Seven Years at The Little Lake House

Sitting at the front door, 2017

It had charmed me from the start.

The house was indeed ‘cute as a button,’ just like the listing had said. And just like a tender love story, it was the combination of the home’s many small and soft-spoken idiosyncrasies that, in the end, made me fall head over heels. The house was everything. But more specifically, it was its maroon shutters and purple phlox flowers flanking the front door; it was its tiny bedrooms and side-by-side washer and drier. It was the laminate floors. And the ancient stove top with its analog clock and clunky knobs. The pièce de résistance, though, was the living room: the high, cathedral ceilings and beckoning French doors that opened to a tree-studded view of the crisp, calm lake. My heartstrings pulled me in one direction, and one direction only: towards a life lived slowly and fully—richly—with my two palms cupped around a warm mug, sipping coffee at daybreak, in that living room.

I put in an offer to buy the house, and closed on it the following month. My underwriter gifted me a bottle of wine, and the former owner gave me the keys. I was twenty-five years old.

I’m thirty-two now, and no longer a stranger to this home—nor a myriad of other things I never thought I’d own. Like health insurance, mom jeans, and a bottle of retinol in my bathroom cabinet; like a cat, a marathon medal, and a heart that’s sometimes scared to hope. Time is both a relentless foe and a kindest friend, and we never quite know which face of it we’ll get. It has been both for me. But here I am, standing—albeit a bit slumped—still willing to drink coffee past 4pm and go skinny dipping at dusk. For that, I’m thankful.

When I first bought this house seven years ago, it was nameless. It was just another time-worn cottage with a mossy roof and patchy upgrades. I’m not even sure the former owner ever lived here full-time—an assumption I drew after spotting a mini-fridge in the corner of the kitchen during my pre-inspection tour. It was just a little white house with red shutters, sitting quietly down a forgotten dirt road. It had been on the market for months and no one was interested. I could understand why: there was no dishwasher, no air conditioning, no internet access. The paint colors were awful, and the deck needed to be re-stained at best or redone at worst. Yet, there was something inside of me—a God-given perspective, perhaps—that could (and still can) envision the possibilities blurred by brokenness and imagine the beauty buried by dust. And I could just see in my mind’s eye what a wonderful little home that this house could be.

And so, The Little Lake House was born.

In the seven years I’ve been here, this home has held me. And I’ve held it back. These four walls have held the most crucial moments and refining seasons of my adulthood formation. The deepest cuts and highest joys of my twenties and early thirties all live here. Here. It’s been my respite in times of chaos—like the pandemic of 2020, and my own personal dark night of the soul in 2018. It’s been my peace in an ocean of swirling emotions—like when I cried on the living room floor, my heart shattered like a mirror by a boy whose reflection I no longer trusted or believed. This home has held me in times of joy—drawing out inner reservoirs of creativity and beauty, carrying me along with lucky happenstance and electricity. It’s where I learned to sew my own clothes and master the homemade croissant. It’s held countless laughs, naps, friends, and dinner parties. The way the evening light traces the living room walls at golden hour sends both a thrill and a deep calm to my abdomen. Just like the towering oak trees in my tiny backyard, I am deeply planted here.

I remember being filled to the brim with dread and anxiety when I finally considered what exactly I had done: I bought a house. I’m hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. I am alone. Yet, I need help all the time. I have never been truly alone. My dad is the first person I call when anything breaks, and my brother-in-law once helped me change four lightbulbs in ten minutes. My friends helped paint the living room walls. I live delicately perched atop the strong shoulders of those who came before me, and of those who have helped me. I’m a conglomerate image of all the people I’ve known—and the facets of their personalities that I’ve either rejected or melted into my own. And most importantly, I am an ever-changing, never-perfect image of the never-changing, ever-perfect God who created me. The God who formed, found, and named me is the same God I’ve wrestled with, ran from, clung to, and tried to believe… all while tenderly existing inside the four walls and windows of my sweet Little Lake House.

I’ve always wanted my home to be a place of unwavering peace. And I’ve always thought that I was the only one to see its beauty and brimming potential. Because I was the one who searched. I was the one who found. I settled here and made this place my own. The Little Lake House, contented sigh. I fixed, ordered, named. This place was, and still is, an expression of my greatest love and deepest care. Yet, as I was finding, fixing, and naming, so was God. To me. He found me. He led me. He fixed me and guided me here—to this home, and through every storm and joy. He sanded the rough edges of my soul by trial, grief, and waiting. He deepened my trust by those same things, plus grace. He healed me. And I am forever held by his careful hands.

I am not the same person today that I was seven years ago—and neither is this little white house I get to call home. Praise God for that.

…plus a million other things.

“Lord, you have been our dwelling place throughout all generations…

Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.”

Psalm 90:1+14

Note. This is a seven-year follow-up from my original post, titled “The Hands That Mold Us.” You can find and read this post on my original blog, located here.