I fetched the little makeup mirror and a flashlight to peer into that hidden space, unopened for almost 100 years. Inside the wall, at the bottom, a splintered pile of lath. Did it fall from somewhere above? Was this someone's idea of how to dispose of leftovers? Didn't matter. It was unreachable and in our way. How often have I repeatedly tried to force love through my jagged self? Or forgotten to look into that self to see what the hang up is?

Just above the special ring of hell reserved for people who paint brick fireplaces, are the seats assigned to those who cut all the way through floor joists to make way for heating ducts. Our mission: lift, level and straighten. Mark cranked the floor jacks for a long time. Nothing much happened. Then a gunshot crack. Paint chips rocketed from the woodwork, and fissures climbed the wall like lightning. Change is like that sometimes. I opened my eyes to see the house still standing. Below me: the whine of an electric screwdriver as Mark and our son joined a sister joist to the damaged one. Prayer, lift my brokenness. Body of Christ, help bear my weakness.

Habit. For two weeks I tried to walk through the wall that used to be a door. The cats figured it out more quickly.

Eventually, all things will be revealed. The sagging soffit makes perfect sense once you tear it down and discover the genius who built it never connected it to the ceiling. All these hidden mistakes. We didn't make them, but we're paying for them. Who's paying for mine?

Chronic disorder. No matter how often I tell myself the chaos is only visiting, it continues to overstay its welcome. Lately, I spend too much time moving things out of the way: non-perishables to the dining room, extra dishes to the upstairs bedroom, pots and pans to the linen closet. In a week I'll be washing dishes in the bathroom. I'm struggling mightily with the knowledge that things aren't how they are supposed to be. In my house. The house in my mind.

Tearing down--it's supposed to happen all at once. Mark has intricate plans--involving plastic sheeting and, of course, duct tape--to shield our living space from plaster dust, lead-based paint, and God knows what else they thought was a good idea 100 years ago. It's my job to be skeptical. I tell him it's going to be messy. Loud. Possibly dangerous. I don't want to admit this: before it can be raised up, everything must go.

Put on your grubbies and get to work @ www.trinityspokane.org