The In Between
By Laura Leinbach
@lauraleeme
It’s the chain-link fence, newly erected to keep everyone out, that I notice first. I linger at the four-way stop to look more closely. The fence surrounds an unremarkable beige building I’ve driven by countless times to and from daycare. I never noticed the building before; I don’t even know what it is. But craning my neck I see a sign written in concrete relief letters that reads “Cumberland Silk Mills, Inc.”
Its walls are starkly flat, devoid of architectural ornament, with long narrow slits for windows. Not even a strip of grass breaks up the cement facade; the building sits so close to the street that walls and sidewalks touch. It’s no wonder I never noticed the place before. Its appearance is casually muttering, “Nothing to see here, folks.” Except now, the new chain-link surround has closed the sidewalks, making it stick out like a sore thumb.
Within a couple days, I figure out what the fuss is about. On the far end of the property, where metal barriers shield the street from fallout, the walls are coming down. A demolition crew works from east to west, knocking down a little more of the building every day, leaving naked inner rooms exposed to passersby. I watch the structure become smaller as mountains of rubble around it grow. Giant wooden beams are set aside in stacks on the far side of the lot, destined for another life somewhere else.
Before I know it, every last wall is torn down. The silk mill once filled half a block. Just like that, it’s gone.
***
I sometimes wonder if I was destined for another life. If I was supposed to do something different or make different choices that would have led me down a path with a better outcome. Or if a failed marriage was always in God’s plans for me, part of some greater good I can’t see from my perspective.
Two years ago, I shut down and put a chain-link fence around my heart because I knew I couldn’t bear one more hurt. Last May, I realized the conditions of my marriage were no longer liveable. I asked him to leave and started knocking down the walls.
We listed the house all three babies came home to and were under contract days after. The countdown to box up the last seven years began, and a deadline to find a new home before my oldest started kindergarten loomed close behind. A stream of lawyer phone calls, mediator sessions, legal actions, and court dates jackhammered away every piece of the way things used to be.
When I dropped into bed exhausted each night from packing, I scrolled Pinterest, filling up the boards I’d created for every room of the new house I was under to contract to buy. In a COVID-19 real estate world where houses went on the market only to be snatched up in less than a week, I found a nearly hundred-year-old brick house that had flown under the radar for a month. I put in my offer the same day I saw it and wrote a letter to the seller about how I hoped to start over there. Another offer came in, but he picked mine.
Even as life crumbled around me, I could see my fresh start right around the corner.
***
I was resistant to the walks my Apple Watch suggested in January, February, and most of March, but in April’s optimistic weather, I’m easily convinced. There’s no denying the good it does me to get a quick physical and mental refresh in the middle of my workday. And besides, it’s a good excuse to check up on progress at the silk mill.
The walls have been down for a good two weeks at this point, and, as far as I can tell, the crews spend every day digging through the destruction. The pile of wooden beams I assume will be reclaimed has been joined by more piles of categorized rubble. Walking by, I openly gawk at the metal I beams, bricks, chunks of concrete the size of compact cars, and a shiny spaghetti tangle of scrap metal that’s bigger than the excavator beside it.
Everything worth anything is being plucked from her bones. The building is down, but the space still needs to be cleared, which feels like it’s taking forever. I want to see what will happen when the demo is done. I want to know what’s going to fill the open space.
***
“Why is nothing ever easy?” I complained to my dad over Facetime when I got stuck on a home improvement project I’d tried to take on myself in my new house.
“I’ll come down and look at it this weekend,” he assured me.
“I just thought I’d be able to do it myself. I thought I could knock it out in a night,” I explained, deflated.
“I’m impressed with how far you got and that you even tried to do it yourself in the first place,” he replied. I could hear genuine pride in his voice. But I went to bed that night disappointed with how little I’d accomplished.
***
After morning daycare drop-off, I drive past the silk mill site at five mph under the speed limit and scrutinize the activity. The familiar heavy machinery picks through the debris at a snail’s pace.
Back home, I jab the buttons on the Keurig to make my morning brew and carry the steaming cup over to my desk with resolve. I borrow the first few minutes of the workday to sleuth online for answers. I want to know what the future holds for the void two blocks away.
My search turns up an article in the local paper from 2019 that covered the sale of the property. It tells me what I already know, that the building would be demolished, but doesn’t answer my question about what will be built in its place.
***
In my mind, a picture-perfect fresh-start home would mean I’d made it, that I had it together. But I lost steam on my DIY projects within months of moving. The work was exhausting; my job was exhausting. Single motherhood was exhausting.
I felt guilty about my exhaustion. Post-move, with a new shared custody agreement in place, I had more downtime and parenting help than I ever did when I was married. But it still felt so hard, and I beat myself up constantly because I didn’t think it should.
Even though dating wasn’t something I was eager to jump into, I needed to get myself ready for it. At thirty-three, middle-age was just around the corner. Surely, the only way to avoid becoming a bitter, lonely empty-nester when my last baby goes off to college was to fix myself and fast. To become a better mom, who keeps up a better house, parents better kids, works as a better professional, lives as a better Christian, at a better weight …
Meanwhile, my divorce dragged on with a fight over money. The longer we both held out, the more I obsessed over the closure a divorce decree would bring me.
***
April showers have kept me inside for a couple days, and the kids have been with their dad. As the silk mill lot comes into view on my way to pick them up, I perk up a little at the sight of fresh dirt. For weeks it’s seemed like they’ve pushed debris piles from one place to another and not accomplished anything. On closer inspection, though, the same piles are all still there. The fresh dirt is the result of the old foundation being ripped out of the ground. Still nothing new.
Maybe they aren’t even planning to build anything here. Maybe it’ll never be anything more than an empty lot shut off behind a chain-link fence. It sure looks that way from where I stand.
***
In December, we finally agreed on the divorce settlement and signed the papers. A fresh wait began for the court to process our paperwork and finally issue a divorce decree.
At church, I experienced the “already, but not yet” of the advent season with an acute new understanding. Twinges of jealousy straightened my spine as I watched couples all around me worship together, his hand on the small of her back, her head leaned against his shoulder. I wondered if I stood out as much to them, alone with a naked hand, as they did to me.
When my church announced a new season of classes for the new year, I jumped at the chance to join Divorce Care. That’s where I would fit in. And a class to heal me of the hurt was just what I needed. After that, I would be ready to get back out in the world, meet people, go on a few dates, right? I’d take this class and be certified cured of my divorce trauma woes.
***
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see sunlight spill across the couch and floor in the living room. I check the time, grab earbuds from inside my desk drawer, cue up my audiobook, and head outside for a lunch break walk. By the time I get to the silk mill site, I’m warm enough to take off my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist. If it weren’t for the fresh signs of life that bloom on trees and in flower beds around me, I’d swear time stands still at this corner.
Maybe it’s because I can’t get close enough to see much with the fence up. Maybe it’s because I know next to nothing about demolition or site preparation. But to my untrained eye, it sure looks like a handful of grown men show up every day to play in the dirt. The walls came down so fast; why does it take so long to get rid of the junk left behind?
***
It’s Monday, I have my weekly Divorce Care class tonight after work, and I haven’t done the homework from the study guide. I skip my lunchtime walk today to get caught up, but the silk mill is on my mind. I’m almost used to the slow progress, noticing instead how the world spins on around it, daffodils poking up from the ground and cherry blossoms bending down to greet them. But the question about the future of the not-quite-empty lot still pulls at me.
Back at my desk, I do another Google search for information on the demolition site, and this time I find my answer. What it’s going to be: Townhouses and green space. And why it’s taking so long: The old structure caused stormwater drainage issues. They need to dig up every bit of the old foundation to correct the problems deep underground. They also chose to save pieces of the silk mill, like the wooden beams that once spanned the factory, to be recycled.
It takes time and care to demolish the old but still preserve what’s worth holding onto.
I think about how I’ve wished for a fast-forward to the better thing God must have planned for me, the gift I hope will come. And I realize I’m looking at it all wrong. Nothing could fall into my lap or into my life that will fix my hurt and brokenness.
This time right now, this in between, this is the gift.
It’s not glamorous or exciting. It’s hard and uncomfortable, and the change is almost imperceptible. I have a rare opportunity to sift through my life, keep only the good, and uproot the broken habits and attitudes of my heart. I get to grow as a woman and mother.
There’s a reason it’s called a fresh start and not a fresh destination.
Guest essay written by Laura Leinbach. Laura is a single mom of three who logs 40+ hour weeks as a marketing director and is slowly coming around to the idea that “work-life balance” doesn’t actually exist. Unread emails and red notification bubbles make her twitchy, and Starbucks lattes are her favorite little luxury. When she's not at the office or chasing after little ones, she flexes her creative muscles by writing, cooking, and updating her century-old fresh-start home. Follow along on Instagram and her blog.