By Beckie Dragon

My husband and I had struggled financially for many years. At the time, we were living in a small apartment and barely keeping up with all of life’s demands.

Then came a turning point: my brothers and sisters decided it was time to move Mom into an assisted living center, which left her house vacant. One day, my husband called me from work and brought up the idea of moving into her home. I didn’t like the idea at all—but I also didn’t like the idea of being homeless.

So, with six children in tow, we moved in.

It was a difficult transition for so many reasons. The house was old—really old. The original part was made of adobe and only about 900 square feet. The kitchen and dining room were carpeted (not ideal for kids), and in the mornings we’d sometimes find slug trails on the damp carpet in front of the sink. There was carpet in the hallway—and even in the bathroom.

The washing machine sat in the hallway, and we had to run a drain hose around the corner into the toilet. If someone needed the bathroom, the hose had to be removed. If we forgot to shut off the washer, we’d end up with a flood. That happened more than once, and cleaning the soaked carpet was a job no one enjoyed.

There were two small bedrooms in the back. You had to walk through one to get to the other—hardly private or convenient. One of those rooms had a makeshift closet with mold that we could never get rid of. There was a large bedroom (which used to be the living room when I was little), and the newer living room was a prefab addition with a roof we constantly worried might cave in from sagging.

We crammed all six kids into that big bedroom with two bunk beds—the bottom bunks were doubles, the tops singles. I moved back into my old bedroom, and the second back room became the office.

But the physical conditions weren’t the only hard part. The emotional weight of returning to that house was just as heavy—maybe even heavier.

There weren’t many happy memories there. My mother had a mental disorder, and our family experienced a lot of emotional instability. My parents didn’t get along, and there was constant tension. Arguments were the norm. Sometimes they escalated into real fights.

Living there again brought all those memories rushing back. I felt ashamed. I felt like a failure—that I couldn’t provide something better for my family. I was overwhelmed, depressed, and discouraged. Life was hard.

And then—something amazing happened. A miracle, really.

In a powerful demonstration of the Law of Rhythm, things started to swing upward.

My siblings made the decision to deed the property over to us. Then, our church stepped in and offered to help us build a new house. We pitched in as a family and worked side-by-side to bring it to life. It was hard work, but it was also healing. We were building something together.

The new house wasn’t a mansion by the world’s standards, but to me, it was everything. Over 1,500 square feet—clean, fresh, and filled with light. I loved the paint color in the main living space. The painter had chosen it as a surprise, saying, “I just had a feeling you’d like it.” I gasped when I saw it—it was a warm peach tone, with bits of faux finish in places. I felt seen and cared for.

The kitchen, dining, and living rooms were open and spacious—at least, they felt that way to me. I finally had a real laundry room. We had our own master bathroom. And my husband designed the kids’ bathroom with separate spaces: one for the toilet, one for the tub, and a double vanity area so multiple kids could use it at the same time. Brilliant!

It was more than just a house. It was a fresh start. A healing balm. A reminder that even after the lowest of lows, things can turn around.

I will be forever grateful for that home. We built it together, and it gave us hope. It was proof that we could rise from hardship into something brighter and better.

Now, 20 years later, it’s showing its age. The carpet needs replacing. The walls could use fresh paint. The furniture is tired. But I’m still so grateful—because I know where we started.

That old adobe house still reminds me how far we’ve come. And whenever I feel tempted to complain about the chipped paint or worn carpet, the Law of Relativity helps me keep things in perspective. Because truly, everything is relative.

And sometimes, remembering what once was is the best way to appreciate what is.

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