Author: Natalie Price

for that day.

Natalie Price

My first significant experience with grief was in elementary school when a boy close to my age died suddenly in his father’s arms. An unimaginable tradedy that shook our church. The morning of the funeral, my brother and I were dressed and ready before it was time to leave. While we waited, we walked around the block in silence together. In my dress and shiny shoes, I still know the exact house we were passing when sadness and disbelief deeper than I had ever felt enveloped me. I tried to step on fallen acorns to create sound on the sidewalk when there was nothing to say. The only remaining memory I have of that day was the boy’s mother crying in agony for him as the pallbearers passed.

That was twenty-five years ago. And I can still hear her cry.

And what I’ve learned since then is that most people don’t want to talk about sad things. Most people don’t want to talk about life after this. So they don’t until they’re forced to face it. Because it’s hard. And it hurts.

For whatever reason, I’m been more comfortable than most talking about loss and grief. And saying the word death. Maybe it’s nature. Maybe it was nurture. As a pastor’s kid, I got used to walking up to open caskets at a young age. To asking questions about heaven and sitting in silence. Unknowingly, this was the practice of processing sadness.

When we lived in Iowa, my dad walked through pain and suffering with so many people in our small town. Years later, when he’d go back to visit, he would often spend time walking the cemetery. I had never heard of a pastor doing that and the more people I lose, the more that makes sense to me now. Being intentional to remember people honors their legacy.

So I remember. Today would have been my friend Marissa’s 33rd birthday. I’ve missed her for the last ten years and what she brought out of me. A love for people on the edges of the group. A heart to see people who want the same sense of belonging I do. A purpose to care for every person, every life who has a story. She taught me that how you treat people matters.

Three hours ago, I learned with the world that Charlie Kirk of Turning Point USA was shot and is now with Jesus. The devestation and shock of such violence quiets me. I don’t understand and I don’t have the words to find out where we go from here.

All I know is there is still hope in the cross. Charlie lived that, he believed that, he urged people to know it. He lived with eternity in mind. Or as my dad would teach us from the pulpit, he knew how to “live this day, for that day.”

The day when we will see Jesus again. When we’re with him for all of time. When forever becomes true.

This summer we visited Richmond, Virginia and took a friend’s suggestion to walk through the Hollywood Cemetery. We found countless graves delicately cared for, presidents and other famous figures buried there. So many lives summarized in a few words on stone. This one, though, I’ve thought of every day since.

It reads, “In tender memory of one who loved the Gospel and died in its faith, in the hope of its glory.”

I’m so grateful for lives well lived, races well won. And I hold in tension the grief of not enough time. Not enough time for great leaders to lead longer, lives to be lived out fully, friendships to deepen.

I will learn to cling to hope while I sit in the sadness of losing figures of faith, like Charlie Kirk. People who loved the Gospel. Who died in its faith. In the hope of its glory.

Jesus, help me to trust in your goodness when I don’t understand our broken world. I don’t know what to do but I know I can talk to you. I know I can pray while hurting and for those hurting. Help us turn to you as we process unimaginable pain. Show us how to pray for Charlie’s family.

And may I live this day, for that day, too. May I be resolved in my faith, to love you, to love those you love, and to live with eternity always in mind. You are the author and the perfector of my faith. Thank you for writing me into your story. Show me how to live it well, like Charlie did with his.

Take care & take heart,

friends.

Natalie Price

Last Saturday I was driving to walk the trails with a friend early in the morning and I kept thinking about how grateful I am to have a friend for that. Someone wise once said, “Gratitude begets gratitude.” The more I’ve thought about my life in the last twelve weeks, the more I’ve found to love. Small, simple things that easily go unnoticed. Things I’ve longed for and didn’t realize had already arrived.

This morning I got out of my car as the sun was coming up. In the quiet, I noticed the sound my feet made on the gravel as I stretched. And I thought about so many different people in my life that have encouraged me, took the iniative with me, or thought of me first. Micro gestures that have added up to the most fun I’ve had against the backdrop of a year filled with loss and grief.

The air was cool as Cathryn arrived in her husband’s white truck. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s invited me to walk with her in the last year, but she hopped out into a haze of dust that made us laugh. Without formal discussion, we just headed to the trails as if we’ve done this hundreds of times. I’m so thankful for the ease and familiarity that I’ve found with a friend like her.

As we walked, we talked about what makes a friend a meaningful one. She shared about a friend named Sally who draws out humor from life and makes every ordinary day better, who connects easily with so many people but makes each person feel a special connection with her. She asks questions with a genuine interest and remembers the details that make up the people that she loves so well.

I told Cathryn about my therapist, who helped me see that each friendship has a unique offering. Where I saw so many relationships as disappointments for so long, Robert showed me that placing expectations on a few people to be everything I needed often quenched the connection. In exchange, he taught me that I could connect with certain people on certain things. Some I could connect with over books, some over deep thoughts, others over ordinary life, some over leadership and business, and others over sports or my varying interests.

I had never viewed my friendships as their own disctinctive gifts. But now, I see all of these effortless connections I’ve formed over the months and years as all the wildflowers that make up the most winsome bouquet. And I can’t get over the goodness of God in that way.

As I drove home, always lighter after being with someone as refreshing as Cathryn, so many names of other women came to mind. Kiersten, my cousin, who I talk with every week, who loves deep and wide, who is radiant in every way. She’s been the friend who always checks in, who asks how I’m really doing. The friend who ends every Marco Polo asking how she can pray for me and I can sense throughout my week that she does. Kiersten sees souls and delicately nurtures them the way I think Jesus intends all of us to care for each other. Being known by her is one of greatest treasures of my life.

Kristy, who has always felt like home to me. The biggest loss I experienced leaving Wisconsin was losing proximity to her. I miss her every time she comes to mind. For someone with a very full house, she walks into a room emanating peace for everyone. On the hard days, I know she’ll send me a reel to make me laugh so hard I cry and whatever I have to vent about, she can always handle it. I love her for that and for her laugh. The best warmhearted laugh. What I’d do for a hug and to share a menu at Waterfront right now.

My mother-in-law. Fun and faith are the two words that make me think of Lisa. Hospitality is her gift and fun is her mission. I have never laughed so hard around someone’s table. She is unwavering in her prayer life and models what it means to believe the best in everyone, to never give up on anyone’s soul, and to always trust that the Lord is sovereign over every beating heart. I love connecting over the Bible and moments of comic relief with her. Lisa personifies the best qualities of not taking oneself so seriously. To laugh is to learn.

Alyssa, my millenial mom friend who never disappoints with the best discussions. She’s the friend who can make pop culture deep, who can dissect world events in a way that matters on a personal level, who is so honest in ways that help me be honest with myself. I don’t think she realizes how much it’s meant to share an obsession over the same teenage drama shows, to connect over objectively ordinary things that I find profoundly emotional and meaningful. I’m so grateful for the string of conversations over the years that remind me I’m not doing life alone. Sharing the same interests is so fun and even when she has a distinctive perspective on something, I feel like a better person by listening to her about it.

Hannah and Darcy, my cousins who keep me in the loop every month on what is new on their side of the Midwest. To stay in touch across three states for 32 years is special. Colleen, my childhood best friend who calls to hear about what’s new and reminisce about old memories that still make us laugh. My longest and most loyal friend. Natasha, my coffee confidant and biggest encourager. She has figured out how show up for people across state lines. Sara, who is so thoughtful and always ready to laugh with me. I’m amazed at how she shows genuine care in simple ways.

Jen, who has cared for my entire family for the last several years when we didn’t have family nearby. She has shown care and hospitality to us, even this summer and I’m always blown away by how she can connect so well with my boys. Allison, my baby cousin who texts to see how I’m doing after a year of sharing each other’s company in hospital rooms and hospice rooms, so much like her incredible mother. Never having to say much, just hugs and knowing we grieve from the same tree, in our own ways. I’m grateful for my five sister-in-laws and the ways our lives overlap, for fun and interesting conversations or small exchanges, and for the ways we’re bonded because of our last names.

My mom. The person with the biggest impact in my life and the least amount of fanfare. The only person I know who embodies both a Mary and Martha spirit simultaneously and in the best ways. She listens and empathizes when I call. She comes over and she helps me clean without saying much. She anticipates when I need to work and connects with my kids until I’ve regained the energy to do so. My mom is the friend to me so many women long to have but don’t know how to ask for, and I don’t say it enough, but moving home to be closer to her was the best thing I could ever do for my soul. So many of her friends have moved away in the retirement years, and yet she continues to be a blessing without realizing the profound influence she still has on so many, near and far.

There have been many stretches throughout my teens and twenties where I thought I was doing life without many friends. Where I was trying to navigate school and work, marriage and parenting without very many people to relate to. I had so many days where I doubted if I was capable of connecting with people in the ways that I wanted to.

I find myself in awe of God on days like today when I realize I’m living the life I longed for. Even more, there are so many other women I could name that have gone out of their way to see me, to know me, to connect with me. They are the women who are teaching me even now how to pass on that kind of love and intentionality to others.

And I’m so grateful that God designed life to be together. I’m grateful for the people I’ve connected with in different seasons. I’m excited for the friendships I’m forming with people at church and through work. I’m grateful for opportunities to practice being the friend that initiates with others, the way that so many of these women extended invitations to me. It’s mattered. It’s really mattered.

Thank you, Jesus for Proverbs 17:17. Thank you for wildflowers and for perspective. Thank you for how you are always writing and weaving a grander story than what I can imagine. What a rich life I have with You.

Take care & take heart,

am i doing this right?

Natalie Price

Ten years ago, I walked across the graduation stage with a business degree and a plan for my life. Since then, I’ve moved my tassel from right to left once more. I’ve changed my home address five times, I’ve had two children, and I’ve held the same job for nine years. I didn’t see any of that coming.

I thought I’d own a business in Tennessee with three kids. I’m a day’s drive from Rocky Top and when I’m sitting behind my small closet door hiding from the two very strong-willed tiny humans I birthed, I have to remind myself repetively that I am not actually a prisoner of war. I chose this.

The closest thing to a business I own is practically begging co-workers to let me use my 4-year-old coaching certification on them. I also thought I’d last six months at the job I applied for in 2016 before finding a “real one.” But I’m still here.

I thought marriage would feel mostly like my favorite books and parenting would bring out the best in me. I didn’t picture relating to Monica Geller this much.

At twenty-two, I thought the effects of aging would start in my fifties. But stress and pressure came knocking on my door at twenty-five. Guess you can’t have wisdom without looking like you’ve earned it.

A decade ago, I imagined financial freedom looking a lot freer. I hadn’t factored economics into my financial portfolio. Ballooning interest rates and property taxes hadn’t put me in the fetal position just yet. But I sure am limber at paying the government now.

As a college kid, I thought my future house would look like a Pinterest board. Joke’s on me, my walls are actually Hot Wheels tracks and my kitchen floors look like we’ve started our own ant farm for funsies.

And I guess I thought I’d feel more confident in my decision-making, need my parents less, and that I wouldn’t second-guess what I’ve made of my life so far, this often. The more I experience and the more I read, the less I feel like I’ve got a grip on adulting.

The question that’s always lingering in the back of my mind is, “Am I doing this right?”

Am I messing up my kids? Do I have enough money saved? Was I helpful enough at work? Should we eat out tonight, or will that put us over budget? Have I prayed about that enough? Does this outfit make me look too young? Am I wasting my time? Am I squandering my gifts? Am I too scared to try? Did I say the right thing? Did I make the right decision?

I’ve just got so many questions, still. I’m my strongest critic, still. I idealize what I want life to feel like more than I should, still.

Am I doing this right?

When I was entering data into a spreadsheet for work a few months ago, I cruelly saw that I am now one of the oldest employees on payroll. I’m just starting to get a grip on working with Gen Z while the Alpha generation is beginning to enter the workforce. As a Millennial, I felt like a tech czar helping out Gen X and my parents’ generation with technology and the newest vernacular. Now I’m the one out of touch on all fronts.

It’s been humbling to need the help of twenty-one-year-olds. Especially when it feels like I should still be one. But the truth is, they’re gifted and faster at more things than I am. They catch on quicker. So I find myself asking the question again, “Am I doing this right?”

I kind of hate the internet sometimes, because it seems so sure of itself. All of its unsolicited opinions and advice and AI. It’s the most one-sided relationship I’ve ever been in. Google and Zuckerberg have contributed zero percent to assuring me in my question. And yet, I often give them the most control of my time.

This morning, I was reading in 2 Chronicles 9 about how the queen of Sheba visited King Solomon. She had a lot of questions.

And Solomon answered them all. In verse 12, it says, “And King Solomon gave to the queen of Sheba all that she desired, whatever she asked besides what she had brought to the king. So she turned and went back to her own land with her servants.”

She knew where to go with her questions. And the king was faithful to supply her for her journey.

Even the queen shared my question. It says that when she had seen the wisdom of Solomon and all of his kingdom, there was no more breath in her. What the king beheld was more than what she could have imagined, so she came to see it with her own eyes. And it didn’t disappoint.

Too often, I don’t turn to the King with all my questions. I try to be self-sufficient by looking for answers within the places I can still control. I think sometimes I’m afraid that there’s actually no “right” answer. Or that the life I’m living is actually not a waste of my gifts. Sometimes realizing you have what it takes is the scariest thing of all.

The hard days of parenting are not my ultimate failure; they’re actually His sustaining power. Being an age outlier at work doesn’t mean job instability; it means looking to Jesus for what more I can give in this next chapter. My bank account is not reflective of my value; it is evidence of God’s provision thus far. He’s faithful to supply us with enough for our journey.

My dad has always known about my question. In all my doubting, he’s never failed to tell me I’m doing better than I think. He’s made Hunter and me feel like millionaires the way he has praised us for our faithfulness to God with our finances when it hasn’t been easy. He’s quick to remind me of my gifts and how far I’ve come. He’s also never seemed to be exhausted by how often I ask him if I’m doing this right.

And in that sense, he’s Jesus to me. Dad reminds me that what the King has in store to teach me is more than I can imagine. I only have to ask. By faith, I can trust that He will open my eyes to what He wants me to know in His timing.

The Lord will never disappoint me in my questioning. I’m so glad my dad taught me who to ask.

Take care & take heart,