Brick by Brick — Rebuilding When You’re Still in the Mess (Lent Reflections, Part 2)
So what now?
What do you do after you’ve ripped the mask off, stood in the rubble, and admitted the foundation was cracked? What happens after you finally stop pretending, stop performing, stop trying to make broken things look whole?
You rebuild.
But not the way you did before—not with band-aids and fake peace and just enough Jesus to make it look spiritual. No. This time, it’s deeper. Slower. Grittier. This time, the work is sacred.
And it’s hard.
Let me be clear—I’m not rebuilding from a polished platform. I’m still in the mess. There’s tension in my marriage. There are days where I feel disconnected and disoriented, like I’m living next to someone I love but don’t always understand. There are questions that still don’t have answers. There are wounds that still bleed.
And part of what makes it harder? My husband’s faith journey isn’t in the same place mine is. He’s not walking at the same pace or in the same direction I am spiritually right now. He’s doing his own wrestling. His own unraveling. His own searching. And while I want to honor that, sometimes it just… stings. Because when you're fighting to rebuild with Jesus at the center, but your partner's still figuring out where Jesus even fits—it gets heavy.
We’re not enemies. But we’re not always aligned. And that makes the work of rebuilding feel slower, more fragile, more exhausting some days. I’ve had to learn that I can’t drag someone into revival. I can only live mine out loud.
And in the middle of all this soul work… enter Lent.
Let me tell you—this Lent, I went bold. I gave up cussing.
Cue dramatic music.
Now listen—I’ve got the mouth of a trucker on a bad day. This is no light sacrifice. This is spiritual boot camp. We’re talking split-second self-censorship, bite-my-tongue warfare, and a literal swear jar with a $0.25 penalty per slip-up. (At this rate, I could probably fund a mission trip or two by Easter.)
It’s funny—but it’s also not. Because it’s not really about the words. It’s about surrender. It’s about letting God refine me in the small things while I’m trusting Him with the big ones.
So here’s what rebuilding looks like for me right now—brick by brick, one prayer and one “dang-it” at a time:
1. Sitting in the silence, even when it’s uncomfortable.
I’m not rushing to fill the quiet. I’m letting the Holy Spirit speak where noise used to drown Him out. No smoke machines. No light shows. Just stillness—and the raw sound of my own soul finally learning how to listen again.
2. Praying the real prayers.
Not the filtered ones. Not the polished church-people prayers. I’m talking gritty, gut-level honesty. “God, I don’t know how to keep this together.” “I’m jealous. I’m hurt. I’m angry.” “Help me love him when it feels like he’s far away.” That’s where God meets me—in the real talk, not the rehearsed script.
3. Owning my part—but not carrying what isn’t mine.
I’ve done a lot of self-blame in the past. Let shame do all the talking. But Jesus didn’t die so I could keep dragging chains around. I’m learning to take responsibility without letting guilt become my identity. That’s a delicate line—but I’m walking it, one step at a time.
4. Choosing presence over perfection.
Maybe we don’t need a flawless marriage—we need a faithful one. One where we stay in the room. One where we show up on the hard days. One where we’re not trying to be picture-perfect, we’re just trying to be honest.
5. Going back to the Word, even when it cuts deep.
Lent is about repentance. That means facing the truth—even when it confronts me. Even when Scripture exposes my pride, my impatience, my tendency to control. It’s not comfortable, but it’s cleansing. And I need that more than comfort.
6. Giving Jesus every version of me—not just the healed parts.
There’s still some wreckage inside me. Still parts of me that flinch, that question, that ache. I’m learning to bring all of it to Him, not just the cleaned-up version. He’s not intimidated by the mess—He builds with it.
So no, I don’t have all the answers. I’m not writing this from the other side of the struggle. I’m writing from inside it—right here in the dust, the questions, the fatigue, the fight.
But I’m rebuilding. Slowly. Intentionally. Prayerfully. Cuss-free-ish.
Brick by brick.
Day by day.
Hand in hand with the only One who never walks out when things fall apart.
That’s what Lent is for. Not empty ritual. Not tradition for tradition’s sake. But a sacred return to the real foundation. The only one worth building anything on.
Jesus.
No more shortcuts. No more stage lights.
Just Him—and the raw, holy work of starting over.
