Our story so far: During a visit to see the transformation, my father installed more than fifty knobs on various cabinets in the old Methodist church we had rehabbed into our home.

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Mom proved her prowess, too. She helped me unpack a dozen boxes of office supplies (yes, you might say we had an obsession with them), and she made an apple bundt cake for a pair of friends, one of whom spent her birthday paying a visit to see me and the church. I was grateful for the bundt pan I had unpacked, for my evenly heating gas stove and for the decorative cake plate on which to serve it—things I didn’t have in the camper for nearly two years.

My friends gave me a housewarming gift of a candle and a hand towel that said, “Meals & Memories are made here,” an appropriate sentiment for my new kitchen.

The evening before they returned home, Mom and Dad helped us remove the super sticky plastic wrap from our balcony carpeting. Removal was as farcical as the application, but we persevered. Mom helped me assemble the legs for the balcony chairs, which I had gallantly retrieved from the store weeks before but hadn’t had a chance to put together. The engineering student working part-time at the furniture store put his know-how to use to get both balcony chairs and six dining room chairs (all in boxes) into the back of my pickup so I had to make only one trip.

Mom and I recovered our breath while trying out the new chairs and taking in the balcony view.

“Now I have to find a lamp for up here,” I said.

“Where are you going to plug it in?” Mom asked.

“We have an outlet in the floor,” I said, looking down to locate it. “At least, I think we do.”

We looked between the chairs. We looked under the chairs. No outlet.

“Oh my goodness, they carpeted over it,” I said, feeling the floor to see if I could locate the outlet through the carpeting.

We couldn’t find it that way either.

I mentioned the omission to Tyler later. “Oh, the electrician forgot that outlet,” he said. “The carpeting installers wouldn’t have known to leave a hole for it. We’ll have to do it later.”

Ah, later. Another “later” project.

First, Tyler was determined to finish his garage. But Mother Nature had other plans.

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Tomorrow: Rain provides a musical break. Read about it here.

Our story so far: My husband and I created a design plan for the renovation of the old Methodist church we planned to turn into our home.

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And finally, I defined our color story. Color was the easiest way to create a cohesive space, and this part of the design dossier was probably most important in keeping us (me) on task. When we moved out of our previous home, I was appalled at how many purple home décor items I’d accumulated. It all began with a pair of microfiber purple chairs we’d chosen for the living room. They wore like steel and lasted through a redesign of the room, which included a purple wall in the kitchen. After that, I’d unconsciously chosen a purple rug, purple placemats, a purple bedspread and purple candles. Too much of a very distinctive color!

When I thought about our church, I wanted a more neutral background. Though I used words (“black and white, cream and chocolate brown, grays, light blues and aqua with occasional turquoise”), I knew actual color samples would be most useful in practice, so I cut apart a paint chip book (several, actually) to create a visual. The chips I chose had evocative names like marshmallow, snowdrop, planetary silver, Havana coffee, after rain and blue mosque. I decided a limited color palette would be most interesting with an array of textures: Metal, glass, wood and fur.

We referred to this document many times as we determined our floor plan, and we would be referring to it many times more as we made decisions about flooring, fixtures and furniture. The fun was beginning.

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Tomorrow: What’s the buzz? Tell me what’s a-happening. Read it here.

Our story so far: As we pondered how to wire and plumb the old Methodist church we planned to turn into our home, we created some guidelines for designing it.

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Our brand personality would be a balance of necessity and luxury, of industrial and homemade, of modern and classic, of masculine and feminine, leaning toward economical, casual and subdued.

And then I wrote down ten design rules:

1. Details matter.

2. 

   Recycle, reuse and repurpose whenever possible.

3. Natural lighting brings the outdoors indoors.
4. Build storage into every room. Two closets, two cupboards, two hooks, two nooks are better than one.
5. Accent walls create a center of focus.
6. Doors and doorways should be beckoning and give some clue as to what’s behind them (think: frosted glass with the word “laundry” and design that reflects the room within).
7. Artwork should be graphic, realistic (think: photographs) or abstract. Large object art and quote art—words, saying and verses—should be used liberally.
8. Flooring should be hardwood and/or tile with durable rugs made of natural fiber, jute and sisal.
9. The two rooms we spend the most time in—kitchen and master suite—should be most luxurious and elegant.
10. Curb appeal is worth spending money on. The front door sends a message. Our entryway should be functional and welcoming.

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Tomorrow: We wrap up Chapter 13 with the color story. Read about it here.

Our story so far: We developed a mission statement for our design style in the converted church that emphasized comfort and order.

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After researching interior designs styles on the internet and being tempted but ultimately rejecting words like bohemian and eclectic, I settled on this summary of our style:

Our decorating style is
rustic transitional
punctuated with elements of
warehouse,
farmhouse,
barn house and
house of worship.

Rustic transitional: Note that transitional is the noun, rustic the modifier. Transitional is defined as bridging contemporary and traditional design with inspiration from the industrial era, heavy emphasis on an open floor plan and leaning toward clean, straight lines but incorporating thoughtful details. Refined would be balanced by raw. The adjective rustic suggests elements such as exposed bricks, stone, raw steel, rough-hewn or distressed wood and metal, especially tin, aluminum and wrought iron or rusted metal.

What was warehouse? Think of a warehouse loft with open space, exposed steel, exposed brick and industrial light fixtures. Salvaged architectural pieces, especially antique doors. What parts of warehouse did I want to avoid? Nothing cold, greasy or noisy.

For me, farmhouse was an antique flea market look showing signs of wear. Distressed wood. Oversized clocks. Vintage mirrors. Candlesticks. Elements needed to be functional but should be soft and opulent. Not: Mason jars, cute cows or country tchotchkes.

Converted barns had that same open space as lofts and warehouses, but barns also had exposed wood beams, hearths, barn doors and large chunky pieces. Oh, and animals, which I would incorporate with faux animal hides. What of barns did I reject? Anything dirty. Not our aesthetic. Especially not for a Virgo.

And naturally, the inside of our home would have to reflect the outside. It was a house of worship, so we would adopt the belfry and bells of all kinds, organ and piano elements, pews, niches, large windows, stained glass and flowing water (which brings to mind to baptism and new beginnings). Crucifixes were OK, I decided, but not to excess; no Virgin Mary statues in the garden.

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We can thank poet Robert Louis Stevenson for today’s post title.

Tomorrow: Our design style even had a personality. And ten commandments. Read about them here.

Our story so far: On the verge of making irreversible decisions about everything from lighting to flooring, I set out to write a design guide for my husband and I to follow as we transform the old Methodist church into our home.

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I began with a mission statement:

We strive to create a comfortable sanctuary in the modern world, built solidly and maintained orderly.

Comfort was the first adjective for a reason; my husband and I didn’t want an art house that required ramrod posture and scared visitors away. Sanctuary was a good word with two meanings: Churches had sanctuaries, and sanctuaries were places of peace. With this intention, I created my first mantra to carry me through the construction phase when things got tough: “We live in a church. Let’s practice peace.”

After living in what we repeatedly referred to as a cardboard box for a decade, Tyler and I both lusted for solidity. Hollow-core doors, paper-thin walls and plain vanilla details were created for the masses; we wanted something a craftsman from a century ago would have created to persevere through a F5 tornado.

Though I was a slob to my core, I knew my husband was a Virgo who valued order so creating an orderly home with lots of storage and easy ways to hide away mess was important.

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Tomorrow: Our design style, summarized. (I tell you, it’s like poetry.) Read it here.