When the Foundation is Cracked — Rebuilding from the Wreckage (Lent Reflections)
Lent isn’t a soft season. It’s not about dainty sacrifices and checking a spiritual box. It’s about disruption. It’s about letting God peel back every layer and expose what we’ve built on sand. It’s about repentance, yes—but it’s also about rebuilding. And right now, I’m standing in the middle of that wreckage.
Because here’s the truth: When you build your life on a weak foundation—on pain, on survival, on unresolved mess—it’s only a matter of time before it collapses. No matter how good it looks from the outside. No matter how loud the music is, how bright the lights are, how perfect the performance.
And I know that kind of collapse. I’ve lived it.
I built things—marriage, motherhood, identity—without Jesus at the center. I didn’t even realize I was doing it at the time. I just wanted love. I wanted stability. I wanted to belong. But what I built wasn’t rooted in Christ—it was rooted in fear, in brokenness, in wounds I hadn’t faced.
And when it all came crashing down, it left scars on everyone—especially the ones I loved most. I still wake up some nights choking on that guilt. I still cry over the hurt I caused my children. I still ache when I think about their father and everything we didn’t get right. Yeah, we’re better apart. I know that in my bones. But that doesn’t erase the weight I carry. That doesn’t silence the whispers that say, “If you had only done things differently…”
And this Lenten season—it’s pressing all of that to the surface. Lent is exposing everything I tried to bury under busyness and performance and good intentions. It’s forcing me to look at the foundation again—and ask: What am I really standing on now?
Because here’s the part that scares me to admit—but I promised to be raw and honest in this space, so here it is:
Even in my current marriage—after everything I’ve learned, after all the growth and healing—I still find myself wondering: Did we build this on something solid, or just dress up the same old cracks and hope they wouldn’t show?
Things are hard right now. The kind of hard that keeps you up at night staring at the ceiling, praying prayers you can’t quite form into words. And sometimes, I feel cheated. I look at old pictures of my husband—pictures with other people, other versions of him—and I wonder where that version went. Why didn’t I get that version? The one who looked light, free, alive. And I hate that thought, but it’s real.
I try to pray, but it’s messy. Some days it feels like I’m just sitting in silence, holding a thousand pieces I don’t know how to hand over. I keep trying to roll all of it—the fear, the hurt, the longing—into one ball and lay it at Jesus’ feet. But most days, I’m still gripping it, afraid to let go.
Lent reminds me that surrender isn’t neat. It’s not a one-time act. It’s daily. Gritty. Hard. It’s choosing again and again to give Him the pieces, even when I’m not sure what He’s going to do with them.
But I’m learning—slowly—that Jesus doesn’t need my life to be polished. He’s not asking for perfection. He’s asking for surrender. And in the middle of this broken, questioning, messy marriage, that’s all I’ve got to offer.
I’ve stopped performing. I’ve stopped pretending. I don’t want the smoke and mirrors anymore. You know that scene in Pure Country—where George Strait’s character walks off stage mid-performance and no one even notices because there’s so much noise and flash? That hits different now. Because I lived that. I was that. Performing a life I wasn’t even present in.But Lent is about stepping off the stage. Tearing down the illusions. Letting Jesus rebuild—not just better, but holy.
So yeah—I’m still in the thick of it. Still asking hard questions. Still fighting to trust. Still struggling to believe that this foundation we’re trying to repair can actually hold.
But I know this: Jesus doesn’t walk away from rubble. He rebuilds with it. And if I’m going to build anything from here forward—marriage, faith, identity, peace—it’s going to be on Him. Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s hard. Even if it costs me everything I thought I wanted. Because I’d rather build something raw and real with Jesus than something polished and empty without Him.
No more fake lights. No more noise.
Just me. Just Him. Just the bricks we lay together—one painful, sacred step at a time.
