The hosts of HGTV’s Fixer to Fabulous welcome you into their home, sharing personal stories and gorgeous photos of their restored farmhouse, their delightful kids, and many of the beautiful, inviting spaces they’ve transformed over the years Beloved by millions of fans, Jenny and Dave Marrs have built and remodeled hundreds of homes over the last two decades, creating joyful, warm, and thoughtful makeovers in each one. Now they share their journey of establishing their own home, an ever-growing family, and a busy, sustainable business. Woven throughout are wonderful essays by Jenny about their lives on the Marrs farm and how they seek to live intentionally with a deep abiding faith and purpose.   At its heart, the Marrs believe a home needs to express the intentions of its inhabitants. They also believe your home should be beautiful—not based on how the latest trends define beauty, but as a reflection of who you are. House + Love = Home is filled with: • Stunning Photos Throughout: Jenny and Dave share never-before-seen photographs of interiors, exteriors, intimate family moments, and more. • Intentions: House + Love = Home highlights the twelve areas within a home that Jenny and Dave often remodel and show how each unique space can have intentional design elements that express the personalities of those who live there. • Transformational Tips: These tips take a specific part of a home—everything from doors and shutters to lighting and flooring—and shows the most effective ways to enhance that area. As Jenny says, “Our company motto is the simplest of equations: House + Love = Home. Beautiful spaces are most often imperfect and full of character. Just like people. Perfection is never the goal. Living well is.” Jenny Marrs is a designer, writer, and passionate advocate for community transformation, family preservation, and orphan care around the globe. She is married to Dave, and they live on a small farm in Bentonville, Arkansas, with their five kids and too-many-to-count animals. Dave Marrs is an expert craftsman, furniture builder, and general contractor. He is a self-taught farmer, co-founding The Berry Farm along with wife, Jenny. The Porch Swing Our older daughter, Sylvie, is adopted. Her birth country is in central Africa and her journey into our family was tumultuous to say the least. Dave and I had to fight bureaucracy, red tape, and political posturing for two very long, very hard years to bring her home. During the wait, I spent countless hours sitting on our front porch swing, praying for her health and safety and for the miracle to take place that would finally bring her home to us. Our porch swing was the site of every photograph that marked an important milestone during those difficult years of waiting. We have a photo of her brothers sitting on the swing, holding a sign announcing Sylvie’s adoption, which we shared with the wider circles of our families. A year or so later, Sylvie had still not reached us. Another photo: her brothers sitting on the swing, holding up a photo of her in Africa alongside an ultrasound photo of the joyful, albeit unexpected, pregnancy of her soon-to-arrive younger sister. Only three years old then, Nate and Ben were so excited by the idea of these two new sisters whom they had not yet met. Months later, as we continued to wait for Sylvie, we all sat on the swing again for a photo, this time holding our newborn daughter, Charlotte, and another updated photo of Sylvie. Finally, after 602 days of clinging to hope, our daughter arrived on U.S. soil and came to us, by which time we had moved to our current home, where we had a large porch swing built by Dave, perfect for more photographs. As long as I live, I will never forget the thrill of that first morning with Sylvie. She and I were both restless. I eventually gave up on sleep and scooped her up, tiptoeing to the front door. I quietly turned the knob and we stepped out together onto the front porch. The sun was breaking through the horizon, as she clung to me. I took a seat on that much-used swing. The rays of sunlight warmed my bare feet. The air was still, and the world was hushed. It seemed as if the birds even refrained from their typical morning chatter. Time felt suspended as I held my girl and gently rocked her back and forth. We didn’t speak. We simply sat together holding on to each other. She hadn’t been in my arms since the summer before when I had had to leave her behind at the end of a visit. In the many months since, I had been haunted by the memory of her tears as she was ripped from my embrace in the dark, sweltering summer night back in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. I had often wondered if I would ever feel the weight of her toddler frame again. That morning, under the glow of a summer’s sunrise, I rubbed her back and my tears fell. She was indeed here: This was real. The porch swing that had held so many tears of sorrow and grief and utter helplessness now held t