When Hope and Frustration Share the Same Space

Some seasons test your patience in ways you don’t expect.

I knew a renovation would mean dust, delays, and a bit of inconvenience. I didn’t imagine standing in my home months later, no floors, no bathroom, no plumbing, waiting for work that still isn’t finished.

We were told it would be done by mid-August. Then mid-September. We joked about Thanksgiving but it is becoming clear we will not enjoy a Thanksgiving gathering in our finished home.

I had pictured our long harvest table in the new dining room, set for a send-off dinner for my son before he left for basic training. I pictured the soft light, the hum of voices, the smell of good food cooking in a space finally ready to welcome our friends and family.

That dinner never happened.

Today, the appliances remain in their boxes off site. Cabinets hang without doors. Some sit on the floor not yet hung. The counters are just empty space. We’ve gone far beyond the budget we planned — some of it by choice, most by circumstances outside our control. And the work still isn’t done.

It would be easy to let frustration harden into bitterness. I feel its edges some days.

But in the middle of the mess, we’ve also learned to laugh. At the absurdity of preparing meals on a folding table in the garage, at the way plywood floors have become part of our day to day story. We keep believing that right will prevail, even if it takes longer than we hoped.

I still dream of a Christmas gathering here. I picture the lights on our tree in the family room, candles glowing on our long wooden table, chairs pulled close, stories spilling out as we pass dishes to one another. I don’t know if it will happen this year. Time will tell.

What I do know is that this season is teaching me something I thought I already knew:

A home isn’t defined by drywall, countertops, or light fixtures. A home is the laughter and the love that carries you through the disappointments. It’s the meal cooked together in a makeshift kitchen. It’s the people who gather, even when the space is unfinished.

When our table is finally ready, I think it will feel even more sacred. Not in spite of this season, but because of it. The waiting, the hoping, the holding on, they are shaping us for the day we welcome others in. And when that day comes, it won’t just be a dinner in a finished house. It will be the beginning of something larger. Moments of connection around a table that remind us that even in a divided world, we can still reach for one another.

Your Turn
Have you lived through a season of waiting, when things felt unfinished, but you held on to hope anyway? I’d love to hear your story. Share it in the comments below, and let’s remind one another that even in the in-between, we are not alone.