Brian Maloy

I was out walking tonight in the dark and the rain before bed, and remembered that I haven’t updated in a long time. Because honestly, there hasn’t really been anything to update. However, this week it will have been five months since we lost everything — our home, all we owned, and our sweet sixth family member, Sophie.

I’m not going to lie and say it’s been easy (although I do believe the Lord has been overwhelmingly good to us in this season to bring us about more comfort than we deserve, and a really loving community that has continually sought to love us well). But this week, as we’ve learned how to walk in grief, a la Psalm 23 style in the valley, I am realizing deeper how we’ve also been living in the already, but not yet.

And so recently, the analogy that dawned on me regarding our family tragedy, is that it has felt a lot like a death. We’ve been living in the interim, waiting for the funeral. Almost everyone’s lived this, but after the death of a loved one, whether expected or untimely, there’s always a period of shock and processing before the actual funeral (the “in-between” so to speak). Then the funeral comes with all its finality, the permanence, but it does give you closure, it does set to rest the reality of what has come to pass.

As such, I think as we’ve been leading up to our demo of our home, it feels much like the funeral is near, that we have to truly face what has happened and no longer live in the limbo. Of course the limbo has been hard, but I also believe the house needs to be torn down. It needs the heartbreaking finality of demolition, so that we can have that closure and move on and start planning for the future without the home and life before.

That said — the limbo has given us the weird gift of knowing everything is still technically sitting over there. It’s gone, it’s not what it was, it’s not usable. It’s ruined. It’s soaking either in 5 feet of water, toxic smoke damage, or burned up. But technically, our house and remnants are there. But once it’s torn down and thrown into a dumpster, hauled away, all of our worldly possessions, our home we built, it will truly be done. While it is a blessing to know the next phase is nearing and we’re “closer” to moving “home”, I think it is bittersweet because you know the closure has come.

There are many places in scripture speaking about growth, planting, yield, sowing, etc., I have caught myself back on those analogies often. In our case, the seed that has been planted must die for the new growth to come. Along that line, a verse that’s been really rattling around my head for several months, came to my mind tonight when I was walking and seeking the Lord, was Isaiah 43 — all of it really, wonderful, but specifically here:

“Do not remember the former things, Nor carefully consider things of the past. Behold, I will do something new; Now it will spring forth; Will you not know it? I will even make a roadway in the wilderness, Rivers in the wasteland.” (Isaiah 43:18-19 LSB)

I love this passage, it hits me with God’s promise of renewal — His incredible and unfathomable means to bring forth something fresh and transformative, even in the most unexpected and barren circumstances. It forces me to trust in His work, even when the path forward seems unclear.

I think during my walk last night I went back to “Tower House” with the challenge that I do need to let go of the old things. I can remember the memories, the beauty, and the good things — those that are worth cherishing and holding in my heart. But it is okay to let go of the brokenness, and it is good to look to what the Lord is going to do.

Hopefully Demo goes as planned this week, right about five months after the fire. Within a few weeks, the foundation will be cleaned, repairs to sewage made, and framing will begin. By the time June comes, construction will begin. It’s hard to know for sure, but we’re prayerful we get to move “home” by Christmas 2025. The summer will likely be full of decisions (pray for us) about paint, siding, windows, roof, floors, etc. But when it’s done, we’ll move home to a something new, a blessing that hopefully we can bless others with.

We are thankful, overwhelmingly thankful, for the people who have prayed, who have asked, who have given hugs, who have been friends.
I’ll never be able to tell you how much it means.