When I was in 4th grade, my dad took me on a trip out West for my Spring Break, just the two of us. Before we left, I went with him to pick up a few things at his office. As we were turning to leave, he jokingly asked a co-worker to pray for him because he was going on vacation with himself. I remember feeling so proud to be thought of as like him. That was 21 years ago, and I’m still proud.

We’ve traveled to many places inside and outside the country since. We’ve clocked thousands of miles going on walks together, discussing life. And when life is overbearing, we love to talk about the books we’ve read that have been a welcomed escape.

One of the lesser known nicknames my dad has earned is “Chief Crazy Horse.” Last I checked, the Battle of Little Bighorn ended in 1876, but for my dad, his daily battles are crowds, traffic, and inattentive people who walk without purpose.

In airport terminals and grocery stores, on sidewalks and highways, my dad has absolute urgency to get out ahead of everyone into open space, where he is free to maintain his own momentum. The way he can weave in and out of cars like it’s rush hour in Chicago, or turn himself sideways to squeeze between people without a single care but his mission to get somewhere — keeps the crazy capitalized in Crazy Horse.

And what I know now that I didn’t know then, that day I stood behind him like his shadow in the office, was that he was aware of our overlapping personality traits and the quirks that came with those. The ones that could be endearing in small doses but puzzle others with overexposure. I’ve burned more gas and, with no complaint, more calories just to keep up with him. In doing so, I’ve been impacted by several observations.

The family joke is that Dad always walks a step ahead. Sometimes 15 steps. Briskness is a virtue! I’ve walked with him long enough to know how to keep up. I like the pace he sets, even if it is a step ahead. I appreciate the challenge. And I know that my dad, like Chief Crazy Horse, cannot help but to be a leader. It’s in his DNA.

It was sometime after our trip out West that Dad instilled in me that I am a leader. But I already knew that he was one, too. It wasn’t just all the Sundays of seeing him stand before a growing congregation, a skilled communicator and connector. It wasn’t solely the way our landline would ring continuously from people wanting his counsel. It wasn’t all the conferences he’d travel to, adrenalized by what he’d learned. It was all of that.

But I knew he was a leader because I’m inspired to follow him. The same pastor who stood before hundreds week after week, confessing the Lord is still teaching him, too, is the same father I know.

It was my dad who taught me the phrase, “Greatest strength, greatest weakness.” Meaning that the things we are gifted at can also be the things that trip us up. There have been times we’ve asked Dad to please slow down for us. There have been a few times my “please” was omitted, and if I were Catholic, I’d still be at confession for the careless things I’ve said to him.

But he’s listened when we’ve asked, though it pains him to be passed by in crowds. I’ve seen his soul face the brink of death in my rearview mirror when we caravanned through Tennessee, letting me lead so we could stick together. I call that a selfless act, knowing him.

He is a leader who has practiced humility time and time again. Because he practices it, I’ve found the courage to try, too.

Almost 5 years ago, we were on a walk together when my dad told me he was preparing to step aside as the Lead Pastor at Cherry Hills. He sensed it was time to let the next generation take up the baton and lead. “Well, what will you do then?” I asked in shock. I knew the day would come, but my dad wasn’t yet 60.

Three and a half years into his new role as Equipping Pastor, my dad, ever the Barnabas of my lifetime, is cheering people on, traveling to encourage mission partners and build into business leaders near and far. There were times as a kid, and especially during COVID, that I knew he wanted to quit.

But he kept leading, out in front. He kept setting the pace for us until the Lord showed him his next step. Years of practiced postures of humility allowed him to take it.

My parents love Proverbs 3:5-6, which says,

⁵ Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
And lean not on your own understanding;
⁶ In all your ways acknowledge Him,
And He shall ^[a]direct your paths.

I love it because I’ve watched them yield to it throughout my life. And I’ve learned that even if the Crazy Horse title gets bestowed on me for my idiosyncrasies, my paths can still be directed if I acknowledge Jesus. Like my father.

I’ve been reading about the generations of fathers in the Bible. Abraham to Isaac to Jacob. David to Solomon to Rehoboam. Then all the sons and kings who did not love the Lord as their father did. What an absolute honor that my dad’s legacy will be one of faithfulness. From Grandpa Gary, to my dad, to me: I will walk in the ways my father has, just as his father had.

Walking with my father has led me to my Father. The best kind of leadership. May my sons continue to seek the Lord in the ways their grandfather does.

Thank you, Dad, for running the race set before you. I’m blessed that you model the Christian life, one step ahead of me. You inspire me to follow in it.

I love you, and I’ll always pick you again, Crazy Horse.

Happy Father’s Day,

In November 1982, my grandfather, Gary Nelsen became the Senior Pastor of a dying church in Springfield, Illinois. Before he had even set up his office on Outer Park Drive, the Lord gave him a vision that Cherry Hills would grow to 500 people. But in order for that to be possible, Grandpa sensed the need to teach people how to love one another. “Learning to be the loving and inviting family of God” was more than the church’s mission. It became the culture.

My Grandpa was a shepherd. He loved people. It gave him great joy to learn about people’s stories. Names and their meanings mattered to him. He worked a lot even after he retired, but I remember he’d stop to read books with me. We would laugh so hard I’d cry at the different voices he’d try to do. When I was in college, we formed our own honorary book club, and he’d have me read books he was given by the people he’d befriended. There was one book he was gifted that I thought he was crazy for having me read, called Accidental Saints. When I told him how much I hated it and disagreed with the entire premise, he laughed and told me about one thing he learned from it. He always seemed to find something interesting to take away from every person he met.

He taught me to be a learner.

He taught me to ask God about what was true. He taught me how to process hard things. On a Tuesday in September 2001, we stood in his living room and he talked to God for us as we watched the towers and people fall. I watched him process grief and sadness. He was always honest about it. I watched him pray and give thanks. I watched him work in his home office on Andover Drive, Bible open. I learned there was only one right way to butter toast.

He helped me understand the meaning of Christmas and the joy of giving over receiving. He showed me how to ask about other people. He modeled how to grow in your marriage, even in your eighties. He taught me about the Cardinals and how the planting season in Iowa worked. But mostly, he showed me how to have conversational prayer with Jesus.

In his final months, he grieved that all the Scripture he had once memorized and hidden in his heart seemed to have vanished from his memory. I told him he was wrong. It wasn’t hiding anymore, and it hadn’t left him. It is now living in people like me. He imparted a love for the Bible to the next generation. He passed on the gift of a relationship with Jesus found within the pages.

The last several weeks, I’ve had so many questions about what I’m really supposed to be doing with my time and opportunities. I still wonder if I’m doing this right. If I’m doing enough or making the most of my gifts. And then I remember Grandpa and how he wrote out his mission for the Church. Learning to be the loving and inviting family of God. Learning to be is a process. Grandpa was a faithful learner. So I can be, too.

In 1998, sixteen years after Grandpa heard from God, 500 people regularly attended Cherry Hills and experienced living hope. I’m so glad he answered that call.

Today, he answered a different call. The Shepherd has finally called him home.

Well done, Grandpa Gary. I love you. I’ll keep up our Book Club till I see you again.

Love,

Your granddaughter, Nat

Not many people can say they had a grandma that had perfected a dead cockroach impression. I can.

If you knew Janie Nelsen, laughter was never far away. She was just as talkative to strangers as she was to old friends. She was honest. And when she was too honest, she humbly asked for forgiveness. She easily warmed a room with levity and approachability.

Grandma Janie also understood pain and suffering. I didn’t know the definition of fibromyalgia growing up but I knew it meant she had good days and hard days. The more memories I reflect on, the more I’m amazed at how many of her hard days she made sure were good days for us.

My grandpa summarized life with her best when he held her hand and shared: “65 years together. I remember every single one of them. You were the perfect pastor’s wife. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

I don’t want to believe that all I’ll have after today are family photos of us together and whatever my aging memory can sustain. But what a gift it is that I have 32 years worth remembering as her granddaughter. And that even the final memories I have of her will be some of my favorite.

We wanted her to rest during one of my last visits, so I offered to play the hymns I had saved on my phone. Breathing was difficult for her, and her discomfort was heightened. I hummed along while she closed her eyes and occasionally lifted a hand or nodded her head to well-loved verses. The Old Rugged Cross came on and I watched as she mouthed the words, knowing that too took energy.

So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross,
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross,
And exchange it someday for a crown

“Someday. for a. crown,” she whispered between breaths as the closing instrumentals played. Even in her dying, she continues to teach me about living.

Someday for her is now today.

The last thing I said to her was that I missed her already. And that I’d see her when I got there.

For now, I’ll cling to the old rugged cross she taught me to love. And someday, like her, exchange it for a crown.

Take care & take heart,

P.S. I hope the angels assign her to the Welcome Team.