And we all, who with unveiled faces reflect the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory…2 Corinthians 3:18  NIV

Transformation. That is where I have lived this summer. It has been in the broken tile and concrete dust of tearing out my mother’s 1950’s burgundy and pink bathroom to redress it in shades of white and veins of gray. White travertine luxury vinyl tile (who knew there was such a thing?), ubiquitous white shiplap walls, and the easily installed cabinetry of Ikea.

We met a lovely French plumber named Jean Marie from Corsica who made crumbling pipes sound almost wonderous. Our dog Maybelle was enamored, and we soon discovered if we missed her, she could be found sitting in the bathroom with him, his hand absentmindedly rubbing her head.

The pale moss bedroom, painted 14 years ago, became pearl white. The yellow wallpaper of the 70s came down in the kitchen and was replaced with the perfect shade of aqua to make the 1950s solid pine cabinets look right again. Shall we market it 'vintage'? The enormous refrigerator Momma had bought 30 years ago from Jeff Lynch was replaced with a counter-depth four-door refrigerator where every item of food is easily reached and perfectly lit. Transformation.

My heart is being transformed from holding on tightly, refusing to let go, to a softer grasp. I have one exhorting thought echoing quietly in the back of my mind; “I have to stop living my mother’s life.” And there is the other one that still needs some reconciling, “Greenville is not my home. Atlanta is.” Not because I like the geography or the politics or the culture or the highways – Lord, no! – but because my family is there. The dear ones God has given me to love and cherish and hold onto gently.

But let me tell you about South Carolina. My great, great, great, great – oh, do go on – grandmothers found themselves packing up and leaving their homes in places like Fairfax County Virginia and Chester County Pennsylvania to build new lives in a God-forsaken land named oddly enough Chester County South Carolina. Well, maybe it wasn't God forsaken – but it certainly was much less inhabited in the 1750s than the northern colonies. I am pretty sure they felt the same way my Daddy did when I told him I was moving to Georgia. “Why in the world would you want to go there?” he asked, completely perplexed.

Apparently, for a short time in the 1800s my name-sake, Georgia Tanner also found herself in Georgia; on main street Roswell in a charming Victorian house. I need to query my cousin Perry more about this. But anyway, I left South Carolina for Georgia, but I forgot to bring my heart. It still hangs out on my grandfather’s land under huge white oak trees where hawks raise their young and the clear water in the pool my Daddy built reflects the blue of the Carolina sky. Cue James Taylor singing "In my mind, I'm going to Carolina…" and I will only cry a little bit.

Oh, yes. Transformation. Jarringly a very different song plays on my soundtrack this summer. “Closing time, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.”

My sister and I had a conversation about too much and too tired. We've met with a realtor. I have a project book, a to-do list, a French plumber, a Hispanic painter, and a pool repairman with a deep lilting southern voice from Easley. I have yet to call the flooring folks to refinish the original hardwood floors. I have a target date. And I have a reliable phrase that is my foundation and my north star; "We want to be good stewards of what we have been entrusted."

And that is why I can't just pack my bags and walk away today. Because I want to honor those who went before who built on solid ground with bricks and stone. I want to be respectful of my cousins who still live behind and beside us. And I want to pull on white gloves and pass this home that is precious to me carefully into the hands of the ones who will come after.

This house under the oaks is not fancy. It doesn’t need to be. It is pretty honest, and dare I say it, downright good. There are no sad stories to tell or weirdnesses to be covered over. I think a house has a bit of a soul – much in the way – well, that may be going too far – as a person does. What I am trying to say is there is a good spirit about the home on Shady Lane. The son of one of my cousins off-handedly dismissed it as a ‘3-2’. Just three bedrooms and two bathrooms. An older and wiser cousin, overhearing his remark, immediately corrected him, “It is much more than that!”

As I think about repairing and renewing and transforming this 70-year-old house, I am thinking of the transformation that continues in another old house. Me. The good work God started, He will continue, until completion. He has been prying off the old, cracked tile and patching the crumbling plaster, sanding the rough edges, giving me a new coat of whiter paint. How can I not think of this beautiful passage by C.S. Lewis in Mere Christianity?

“Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.”

I remember surrendering to God all of my life – not just the exterior. Every room would be His to transform as He chose. It was a hard surrender. I wanted to keep what I thought might be the best parts for myself. My career, mainly. And my relationship with my husband. I didn't want to quit work – I had just started heading down the difficult road to becoming a film director. I was really afraid He would have me homeschool my children and lay aside my black wardrobe for denim jumpers. He did not. I also wanted to sort of be the dominant one in my marriage. Or at least a slight bit taller than my husband. Marriage doesn’t work well structured that way. God constantly has to help me close my mouth and take a step back. Still working on that one. Anyway, I love the description Lewis lays out. We know God will be knocking out some walls and cleaning out some closets, but we have no clue that He is building a palace to live in Himself.

I am checking in to say, I am still here. Just undergoing some renovations. Traveling the path between my childhood home and my adult home. I wake in the night, not knowing if I am in my teenage bedroom or the house where I raised my children. My journal and my bible travel back and forth with me, receiving my scribbled additions as I sit on the porch swing under the trumpet vine in Greenville or as I rock on the wooden glider under the wisteria in Atlanta. Maybe God is doing a work in me. A transformation. Taking what was old and cracked and certainly out of style and dusty and ripping it up and out and into the trash bags soon to be loaded into the pickup truck and carried to the county dump. What will remain will be new. Clean. And white. I certainly hope so.

I just wanted you to know I am still here. Sometimes painting walls until the sun goes down, sometimes writing God’s stories when the sun has yet to come up. Sifting slowly through the life of Jesus as he paries with the Pharisees and mixes the poultice to place on the blind man’s eyes. The menorahs are burning brightly in the Temple.

I am making plans. I am pulling out the old and putting in the new. I am learning. I am writing. My blogs have been few and far between because I am in the middle of reading the stories of Jesus. And writing about them. And laboring in the honorable work of transformation. Transforming an old house. Or maybe two.

In closing, these two passages are not a footnote. These words are perfect descriptions of a life surrendered. I need to write them out by hand and carry them in my pocket. Maybe by spring, they will have softened my heart.

Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we all, who with unveiled faces reflect the Lord’s glory, are being transformed into his image with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.     2 Corinthians 3:17-18 NIV

I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the good and acceptable and perfect will of God. Romans 12:1-2 ESV

Holy Spirit - Francesca Battistelli

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UvBBC7-PSHo