Today, I watched an historic Denver landmark fall to bits. The Royal Crest Motel was 56-years-old, built in 1969, and after 44 years in operation as a classic Denver landmark motel it closed its doors in 2013 and has sat vacant and apparently abandoned for more than a decade since. (It’s historic sign was donated to the Colfax Avenue Museum nearby.)

As a property owner, who lives across the street and watched this decomposition unfold from my front porch, I could not be more thrilled. This aged, dilapidated eyesore has been an untouchable blight on our neighborhood for decades. It’s been a hub of homelessness, drug trades, gang activity, and who knows what other nefarious deeds nested in those abandoned walls through its long stint of vacancy. Since the moment we took residence here, we’ve watched and waited eagerly for the long-awaited (repeatedly delayed) announcement of its inevitable demise. The destruction of this old relic, and the eventual new construction of whatever comes to replace it, can only mean good things for our property values, neighborhood perceptions, and honestly our overall safety in this beloved corner of East Colfax.

And yet, as a Denver native, I can’t help but appreciate the significance of this loss. This structure has stood here longer than I’ve been alive – first a humble roadside motel, then a recognizable city landmark, then a thorn in the neighborhood’s side, like your awkward lecherous uncle who you kind of wish would leave, yet, somehow, you know family gatherings just wouldn’t be the same without him. Throughout my lifetime, I’ve watched this structure evolve from a place of refuge and hospitality to a place of broken dreams and wandering souls… and now, into nothing more than a pile of rubble, cluttering the view of a million people on their Wednesday afternoon commute. How quickly things can disappear.

And I think, if we’re honest, it is only in the perfect tension between these two ideas that an event such as this can be properly appreciated. I am glad to see it go – ecstatic at this herald of progress, growth, new visions, and new opportunities in this city I love so very much. And also, I mourn the loss of what has been. I watch the mechanical pincers of progress pull down grandiose beams and balconies; and I can’t help but imagine the untold human stories seeped inside those crumbling walls reduced to dust and rubble. I wonder about the people who took refuge under those beams throughout the decades, finding shelter in our ofttimes cold, unfriendly world. I wonder how many cups of coffee people drank while standing on those balconies, gazing at the bumbling world beneath, or waving at the people driving past as if to say, “here I am! This is my home today! And I am glad to be here!”

There is no part of me that wants to stop this march toward growth, however destructive it may seem, especially on days like today. And still, I will not hesitate to mourn the change. The landscape of North Colorado Blvd will never be the same after today. And that is something.

In truth, I’ve spent more than my share of life feeling dismantled – deconstructed, torn down, ripped apart, and awaiting renovations. From chronic illness to multiple miscarriages, a constant stream of cross-country moves and major career changes, losses, wins, and countless mistakes, many of which left me floundering, bankrupt, and ready to give up – I know, maybe better than most, what it’s like to feel structurally, foundationally unmade. As I watched this building deconstructed before my eyes today, I couldn’t help thinking, “Yeah, I feel you friend.”

This last year has been a season of particular dismantling for me, where God barged into my life with his inevitable pincers of progress and started pulling apart the beams and balconies on which I’d built my hopes and dreams (instead of on Him). But this time, instead of big losses – things like death, destruction, or life-changing diagnoses… the kinds of things that have mostly marked my adult experience thus far – this was a year of smaller deconstructions. He came in, less like an earthquake or tornado, slaughtering everything to ruin in its path, and more like a surgeon, or a construction crew—slowly and methodically pulling apart the pieces of myself I thought I needed, and leaving me wondering, “will anything be left when this is over?”

Sometimes, God destroys us. He does. I know this all too well. It’s for good reasons – ones we can’t usually see at the time. But it happens.

And sometimes, God dismantles us. He strips us, piece by piece, and makes us question everything we are. And then, in time, He puts us back together – stronger and more resilient than ever.

And, like the Royal Crest Motel across the street, there are people driving by who get to watch my deconstruction – all my defeats and vulnerabilities are on display for all to see. And there are also people who may not pass by these parts often. And one day, down the road, they’ll drive by my little corner of existence and see me all rebuilt – stronger than ever, completely remade. And maybe they’ll think, “wow, there used to be something different here, but look at what it’s become!” My selfish soul aches, longing for that day. But when it comes, there is a part of me that hopes that people know… it didn’t just happen. New things don’t just appear. They come because the old things get dismantled.