Myquillyn Smith (the Nester) has never met a home she didn't love. She and her husband and their three boys have been fixing up their North Carolina fixer-upper for the past seven years, and her favorite place on earth is floating in the pool in her own back yard. She's the New York Times bestselling author of The Nesting Place, Cozy Minimalist Home, and Welcome Home.

The Nesting Place

ZONDERVAN

Contents

The Before

A beautiful thing is never perfect.

–ANCIENT PROVERB

Dwelling in Possibility

As a child, I didn't have huge dreams, impressive ambitions, or fancy prayers. I wasa simple girl who looked forward to having a family and settling down in a little whitehouse and growing something—you know, like a garden.

Compared with what other people were asking of God, I figured my request for aquiet life would be pretty easy to fill. But you know what happened?The opposite.

My husband and I have moved 734 times in our marriage. Actually, it's beenthirteen times in eighteen years of being married, but as my fellow frequent moversknow, each move can feel like ten moves. Only one house was white, and that'sbecause I paid to have it painted white. Six months later, we had to move out.

Along the way, we've lost two businesses, had a disgusting amount of debt, andbeen embarrassed by what all this did to our credit. Every time I decided to plantpeonies or hydrangeas, we moved before they bloomed. We have not settled downinto a cozy little white house. We have not really settled down at all.

I didn't think it was fair that we had to move so much, but I couldn't complain.Our kids were healthy, my husband was supportive, and it didn't seem very Jesus-yto fret over a house.

Maybe you've been there too.

I finally realized that maybe all the junk I didn't like about our lives was part of astory, a story with an ending I'd like even if it wasn't what I had imagined.

Those thirteen homes weren't a waste. They were teaching me valuable lessonsand I almost missed it. I almost gave up and believed the lie that loving the homeyou are in is reserved for a few lucky people whose circumstances happen to workout just right.

"Someday" Is Now

Have you given up on the idea that you can love your home? Do you find yourselfthinking that your next house will be the one you love? Do you put off decoratingprojects until "someday" because someday you'll have time and money to do it"right"? And yet do you long to create a beautiful home for more than beauty's sake?

I sense a restlessness among women—my neighbors, my online friends, andmost of all, myself. We desire something more than the next DIY craze or perfectlydecorated space. We want to truly love, appreciate, and use our homes. We don'twant to put a bandaid on something we hate, no matter how cute and budget-friendlythat bandaid may be. But we don't know where to start. And hey, we aresmart women; we also crave a sense of balance. Yes, we enjoy beauty and love apretty room, but we aren't willing to destroy our finances or realign our priorities toget there.

That's why this book isn't about decoratinga house. It's about creating a beautiful,meaningful home that you love. Rightwhere you are. It includes practical tips, butmore important, it presents a philosophy ofdecorating that I've found so freeing that itguides every decorating decision I make inmy own home.

Do you believe it's possible to lovewhere you are, right now, today?

I promise, I have made every home-decoratingmistake, and then some. I havespilled the gallon of discount paint on thefloor of the rental. I have spilled the quartof expensive paint on the pretty shelf. Ihave broken the oversized mirror. I haveregretted the fabric, I have measured onceand cut twice, I have painted one roomfive different colors in two years, I havemade too many nail holes, ripped the sofa,purchased the wrong size, and boughtchandeliers that were too small. I havereturned rugs and lamps and pillows. I'vebeen there, ruined that. I have lived to tell.And my house is better for it.

In our thirteen houses, I have madeevery mistake. It's been the best educationI could have asked for. If I'd never tried, myhouse would still look like it did eighteenyears ago. I'd still be giving dirty looks to aplaid hand-me-down sofa.

Greater Purposes

In September of 2010, I got a gift in themail from my friend Dee: a canvas with thenames of all of the streets where we'velived (by Red Letter Words).

I opened it and bawled. I cried the uglycry—the trembling, snotty, bloodshot-eyescry. My husband, afraid and confused, toldme I didn't have to display the canvas if itmade me sad. Sad? What? Did this looksad to him? Clearly I was happy! Seeingall the street names in one place helpedme see something that had been happeningall along. Woven through each of oursad/happy/weird transitions was a story,and I was beginning to see what the storywas about. Because with all that movingand debt and non-white-house living anddiscontentment and guilt about feeling discontentand living in rentals when I wantedto own, I still got what I was looking for: ahome.

I can sit here today in our rental houseand embrace where we live and declarethat I'm content. Because I trust that eventhough this might not be the exact homeI'd choose, God chose it for me, and it ishome.

I don't have a little white house. I havea big subdivision-style plastic house. Butthe people I love are here. I don't have agarden. But things are growing. I don't haveall the money or time I want to decorate.But I have enough to take risks, be a littlequirky, and enjoy the process.

I love sharing my lived-in home with friends, online, and now with you throughthis book. I don't open my home because it's finally done and presentable. I share itfor the same reason I wear a bikini to the pool. It's not because I think I look great init. It's because I'm finally okay that I don't. It's the same with our home. I don't shareit because it's perfect; I share it because I'm finally okay that it's not.

I can accept the fact that my house and life and body aren't perfect, because Itrust there is a greater purpose. I trust that God knows what he's doing, and I don'thave to panic and attempt to make sense of it all. I've given up trying to control ourcircumstances and instead am determined to create a home wherever we are. Andthat's made all the difference.

Thirteen Homesand Counting

An expert is a person who hasmade all the mistakes that can bemade in a very narrow field.

—NIELS BOHR

From Dumps to Mansionsand Everything In-Between

I'm an expert in creating a beautiful home, but not because I'm highly trained withmy one year of community-college design classes. I'm an expert because I've hadpractice in thirteen homes so far and I've learned from each one, especially the onesI've hated and wasted time whining about. I am an expert because I finally love ourhome and think it's beautiful. But getting there wasn't easy.

Houses 1 and 2: The Bachelor Townhouse andthe House with the Pink Carpet

It was 1995, my husband, Chad, and I were freshly married, and my lifelong dreamwas coming true: we were buying our first house. This was going to be the secondhouse we had ever lived in together. Chad was renting an ugly, boring bachelortownhouse when we got married, but I hated it and begged for us to buy our ownhouse so I could make it beautiful. He wanted to make me happy,so we bought the best we could afford on his student-pastor salary:a little $60,000 ranch-style home that had new pink carpetand pink accents on the Formica countertops.

No worries. I knew you have to look past some things in ahouse, right? This house had a fireplace. Who cared about thecolor of the carpet?

Within a year of moving into our pink-carpeted house withthe fireplace, Chad decided that he really wanted to be a teacher.He needed a graduate degree for that, so we found a one-year program at our almamater, Columbia International University, and high-fived each other as we movedout of the house we just bought. We left the state with a For Sale sign in the yard. I'dwatched my parents buy and sell houses, and I was confident our house would sellwithin a few months, no big deal—even though we hadn't lived there long enough tochange the pink carpet and pink Formica counters.

House 3: The Glorified Two-Car Garage

We were in our twenties when we made that move from Florida to South Carolina,so naturally we had no money and ate store-brand fish sticks for dinner and took outstudent loans to cover the tuition.

Did you catch that? We took out student loans so Chad could be a teacher. Letme make this perfectly clear: we borrowed money so we could secure a job makingeven less money than we had before. A foolproof plan.

We needed to rent a house while Chad was in school, since it was just a yearlongprogram and we had a house for sale in another state. My criterion for finding aplace to rent went as follows: find the least expensive place available that had a roofand a toilet. Is there a place where we can get paid to live? Take it. In the end, wepaid $280 a month for a glorified two-car garage.

As the school year wore on, it was clear we didn't make enough to cover all ofour expenses. We got behind on our house payment for the house in Florida thatwasn't selling. By spring, we were getting threatening letters. Then we found out Iwas expecting.

By the end of the summer, Chad had finished the program and was looking for ateaching job. I was due in November. One of the first offers he received was a teachingposition for $18,000 a year, with no insurance. Reality sets in fast when you have ahouse for sale, a baby on the way, and a handful of shiny new student loans.

House 4: The Two-Hundred-Year-OldSouthern Mansion

We took the highest-paying teaching job Chad could find (it included insurance!) andmoved to Macon, Georgia. The school hooked us up with a realtor, and we brokethe news to her about our five-hundred-a-month housing budget. She got creativeand connected us with the owners of a home she had been trying to sell for years. Itwas a 4,500-square-foot, Gone with the Wind–style home, complete with toweringtwo-story columns and a gourmet kitchen. We could rent it for five hundred dollarsa month while it was for sale, enough to cover a few expenses for the owners, whohad pity on a poor young couple.

The house, a Greek Revival known in the National Register of Historic Placesas the Randolph-Whittle House, was rich with historical significance. We had justmoved out of a 250-square-foot garage into a mansion with a story. I was giddy. Butwithin months of moving in and enduring a few showings, something miraculoushappened: the house sold. The realtor thanked us, saying that having a couple livethere probably helped the new buyers envision themselves there (even with most ofthe rooms empty).

I remember thinking how odd that was. Living in this couple's old house helpedthem sell it, yet we had our own house still for sale in Florida. My brain began collectinghouse-selling data.

House 5: The House in the Neighborhood withBars on the Windows

Our little boy, Landis, was due to arrive in another month, so we scrambled to finda new place to live. Of course, I wanted a house, not an apartment. I love design, Ilove architecture, I love houses—I deserve a real house! Again, I searched for theleast expensive place available.

I found a home built in 1910 with twelve-foot ceilings and five fireplaces that costabout the same rent per month as we paid in the mansion. When you are on a missionlike this, you overlook the fact that neighboring homes havebars on the windows.

I'll never forget our first day there. I had the screen doorclosed and the heavy wood door open when the mailman walkedup on the porch. I stood there, nine months pregnant, and saidhello. The mailman's response? He told me I should keep thedoor locked because the neighborhood wasn't safe. What had Idone? It was the day we moved in and I already wanted to moveout. Was this the life we were destined for? Moving from rental torental, waiting for our house in Florida to sell?

We lived in the bars-on-the-windows neighborhood for six months, the amountof time on our lease. Our car was broken into, and I heard there was a vagrant livingunderneath the house next door. When there is a vagrant involved, you suddenly getexcited about moving into a nice, new, clean, no-bars-on-the-windows apartment.

So that's how we had been married three years and had already lived in exactlyfive different homes. That's also how a person who thinks she is too good for anapartment can have a change of heart in a matter of months and become the mostgrateful person ever for not getting to live with five fireplaces after all.

House 6: The Apartment I Thought I WasToo Good For

So we moved into an apartment and I stayed at home with our son and we paid onour student loans and had no money. I repeat, no money. As in, I-couldn't-go-to-McDonald's-and-pay-for-a-small-order-of-friesno money. We'd heard of the wordsavings, but it seemed like an urban myth. I would go to the Dollar Store and lookfor the least expensive thing I could find just to enjoy having something new for ourhome. You know it's bad when you look for things on sale at the Dollar Store.

I wanted so badly to decorate, but we didn't have the means to spend anythingon our house. The best I could do was to take down the rails that ran across the topof our four-poster bed to use as curtain rods in our bedroom. I felt hopeless. Tearswere involved.

After three years on the market, our homein Florida finally sold. Lucky for us, we'd hadrenters for most of that time, but the relief ofnot owning that home was glorious. We sold itfor exactly what we'd bought it for, so we hadto sell one of our cars to pay the realtor's fee.You've never seen people so thrilled to sell theircar.

After a year and a half of apartment living,Baby Boy Number Two, Cademon, was onhis way. We had no plans, no goals, no hopeof ever leaving the apartment. Chad was busyworking at the school, and all I had to do everyday was take care of a little boy, deal with a horridcase of morning sickness, and think abouthow I would be growing old in the apartment.We had major school debt, a little car payment,and a tiny bit of credit-card debt complete withnot-so-perfect credit.

Then I started plotting. I wanted a house. Ibegan to spend my days driving around town,studying neighborhoods. I also talked nonstopabout buying a house. Poor Chad—I'm sure mydiscontentment was obvious.

We read Dave Ramsey's Financial Peaceand within a year cleaned up our credit. Wehad learned the hard way about buying ahouse that wouldn't sell, so we had guidelinesas we prepared for another move. I looked fora good deal, something we could sell easilywhen the time came. I looked for a house that Icould immediately fix up with simple cosmeticchanges like paint, changes that would make abig impact with little work. I looked for locationmore than anything else. Soon I narrowedour search down to a particular neighborhood.Maybe I wouldn't grow old in that apartmentafter all.

House 7: The Yellow House

We finally bought an adorable yellow 1940s mill house with 1,290 square feet. Perfecttiming, because Baby Cade had arrived, and he was sleeping in a bassinet inthe bathroom at the apartment. We paid $78,000 for our little yellow cottage. It didn'tbother me that the washer and dryer were in the tiny kitchen or that there was nodishwasher. I could feel it: this house had good bones.

By then I knew it was best to make my house look good right away. I hadlearned that sometimes the unexpected happens and you move. I didn't know howlong we would be there, but this time I was going to be prepared.I made the house pretty for me, and I made the house pretty incase we ever needed to sell it.

When your first house sits on the market for three years,you do everything within your limited power to make sure youwon't lose money on your next house. I thought of decoratingas a job—a job I loved, a job we benefited from, and a job thatI hoped would free us to sell if and when the time came.

Chad worked extra jobs in the summer months, so I wasable to scrape together money to spend on the house. I paintedwalls and woodwork with wild abandon. I learned about plants and we had the prettiestfront yard on the block. We put up a picket fence and I painted it white to completethe American Dream Look I was going for. I tried to create a simple, charminghome with what we had.

In the meantime, Baby Boy Number Three, Gavin, was on the way. (We hadfound that out even before we moved, when Baby Cade was three months old.) Eventhough during our first months in our yellow house I was either sick or taking care ofthree little boys without the luxury of a dishwasher, I loved what I was doing.

In that little yellow house, I began to see that I was contributing to our familythrough decorating. I loved the fact that something I enjoyed was also worthwhile,both for the time we lived there and for the time we would sell.

I keep saying "I" not because my husband was asleep on the sofa with a bowlof chips balanced on his stomach but because he was working and coaching anddidn't yet know the joy and payoff that creating a beautiful home could bring. Itdidn't bother me. I knew I had enough to do in the house that could keep me busyfor years, so I focused on what I could do.