Anyone who owns any home knows the home improvement projects never end. When the house is new, the projects center around finishing and decorating. When the home is old, look out! The projects tend to be expensive, time-consuming and occasionally overwhelming.
For one thing, the structure that turns 135 years old this year needs a new roof. That might happen this year, it might not. But one project is solidly on the docket for 2026, and we ever want to do the roof, we’re hoping this one is not expensive, time-consuming or overwhelming.
Of all the spaces we have renovated in the ol’ chome over the years, the interior of the belfry has remained pretty much static. The bell tower on top was repaired in 2019 and remains operational. But the little second-story room beneath the bell is pretty retro.
Let’s go back in time to see how it looked when we bought the church in 2017.
Here is the doorway to the belfry the day we toured the church, before we even bought it. All that stuff in the foreground was the leftovers from Sunday School classes.
Here is some of the junk on the shelves inside the belfry.
And most alarming, here is the exterior wall of the belfry. The window had been covered up and we found a bullet hole in it!
Eventally, we cleaned the room out, replaced the window, switched out the door for a new windowed door to let the light into the guest bedroom and painted a coat of primer on the shiplap.
Here is how the shelves looked after we cleaned up and painted. That bell pull was brand new in this picture.
I filled those shelves with hundreds of books, only to revisit the room when I needed a new read. And that’s how the belfry stayed until last fall when I spent several days cleaning it out in order to create a clean slate for home improvement. I have at least a dozen boxes of books with which I could not part that are stored under the eaves.
Here’s how the little belfry room looks now.
At some point this summer, my husband will tackle this room, finishing the wall and floor treatments (not sure yet how) and rebuilding the shelves. I assume I’ll be called into battle to paint.
And then, and then! I’ll get to reshelve all my books. It will be the best little library you’ve ever seen!
I’m writing about it today as a way to making promises to myself (and my faithful readers) that I will fulfill later. So I don’t have the most satisfying after picture for you today, but I hope to share one at some point this year.
In the meantime, I will attempt to chronicle some of the other projects we tackled over the past four years, including the basement and the mancave. Never fear! The projects never end, so I guess neither will this blog. Stay tuned.
Living in a former church has a way of reorienting your sense of time.
Every day, I’m surrounded by evidence of faithful work done long before I arrived—craftsmanship meant to last, decisions made with future generations in mind, and spaces shaped for gathering, reflection and care. Renovating the building wasn’t about restoring it to some imagined perfection. It’s about stewardship: deciding what to preserve, what to adapt and how to honor what came before while making room for what comes next.
As I prepared to launch my new book, Prime Time: Ups & Downs of a Minnesota TV Man, out today, I keep noticing how closely these two projects—renovating a church and writing a memoir—mirror each other.
The heights of success appear different in different contexts.
My book tells the true story of my father’s career in early television, a time when the medium was new, fragile and full of promise. His work unfolded in small-town Minnesota, far from the glamour we now associate with television. There were risks, setbacks and reinventions along the way. Like many lives, his wasn’t a straight upward climb (except on antenna towers), but a long arc shaped by perseverance, skill and showing up day after day to do the work at hand.
Writing the book required the same kinds of questions I ask daily in this chome of mine: What is essential here? What deserves care? What would be lost if no one paid attention?
Old churches—and old stories—don’t always announce their value loudly. They wait. They hold their meaning quietly, hoping someone will notice before it’s too late.
As my husband and I worked on this space, we came to appreciate how much faith is embedded in physical labor. Someone once chose solid materials instead of cheaper ones. Someone repaired rather than replaced. Someone believed that what they were building mattered beyond their own lifetime. That same faith shows up in ordinary work—running a small business, learning a new technology, committing to a craft, raising a family—long before anyone calls it a “legacy.”
My father never set out to be remembered. He set out to do his job well. The book grew out of that realization: that a life shaped by responsibility, curiosity and resilience is worth recording, not for acclaim, but for understanding.
In many ways, this chome teaches the same lesson. It stands as a record of countless unseen acts of care: sermons preached and forgotten, meals shared, worries whispered in pews, decisions made with hope but no guarantee of outcome. The value isn’t in perfection. It’s in faithfulness over time.
Renovation, like memoir, requires restraint. Not every crack needs to disappear. Not every story needs embellishment. Some marks of age are evidence of endurance, not failure. The goal isn’t to freeze something in the past, but to let it continue speaking—truthfully—into the present.
As Prime Time enters the world this week, I’m grateful for the ways this former church has shaped my thinking about legacy. It has reminded me that stewardship isn’t about owning the story. It’s about tending it for a while and passing it on intact.
Whether we’re caring for buildings, communities or memories, the work is the same: notice what’s worth saving, honor it honestly, and trust that faithfulness—quiet, persistent, and imperfect—will speak for itself.
Today’s the day, folks! Get it now
Prime Time: Ups & Downs of a Minnesota TV Man is available today! Believe it or not, I don’t yet even have any copies myself. Thanks to a glitch in Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing, the copies I ordered a month ago haven’t yet made it to my door. But I have it on good authority that when you’re ordering a single copy, it comes mighty quick.
Paperbacks are $11.95. Ebooks (available instantly!) are $5.95.
We received tragic news via the Facebook scuttlebutt feed the other day.
St. Johnny reported to us that You-Can-Call-Me-Al’s son was advertising an estate sale. Of You-Can-Call-Me-Al’s estate.
You-Can-Call-Me-Al cuts a hole in our kitchen floor, preparing for the tile “rug.”
You-Can-Call-Me-Al was instrumental in reconstructing the old Methodist church into our home. A gifted master carpenter, he transformed many ugly corners and edges into beautifully trimmed details. He did almost all the tiling in Church Sweet Home: the master shower, the kitchen tile rug, counter backsplash and the floor-to-ceiling fireplace. He also spent many days on ladders and an articulating boom in order to construct our Garage Mahal and reconstruct our “rooted” belfry. I prayed for his safety many times when he was crawling around like a monkey in the upper reaches of our church structure.
We might have finished our converted church without him, but it certainly wouldn’t be as pretty as it is.
Dreadfully, the Facebook estate sale indicated You-Can-Call-Me-Al had died the day after Christmas. Tyler called You-Can-Call-Me-Al’s son immediately, he picked up, and he confirmed that yes, sadly, You-Can-Call-Me-Al had died accidentally on December 26.
The morning was early, and Tyler and I were on the road. The coffee in our mouths lost all its taste.
You-Can-Call-Me-Al was dead.
We almost couldn’t believe it. The news was shocking. You-Can-Call-Me-Al was my age. He lived a big an rollicking life, but he died way too young.
Whatever his demise, we loved You-Can-Call-Me-Al. He was almost always kind, optimistic and up for anything. He was an invaluable resource and sounding board on all things construction related and on many life matters, too. I remember one day he showed up at the worksite with an enormous puffball mushroom he’d run across. “You just slice it and fry it in butter,” he said, depositing it on the countertop. “Delicious, I promise.” He was right, of course. Delicious. His extended his generosity in many other ways, too—he led us to a free big-screen TV for the garage, a complete set of wicker furniture and even an entire kitchen’s worth of pre-owned cabinetry for our basement.
He shared many meals with us. “I don’t know how many times we had breakfast together, lunch and dinner,” Tyler said. “Nothing fancy. Sometimes on lawn chairs or on a pile of wood we had stacked up someplace.”
While Tyler wrangled with many a undependable contractor, You-Can-Call-Me-Al was not one of them. He lent us tools and borrowed Tyler’s, and he always returned Tyler’s calls. We tried to help him out when he was in a pinch. During construction, he checked on the house while we were out of town multiple times. Tyler hoped to rope him into the basement remodel last summer, but You-Can-Call-Me-Al was coping with an excruciating back injury. He showed up one day, and I could see the pain all over his face.
You-Can-Call-Me-Al in his signature tie-dye giving high fives on the roof of the garage.
“It was more than an employee-employer type of thing,” Tyler said, noting they fished together on days off more than once. You-Can-Call-Me-Al was as good an angler as he was a carpenter. “Fishing together was always a treat. Because we’d always catch fish, that’s part of it.”
A week or two before Christmas, Tyler invited You-Can-Call-Me-Al to admire his work in the basement. He was proud of the work he did for us and interested in our progress. Ever polite, You-Can-Call-Me-Al said nice things. He did not point out the uneven or unstraight places that surely would have been addressed had You-Can-Call-Me-Al been working at Tyler’s side.
That was the last we saw of him.
“Occasionally, he’d say I did a good job and pat me on the back, which is something other contractors didn’t do,” Tyler said. “Because he knew so much about everything, getting a compliment from You-Can-Call-Me-Al meant a lot. I miss his smile, man.”
One of his last acts as a contractor for us, You-Can-Call-Me-Al relooped the bell pull in the belfry last spring. For some reason, it fell off its track and the bell was inert. In a matter of minutes, You-Can-Call-Me-Al climbed up there and fixed it right up. Ding-dong, ding-dong could again be heard in the village.
“You-Can-Call-Me-Al said more than once how blessed he felt to be there after he lost his wife (who died of cancer a couple years before we met), how he felt blessed by us, and how he felt peace in that church,” Tyler said. “He said that more than once when were were working together. We shared blood, sweat, tears and beers when he was working side-by-side with me daily.”
When you hear our bell ringing, you can thank You-Can-Call-Me-Al. We will miss him forever.
You-Can-Call-Me-Al rings the bell after repair.
In honor of You-Can-Call-Me-Al, here’s the story in Church Sweet Home of how I met him and how he became involved in our project.
Then I experienced another one of those moments of serendipity that had blessed us throughout this project.
I went to the post office to ask about whether we were the getting a mailbox or post office box. I had already been there four times without hearing a clear answer.
As we stepped into line, a man who held open the door for me motioned to let me cut in before him.
“No, go ahead,” I said.
But he was a gentleman of the generation when etiquette demanded ladies first (let’s be honest, he looked to be my age). I accepted his offer.
I explained my problem to the man behind the counter, beginning with this description that had become familiar to my lips: “I bought the old Methodist church, and we’re turning it into our home.” Etc., etc.
During a pause in our conversation, the gentleman behind me asked, “You’re remodeling a church?”
“Yup, we are.” I smiled.
“Do you need any help?” he asked.
“Yes! You know anyone?”
“Yeah, me,” he said. “I’m a master carpenter. And I do other things.”
“Do you know any tilers?”
“Yes, I do tiling.”
“Do you have a card?”
He fished a card out of his pocket. By now I was ignoring the postal employee. I read the card, and an old Paul Simon song floated into my head.
“Al? Can I call you Al? Do you have time now? My husband is at the church. He handles all the contractors. You could go talk to him now.”
“Sure,” You-Can-Call-Me-Al said. “Where’s the church?”
And the polite gentleman went to the church, introduced himself to Tyler—You-Can-Call-Me-Al—and told him, yes, he could tile a shower for us. He did it all the time.
Perhaps my silence here on Church Sweet Home indicates a lack of progress on our basement remodel.
Oh, ye of little faith!
My silence may indicate my slothfulness in writing updates, but updates are indeed occurring at Church Sweet Home. I will try to bring you up to speed with missives throughout this month, the last month of the year. Stay tuned, dear and loyal reader.
In the meantime, I have related news. I’ve started a new project, one with a namesake that honors the church: a blog about prayer named for the belfry of the church. I commissioned an artist to create a logo featuring our church bell. Are you the praying sort? You might find it right up your alley. Check it out by clicking here.
We have a fireworks store in our little village just over the border from Illinois, and it’s evident the populous frequents the place. Pop, pop, pop, whir, bang! Twilight erupts with real-life sound effects around here on a holiday weekend.
I captured this rare evening photo of the church sign last night as some neighbor kids lit street sparklers in the background. My “mighty flame” message is both inspiration and a warning, te he.
Here’s hoping we Americans take advantage of the blessings of liberty for the greater good. Happy Fourth of July!
Isn’t this sentiment aptly suited for a season that ushers in sunshine and ice cream cones along with the prospect of sharing those things with in close proximity with loved ones as the spectre of COVID-19 shrinks?
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s line comes from his best known novel, The Great Gatsby. It’s the longest message I’ve ever put on the church sign, so long in fact that I ran out of Ts.
On this first official day of the season, here’s to wishing you a long, happy, healthy summer. Happy Father’s Day, too, to my dad, who’s celebrating with a soaking rain in his neck of the woods and possibly an ice cream cone. And to my parents who observe their 57th wedding anniversary tomorrow, congratulations! Much to celebrate, much for which to be grateful.
Residents of our little village must have wondered what in heaven’s name was going on Sunday at Church Sweet Home.
We clanged the gong, a.k.a. rang the church bell, at least four times that day as we toured folks through our restoration project, a church converted into a home.
The tourists? Tyler’s extended family. We hosted the family reunion of the maternal side of his family, which meets every year at rotating locations. This year was his mother’s turn, and we offered to have her host it at our house.
So 48 folks showed up from North Carolina, South Dakota, Nebraska, Illinois and as far away as Hawaii.
It was raucous and beautiful and strange. After a year and half of staying away from people, we mingled unmasked in the house, in the garage and in the yard; dipped spoons into communal potato salad and baked beans; and breathed the same air. How familiar and weird. I loved it.
As I sat in a lawn chair in the yard surveying the crowd, I wondered if the Methodists who used to occupy our church building ever had a picnic here. The scene reminded me of Georges Seurat’s iconic work, A Sunday on La Grande Jatte — 1884 (an oil painting in the collection of the Art Institute of Chicago). “Bedlam,” “scandal,” and “hilarity” were among the epithets used to describe what is now considered Seurat’s greatest work, according to the Art Institute. We reunion-ers didn’t have a lake or parasols, but we did have a dog and ladies in hats. No bedlam here (though a six-year-old hanging onto the bell pull was lifted off the ground at one point in the bell-ringing, to my great surprise!).
Besides tours for the adults (and some inquisitive children—I just love second graders), Tyler manned the grill for lunch, and we offered sidewalk chalk and a bubble machine for the kids.
We also provided a photo opportunities. We offered folks the chance to dress up as Jacob Blair IV, Tyler’s great-great-great-grandfather, and I also took a photo of the whole Blair clan from the belfry window. It was fun.
I even chose a quote about family for the church sign.
Sunday’s gathering is exactly the type of event for which the church was originally designed—a large group of people meeting for fellowship and in love. I am so grateful we can gather again safely.
“Yesterday, I was but a pile of wood chips,” said Mulch, “and today I am grand bedding for your flowers and trees.”
“Yes,” I said, “good job for refuse.”
“You underestimate my worth,” Mulch said. “I encourage water to stick around and discourage weeds from springing up.”
“Maybe,” I conceded, “but I think my husband likes you too much. He told me he was going to go ‘all out’ this year. How much mulch does one man need?”
“Three pickup truck loads, and not a clod more,” Mulch advised.
“Hey, quit picking on Mulch, my dear lady,” said the Front Garden with her two cents. “Mulch makes a nice accent to these blooms. Did you plant these tulip bulbs?”
“Not I,” I said. “We can credit for that Tyler’s uncle, a green thumb if ever there was one. He gave you some much needed attention last fall and determined you could use some fresh bulbs. They are, indeed, pretty finery in your high profile locale.”
“None for me, thank you very Mulch,” the Violets chimed in. “We’re happy blooming where we are planted.”
“As should be we all,” I agreed.
# # #
Today’s headline is modified quote from American novelist Flannery O’Connor. Instead of a yard, she like walking in the woods.
Spent some time on Zoom lately? Who hasn’t? This video communication platform is the hot go-to for socially distanced meetings and work-from-home gatherings.
Even some of my leisure time recently has been spent on Zoom. I’ve attended book club discussions and hosted a family reunion or two on Zoom in the these past pandemic months.
Want to put your best face forward? You can “Touch Up My Appearance” and smooth out your skin tone with the touch of a button.
If you really want to be cool on Zoom, you can look like a pro by getting rid of the piles of books and dirty clothes in your workspace and customizing your background. (Who really wants to neaten up a space when you can utilize technology?)
And better yet? How about upgrading your chaos to a sanctuary? A Church Sweet Home sanctuary?
I’m sharing three images you can use to customize your Zoom background and feel like you’ve upgraded your home zone without all the headache of buying an old church and renovating it.
Zoom Background 1: Kitchen
Zoom Background 2: Entryway
(This one’s my favorite.)
Zoom Background 3: Balcony
Begin by clicking on the image, then right-clicking to find the option to “save image as” and saving it to your desktop (or wherever you store images).
Now log into Zoom and go to Settings, click on “Manage Virtual Background” and choose the image you’ve saved on your desktop. If you’re already in the meeting, click in the upper left corner, then click on the gear symbol, then “Background and Filters.” You might have to click the “Mirror my video” box to get the right orientation on the image. Alternatively, you can change your virtual background during the call by selecting the up arrow (^) next to the stop video button and clicking on the option that says “Choose Virtual Background.”
(Having trouble getting your background to work? Troubleshoot with Google. You’re a smart reader, I know you’ll figure it out.)
If anyone asks about your background, tell them you’re personal friends with the woman who renovated a church. Just another opportunity to name drop your celebrity friends, friend.
Among the benefits of investing in an existing structure, as opposed to building a new one, is that you usually inherit mature trees on the property.
This was most definitely the case with our converted church in the center of town, a little village on the Wisconsin-Illinois border. We had a number of big, beautiful trees on the lot. We ended up removing a few of the elderly Chinese elms, but the rest of them just needed a little pruning and love.
The stars in our yard are the pine trees. Somebody in the congregation long ago planted a number of pine trees that grew to forty or fifty feet tall in the decades since that prescient decision. They tower over the church roof.
The biggest pine, in a greener season.
Immediately upon taking possession of the property three years ago, we had the lowest branches on the two pine trees closest to the building trimmed dramatically (it took me and our hired man hours to haul all those branches to the burn pile). Some of the branches were draped across the roof, and they had to go. But since that extreme haircut, the scars have healed. I can barely get my arms around half the trunk of the biggest pine tree, it’s so massive (and I have long arms!). I stare into those towering branches next to our patio when I am in savasana, the final resting pose at the end of almost every yoga practice–at least, when I’m lucky enough to do yoga outdoors (which is out of the question, even in Texas, this time of year). It’s supremely calming to listen to the wind in those branches, and contemplate how those branches were reaching skyward long before I was born. Depending on my luck and the tree’s, those branches might be writing poems on the sky long after I’m gone, too.
If the true meaning of life is to plant trees under whose shade you do not expect to sit, a quote alternately attributed to author Nelson Henderson or Elton Trueblood, my husband decided to repay those long-ago congregants by planting a new pine tree in our yard last fall.
Tyler, Uncle Al and St. Johnny worked together to plant and stake this tree between the garage and the property line.
After we cut down those Chinese elms on the property line, Tyler determined we needed a little more greenery between us and the neighbors. So this little spruce tree took up residence between two of the bigger pines just off the driveway. If we had been around for Christmas, I would have been tempted to hang lights on this tree, it was so perfectly Christmasy.
In my youth, I didn’t consider myself a nature lover, but the longer I enjoy the eternal newness that comes from sunrises, sunsets, plants and yes, trees, the more I appreciate it.
“Of all man’s works of art, a cathedral is greatest. A vast and majestic tree is greater than that.”
Church Sweet Home 