Our story so far: After months of work, my husband and I moved into the 126-year-old Methodist church we had converted into our residence.

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We woke up the next morning, feeling refreshed after sleeping on our favorite bed. A Sunday. I found this somehow significant, even though we weren’t conducting any services. First day of the week. First day living in the church.

First task: Making coffee. At the beverage bar. The extra-deep counter had room for all our coffee-making paraphernalia, and a little sink to rinse off the Aeropress when we were done. But on this day, Tyler brewed us a whole pot. We sat at the island—because we’d hauled in the bar stools when we brought in our bed—and we enjoyed our comfortable seating. I saw everything with new eyes because I was no longer planning it or walking by it mid-construction, I flipped the light switches, I stood over the countertop, I ran the faucet to rinse a cup. It was all so weird.

When the time came, I walked over to the Congregational church only a block away to worship. And I said a little prayer of thankfulness.

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Tomorrow: Filling the closet. Read about it here.