God Walks Me Through the Ruins

And piece by piece, we begin again

I’ve always had a vivid imagination. Since I was young, my mind would create whole worlds. So it’s no surprise that when I think of my inner life, I picture an old village. Not one that’s charming and storybook perfect, but one that’s been weathered, worn, and left behind.

A place full of broken stone houses. Some still stand in silence. Others have caved in completely. But they’re all still there, like echoes of me. Stories buried in dust, waiting to be looked at again.

There’s the house of shame. I threw so many memories into it and slammed the door. All the words I believed about myself. All the moments I didn’t want to carry. I tucked them away and hoped the house would collapse on its own. But it didn’t. It just waited for me.

Then there’s the home of fear. That one’s darker. Cold. Inside are the versions of me who played out every worst-case scenario. I imagined them too well. I avoided that door. But fear has a way of creeping out anyway. It seeps through the cracks.

The house of grief still holds my breath in its rooms. I didn’t want to go near it. It’s where I placed all the losses I didn’t know how to carry. Where I let sadness pile up in corners, untouched and heavy.

There’s the home of the broken heart.

The house of the people pleaser.

The place of depression.

The office of rejection.

The chamber of comparison.

Each one built in a moment of pain. Each one holding pieces of me I didn’t know what to do with at the time.

I know there are more. Too many to name. And I know that I’ll have to enter each one eventually. Start picking up the mess. Begin clearing the rooms. But here’s what I’ve found.

The more I return, the more I notice something shifting.

The work is slow. Sometimes it’s backbreaking. Sometimes I want to give up because I know that once I clear out one room, there’s another waiting. But when I keep going, I see it:

The house of shame becomes the house of grace.

The home of fear turns into a room of trust.

The place where grief grew roots becomes a garden.

The office of rejection is renamed the library of identity.

The house of the broken heart becomes a chapel where hope hums low and steady.

We don’t rebuild all at once. We couldn’t.

But we do it one heavy stone at a time.

The rubble might not disappear. Some old buildings will always bear scars. Some floors will always creak with the memory of what used to be. But the narrative begins to change.

And with every cracked window, every cleared doorway, light comes in.

Because darkness cannot overcome it.

Even in a village of ruins, light finds a way. It touches what was once lost. It reaches the places we thought were too far gone. And slowly, the village starts to breathe again.

I think there will always be some rubble. Buildings we only return to now and then. But they change. And where once we only saw brokenness, we begin to see life.

Kindness.

Wisdom.

Courage.

Joy.

These become the new rooms.

These become the new names.

And Jesus?

He kneels in the dust with us. He is not afraid of the ruins. He sees what we don’t. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t scold.

He simply says, “We can start here.”

You see, when I enter this broken-down village, I know He will meet me there. Working alongside me. Helping me carry stone after stone from that place. I ask Him all kinds of questions like, “Why did this one happen?” And some days, I just cry and whisper that I’m too tired to throw away one more piece from the dwelling. And still, He stays.

He holds the weight with me.

And He promises that no matter how many homes we have to walk into, we won’t face them alone. Not one room, not one memory, not one pile of rubble is too much for His love.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”— John 1:5

love, Sarah xx.

Thank you for visiting this space.

It was never built to be perfect, only honest. A quiet corner where God is always the hero of the story.

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All I have are my words, my wrestles, my prayers.

I pray they keep pointing you back to the One who restores ruins.