Finding Home (Even When It Doesn't Make Sense)

For years, Barry and I had talked about being part of a thriving makerspace. We'd visit ones in other cities, browse online communities, and imagine what it would be like to have a creative hub like that nearby. But nothing in our area quite fits. They were either too far away, too specialized, or didn't have the vibe we were looking for.

Meanwhile, we kept making. We'd set up our booth at the Upsadaisy Market on Sundays in Chesterton, selling our handcrafted dog themed items alongside other local vendors. We loved the energy of downtown Chesterton—the walkable streets, the community spirit, the way people genuinely supported local creators. We even had items in 3 Wicked Apples, an antique store and vendor mall that embodied that same community feel.

Then one day, a building came up for sale that stopped us in our tracks (see what I did there). It was unlike anything we'd seen: a small central structure with four original Pullman train cars attached, right in downtown Chesterton. It was quirky, historic, and full of character. It was also full of problems. Years of sitting vacant meant broken windows in the cars, snow and water damage to the woodwork, and a price tag that didn't match the reality of what it would take to restore it. We reluctantly walked away. (As of today, it still sits there, waiting for someone with deeper pockets and perhaps more courage than we had.)

But the seed was planted. If we were going to do this—really do this—we needed to start looking for a place to call home.

We began our search for something modest: maybe 1,000 square feet, somewhere in "the region" (as Northwest Indiana is affectionately known). We're believers in upcycling and giving old things new life, so we looked at everything. A former funeral parlor; storefronts with great visibility but no back space for messy work; a former family pizza restaurant with an apartment upstairs that needed a lot of work but was very well priced, old manufacturing sites with great bones but astronomical utility costs.

Then our realtor showed us a former church.

Walking in that first time was overwhelming. The building was completely full—and I mean completely. Chairs, tables, office furniture, Sunday school supplies, kitchen equipment—decades of church life still frozen in place exactly as it had been left when the congregation closed their doors during COVID. It felt like walking into a time capsule, both poignant and daunting.

The basement was a maze of Sunday school classrooms and offices with cinderblock walls. The main floor had two large rooms that echoed when we walked through them. And it was rural. Really rural. The address was Hebron, which felt far from everything we'd been imagining.

"It's too big," we said. "Too cluttered. Too far out."

We drove home certain it wasn't the one.

But something funny happens when you sleep on things. Barry and I both woke up the next morning with the same thought: What if?

When we really looked at the location, that "too rural" concern started to fade. Yes, it had a Hebron address, but it was only minutes to Winfield and Lake of the Four Seasons. Closer to downtown Valparaiso, Merrillville, and Crown Point than downtown Hebron. It wasn't isolated—it was central to multiple communities, just not in a traditional downtown location. And there was over an acre and a half of land. Room to grow, room to breathe, room to dream bigger than any storefront could offer.

Those cinderblock-walled classrooms in the basement? Perfect for woodworking, laser cutting, messy projects that needed containment. The two large rooms on the main floor? What if we turned them into event spaces? Party rentals? People are always looking for unique venues. And then there was the stage.

The stage.

Neither of us are theater people. We're not musicians. We had absolutely no business keeping a stage. But... what if?

What if we kept it? What if that stage became something we never imagined? What if the fact that we had no idea what to do with it was exactly the point? Someone would know what to do with it. RIght?

There were practical questions too. The property was zoned "Institutional," and we honestly had no idea what that meant for our plans. Could we run a makerspace? Host events? Rent the space? The County resources became our unexpected allies, helping us navigate the zoning requirements and figure out what we could and couldn't do. Turns out, we were good to go.

Standing in that building full of someone else's memories, surrounded by decades of church history and facing a mountain of work ahead, we realized something important: we didn't need to have it all figured out. We just needed to start.

Maybe we'd figure out the stage later. Maybe those big main floor rooms would find their purpose as we went. Maybe being a little off the beaten path would turn out to be an advantage we couldn't see yet.

Sometimes the right space doesn't make sense on paper. Sometimes it makes sense in your gut the morning after you've convinced yourself it won't work.

So we stopped looking for the perfect 1,000 square feet in the perfect location with the perfect layout. We started imagining what we could build in an imperfect space with great bones, generous land, and endless possibility.

We made an offer on a church.