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We’ve built a beautiful house, mashallah, so spacious and bright. But I’m reminded that the journey here was a long one.

From the single bedroom I rented in Cambridge in 1995 to the filthy, mouse-infested flat in the roof of the Lighthouse building opposite King’s Cross Station in 1997, which would shake whenever a tube train passed beneath it.

From the bedsit in Hanwell with no hot water to our first home together, in a rooftop flat under the flight path for Heathrow airport, roasting in the summer, freezing in winter.

And onto the first home we ever owned. A dank shell when we bought it, in need of complete renovation. New wiring, replastering, central heating, double glazing. Work gradually completed as money allowed over the years that followed.

After nearly two decades there, we love that home too, no matter how small and humble. It has a beautiful garden and view. When the kids have grown up and we are old, there will be no need to downsize.

None of this is forgotten as I laze on my couch, gazing up at the timber ceiling high above me. It’s the kind of building I thought would only ever exist in my dreams. Not the kind accessible to people like us.

All praise is due to the One, through whom all things are made possible, even when they seem impossible.