“What stands in the way becomes the way.” ~Marcus Aurelius
I’ve had two strokes, and after each, there were things I had to relearn. Walking wasn’t what it used to be. My balance became a problem. There are days when my head is foggy, and I have trouble concentrating. My body doesn’t always cooperate with what my mind wants to do.
And over the years, I’ve had plenty of other health problems thrown into the mix.
But I’m not telling you that because I want anybody feeling sorry for me. That’s really not my thing. If anything, the health problems have taught me to appreciate the things I can still do. I just have to do them differently now.
Before all of this, if I wanted to work on something, I’d work until it was done. Now I might work for a while and realize I need to sit down. Sometimes I’ll have a project in my head and know exactly what I want to do, but my body has other plans.
That’s frustrating. I’m not going to pretend it isn’t.
There have been plenty of times I’ve looked at something that needs to be done and thought, “I should be able to do this.” Then I have to remind myself that maybe I can’t do it the way I used to. It just means I might have to take longer.
I’m used to getting things done. Learning that sometimes it’s enough to get one thing done has been one of the harder things for me to accept.
Fixing up my house has been a lot like that.
When we got it, there was so much that needed attention that it could have been overwhelming. But I didn’t look at everything at once. I just started somewhere.
One thing led to another.
The kitchen got worked on. The floors. The bathroom. The walls. The wiring. The porch. The windows.
There always seems to be something else.
Honestly, I’m not sure this house will ever be completely finished. And that’s okay.
Maybe a home isn’t really supposed to be finished.
You live in it. You change things. You fix things. You make mistakes. You change your mind. Kids grow up. People come and go. Things break. Life happens.
That’s what makes it a home.
It’s not supposed to look like nobody lives there. It’s supposed to look like people do.
There are things about this house that probably wouldn’t impress anybody else. But they mean something to me.
I know what was there before. I remember what it looked like. I remember the things that seemed impossible when we first started.
So when I look at something we’ve changed, I don’t just see paint or a new floor.
I see the work that went into it. I see the days I felt good enough to work and the days I didn’t. I see the times I got frustrated and the times I figured something out.
And I see the people who helped along the way.
That’s what makes a home different from a house.
A house is the building. A home is everything that happened there.
It isn’t about having the nicest house. I don’t have the nicest house.
It isn’t about having everything finished. I definitely don’t have everything finished.
It’s about taking what you’ve got and trying to make something good out of it.
My health changed. My abilities changed. My plans changed. But I still wanted to build something. I still wanted to work on the house and do things for my family. So I kept going.
Sometimes that meant doing the work myself. Sometimes it meant figuring out a different way. Sometimes it meant admitting I needed help.
And sometimes it meant doing absolutely nothing because I wasn’t physically able to do anything.
That last one is probably the hardest for me.
But I’m getting better at it. Slowly.
I think a lot of people probably go through something similar.
Maybe not strokes or the same health problems I’ve had. Maybe it’s losing a job. A divorce. Losing somebody they love. Money problems. Getting older. A house they can’t afford to fix. A dream that didn’t work out.
Something happens, and suddenly the life they thought they were going to have isn’t the life they’re living anymore.
I’ve been there. And I don’t have some great secret for getting through it. I just kept finding something to work on. Sometimes that something was the house. Sometimes it was the yard. Sometimes it was something small. And sometimes it was just getting through the day.
For me, having something to look forward to matters.
It’s often a project.
I’ll look at something and start thinking about how I can change it. I’ll measure something, figure out what materials I need, and think about how it could look.
Even if I can’t start it right away, I have something in my head that I’m looking forward to.
That matters.
I’ve also learned that rebuilding isn’t always obvious.
Some of the biggest changes in my life probably wouldn’t look like much to somebody else.
Being able to do something I couldn’t do before. Having a good day after a bunch of bad ones. Getting outside. Spending time with my family. Laughing about something stupid.
Those things don’t sound like much. But they are.
When you’ve had your life interrupted by health problems, you start noticing things you probably took for granted before.
You notice when you can walk into a room without thinking about it.
You notice when your head feels clear.
You notice when you have enough energy to get something done.
You notice ordinary days.
And I’ve come to appreciate ordinary days a lot more.
I still get frustrated. I still have days where I look at everything I want to do and realize there’s no way I’m getting it all done.
But I don’t want those days to become the story. They’re part of it. They’re not the whole thing.
The bigger story is that I’m still here.
I’m still working on the house. I’m still coming up with ideas. I’m still trying to make things better.
You don’t have to put your life back exactly the way it was. Sometimes you can’t. You just have to figure out what you can do with the life you have now.
That’s what I’m doing.
Some days I get a lot done. Some days I don’t. Some days I feel like I’m finally getting somewhere. Some days I look around and see how much is still left.
But then I remember how far the house has already come. And I remember how far I have come too. Those two things have been happening at the same time.
The house has been changing. And so have I.
I used to think making a home meant fixing up a house until everything looked right. I don’t think that anymore. Now I think making a home is what happens when you keep showing up.
You cook a meal. You fix something. You sit with your family. You paint a wall. You clean up the yard. You argue. You laugh. You make memories. You have good days and bad days.
Eventually, all those little things become your life. And that’s what I’ve been building. Not a perfect house. Not a perfect life. Just ours.
There’s still plenty of work to do. There are still things I want to change. There are still projects waiting for me.
I’ll get to them when I can. If it takes me three days instead of one, it takes three days.
I don’t have to prove anything by doing it the way I used to. I just have to keep doing what I can.
Sometimes you can just start with whatever is in front of you.
That’s what I did with this house.
And somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t just making a home. I was making a life that I could live in. And I’m still making it.
About Bill Webster
Bill Webster is an Ohio husband, father, grandfather, and lifelong fixer. After two strokes changed what he could do, he purchased a house because he worried about his family having a home if something happened to him. He began rebuilding the house while learning to live with his changed abilities. Bill shares the ongoing journey of rebuilding, family, and making the most of what he has through his Facebook page, Making a Home.
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