By Kayla Runkel 
If the words shiplap, silo, or Magnolia mean anything to you, there is a good chance you are a fan of the show Fixer Upper. If they don’t mean anything to you then stop reading this right now, head over to your nearest television, and set a series recording on the DVR. Go ahead, I’ll wait.
Though I cringe at the term, I can’t help but consider myself a bit of a hipster when it comes to rustic, country decor. I have been ahead of that trend since long before Chip and Joanna broke onto the scene. Still, their show has undeniably wormed its way into my heart. It is uplifting, inspiring, and features two people in love that I would consider to be my ultimate relationship goals any day of the week.
But more than the relationship between Chip and Jo, I admire the purpose of the show itself. You see, each episode starts out with a shabby, rundown home that would make the average house hunter run screaming for the hills. Then Mr. and Mrs. Gaines come along and see the beautiful potential resting just below the surface and bring that beauty to life.
After watching more hours of these home renovations than I care to admit, one day it hit me: I, too, am a Fixer Upper.
Now, I don’t look as dilapidated as I feel—at least, I certainly hope not. I am a couple of years shy of thirty, physically fit, and well-loved. But there are days that my spirit does not match the outside. There are days when I feel like those houses at the beginning of every episode; unkempt, ramshackle, and in desperate need of repair.
I am a mom to an adorable two-year-old boy, the wife of a hard-working husband, and a daughter of the King. I stay home raising my son—a privilege I am starting to see for the blessing it is rather than the curse it used to feel like. I have a wonderful life. A happy life. But sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. Sometimes I feel broken.
I feel broken when my son is having yet another tantrum on the kitchen floor and I lose my temper right alongside him. I feel run down when I have spent the entire day cleaning the house and my husband walks through the door in muddy boots. I feel dilapidated when I notice I am going on day three without a shower. And I feel tattered when I sit in church on Sunday thinking about the coming week’s list of chores rather than thanking God I am still here to do them.
I am a Fixer Upper through and through, in desperate need of my very own Chip and Jo. Someone to come in and clean me up. Someone to take my mess and make it beautiful.
Sure, I could put that heavy responsibility on my husband. I know a lot of women do. But that wouldn’t be fair. I can’t look to my toddler to make me feel whole inside when he is looking to me to for that very same thing. Honestly, I can’t trust myself to do the job either. It is a mighty heavy renovation that no man is quite up to the task of fixing.
There isn’t a single person out there who can take my broken pieces and polish them new again. They can’t tear down my walls and find the beautiful shiplap of my soul waiting to be exposed. And they certainly cannot do so under the constraints of a human-sized budget. The cost is simply too high.
My only hope is to take my brokenness to the only One who knows me from the inside out. The One who can see my beauty beneath the rubble. He is my Carpenter, my Maker, and my Healer. He is my Chip and Jo.
And I am His Fixer Upper.
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