personalblog

since we were 18.

Natalie Price

The first time I saw him was a brisk afternoon in March, and I was eighteen. I cautiously drove my first car down the long gravel driveway that led to his grandparents’ house, which had been left to his family after they’d gone. I spotted him through the trees, overlooking the pond, the family dog Baxter at his heel. He was tall and slender in athletic pants, with teenage hair that waved under the rim of his gray hat.

Three months before, I had innocently added him on Facebook, the grandson of church members I’d grown up knowing. When I realized he probably didn’t remember me from so long ago—moving away so young—I messaged him to explain who I was, something I had never done to a virtual stranger. To my surprise, he was moving back to my hometown after graduation before heading off to college like me. It was 2011, and we found a way to keep our conversation going for weeks.

That day in March when he visited, the sun overhead contradicted the wind and cool temperatures, and we drove around town in my gold Dodge Cirrus. His legs stretched out in my passenger seat as I pulled into the park he had gone to as a kid. We laughed as we swung on the swings until our noses ran and bantered easily, just like we’d done online for hours.

By summer, we swore to people we were just friends, but we both knew better. He fell harder first; I was learning to forgive myself after being deeply hurt, the only way hopeful sixteen-year-old girls can be by lost boys. Where I was cautious, Hunter was carefree. The way I felt the weight of the world, he pursued levity and adventure. We thought similarly about what we wanted for our lives, and so different all at once. Learning how to love each other was like getting on a roller coaster: the choice to take a slow incline to the top before the sensation of free-falling around unexpected curves.

When the leaves began to turn, I went off to college with the utmost resolve. Hunter Price was it for me. No one could talk me out of forever and with pure hearts, they tried. I felt so confident in him and yet unsure of myself. I had questions in the back of my mind that would creep in, wondering if I could really be a good wife, if all the worst parts of me would disappoint him. Some days, I wondered if he could handle me, if we were ready for something so serious, if together we had what it would take. My judgment had been wrong before, and that had cost me.

What I did know, what I would bet my life on, though, was that if I were to go through the most devastating things life could throw at me: health crisis, bankruptcy, infertility, loss of a loved one, career failure, betrayal—I somehow knew without a single shred of doubt, Hunter was the person to go through any of that heartbreak with. He is the comic relief to my seriousness. He brings curiosity and possibility when I’m stuck in my ways. He dreams bigger than my meticulous, small-minded plans and helps me dream bigger, too. He is always on time, always ready in unforeseen circumstances, even though he thinks he’s not, always forgiving.

Four years later, on a cold November Saturday, as the last of the autumn trees faded in color, I said “I do” to a lifetime with him. I still had questions about my capacity to unconditionally love someone, but at 22, I felt invincible, like we could figure all of this out. That was ten years ago. And since that day, marriage has humbled me more than I’ve wanted it to in the last decade. Adulthood and hardships have shocked me, and yet, being married has also brought the most adventure to my days.

We moved away from our families to an idyllic town between Madison in Milwaukee the summer after our wedding and thought we were on top of the world. It didn’t take long after changing my last name for me to see the severity of my selfishness, like my inability to see his needs before my own. Making decisions together took longer and unearthed things we didn’t understand about each other yet. Small things like dresser drawers being left open and bed sheets needing to be untucked caught me and my expectations off guard. Seeing him land the coaching job of a lifetime and connect with his players outside the locker room was a surprise in the best way.

Taking on each other’s burdens was messy and uncoordinated. I grew up with a family that never put off transparent conversations; he had grandfathers who were war veterans and dealt with emotions privately, if even at all. I didn’t know how to draw things out of him, and he couldn’t keep me from having an unspoken thought. Handling money together and first-time jobs in an unfamiliar state reinforced our teamwork and revealed our deepest insecurities.

We bought kayaks on a crazy whim and floated along hidden canals to escape the stress of being 23 and inexperienced adults. Instead of taking exotic vacations like our peers, we lived frugally and soaked up the Wisconsin summer sun on Saturdays to feel like we were 18 again. With the latest Luke Bryan hit in the background, I paddled next to Hunter on Lac La Belle. We would laugh about something we watched on Impractical Jokers, and I knew all at once that he had me and I had him. It’s a memory I chase in my mind again and again. We couldn’t make the world stop, but on those Saturdays, for just a few hours, I thought we might.

A year later, on a Sunday in August, we learned we were going to be parents by Spring. Griffin was born on a snowy Wednesday night in April. We were euphoric; he was perfect to us at 9 pounds, 5 ounces. By Thursday night, he was admitted to the NICU for tachypnea, and I was terrified. In an instant, every hope we had for celebrating the birth of our first child evaporated. My eyes brimmed with tears for days, not knowing what emotion to feel first as I watched our son hooked up to so many things. It felt like I couldn’t steady my breath every time they pricked his little feet and he cried in surprised pain. I felt a protective anger like I had never felt, so beside myself.

In the NICU bay, with my hand on Griffin’s little bundled body, glowing under the blue light, I remembered my resolve. If I had to go through the worst things in life, I needed Hunter to be what I couldn’t be. And he was. The nurse practitioner spoke a different language I didn’t understand. The nurses changed shifts every 12 hours and I couldn’t tell them apart. We were told one thing and raised our hopes, only to be told something else and crushed by disappointment.

We overheard hospital staff talk about our son like what he was going through was good for their business. Groups of nurses observed every feeding, touching me, a very modest person, without asking. When I was battling both shock and hysteria, Hunter asked the medical staff the questions I couldn’t think to ask. He was calm and steady. He kept me from saying things I’d regret. He was outwardly hopeful when we were both inwardly fearful that we wouldn’t bring our son home.

When we left the hospital with Griffin four days later in the middle of a blizzard, it was Hunter who made sure we didn’t take parenthood for granted. Where I focused on the traumatic experience I never asked for, he fixated on making memories with Griffin, even as a newborn. Because of how tight money was, I didn’t take the unpaid maternity leave I should have taken to heal mentally. A week after he was born, I sat next to baby Griff while he did his light therapy and resumed my work. I felt like I had no choice. But mostly, I was afraid of being irrelevant in my job if they noticed I was gone.

Over the course of the next twelve months, I walked countless miles. I pushed the stroller and pushed through agonizing, conflicting emotions. Living four hours away made it hard for our working parents to visit as often as I needed them to, and daycare was too expensive. I didn’t want daycare. I wanted the freedom to choose whether or not to stay home, but like marriage, I was afraid I really didn’t have what it would take to be a good mother.

I can see now how much I took that out on Hunter. How much I resented stay-at-home moms then. How I resented my job but knew if I didn’t have it, we wouldn’t have groceries. I did the budget so many times, trying to see if the outcome would be different. I became angry that two college graduates, who worked very hard to become debt-free by 24, couldn’t afford a home, let alone a nursery for their child, while other couples could. I thought about all of this while I stared at our apartment walls, waiting for Hunter to come home to relieve me from my overwhelming day with Griffin.

He wanted to be fed every two hours till he was nearly eight months old. The doctor told me I needed to memorize his breathing patterns and stay diligent. Between that anxiety and his round-the-clock feedings, I didn’t know what sleep was. He cried so much, I was convinced he had colic, only to be told he didn’t. I had so much guilt for working. I had guilt for not enjoying my time with him when I wasn’t working. I felt guilty for not working when I took breaks. I ignored every signal my body gave me to slow down and process all of the change. And my marriage paid for it.

By 2020, we had moved away from that perfect town for Hunter’s new coaching job an hour south, and I was reluctant about it. My boss let me keep my job, which had become mostly remote, and we had our second son, Nolan, two weeks before the entire world shut down. Two boys under two, living in a second-story apartment, in a new town, with no friends during a global pandemic, was the hardest season of our married life.

Our lows during those two years of chaos and uncertainty were dark and cold. It became harder for me to make it to Hunter’s varsity games, knowing the kids had bedtimes, and I didn’t need a mask to feel suffocated by all of the responsibility. We were both battling anxiety and frustration when we bought our first house, thinking that would solve so many of our close-quartered problems. It magnified them with a mortgage. Hunter was gone so much on top of a thirty-minute commute, and I stored up grudges at the world as I raked 40 bags of leaves during unpredictable nap times.

Long gone were the days of kayaks, iced coffee, and watching College Gameday in bed after sleeping in. I didn’t recognize who I was. I fixated on what felt like constant fighting, our vicious cycle of negativity and scorekeeping, my resentment, and challenging children when everyone else seemed to have life easier. The miracle of it all was that I kept up with my Bible reading every day and started journaling more than I had before. Page after page, I talked to God, and each day he answered me back with opportunities to practice surrendering every moment to him.

On a Sunday in January, I was outside shoveling snow when I heard blood-curdling screaming inside. It was so loud, neighbors came outside to see what was happening. Nolan, at 11 months old, had crawled all the way across the house and pulled open the basement door I had left ajar. I hadn’t thought to put a baby gate up since we had recently moved and the door was always shut, but if I had he wouldn’t have fallen down thirteen steps onto a bare concrete floor. Hunter made it in time to see it happen, but too late to stop it. Before I knew it, we were racing to the ER on unshoveled highways.

Again, I was with Hunter in a hospital room with our son, terrified, yet steadied by his presence. Nolan’s CT scan came back clear, but he lost the only baby teeth he had at the time on impact. It was Hunter who called the emergency line for the pediatric dentist. It was Hunter who held Nolan and talked his little mind through everything while the weight of the guilt and the grief pressed on my lungs. I was 18 again, reminded that I chose life with Hunter, come hell or high water.

Nolan was going to be okay and so were we. By 2022, we were more settled in our routine with the basketball season and our roles as working parents. That season, Hunter took the Big Foot Chiefs on the longest playoff run in school history and was honored that fall in the Wisconsin Dells for coaching Division 3 Boys Basketball. I started to feel like I was making progress in my job and began practicing gratitude in more meaningful ways than I had before. The cloud that felt like it was over us for several years began to lift.

Time has a way of showing me all of the ways God was weaving a grander story that I couldn’t see when I was so up close. Hunter and I spent this last week in Tennessee reflecting on the past ten years together. It can be hard for me to reflect on the kind of wife I was in my twenties, so focused on my own expectations. It’s also difficult to give myself grace for the times I did the best I could to love Hunter well with what I had at the time. But what I see now in those first seven years is how we were being fortified together. Tested, refined, yielding to the Holy Spirit without the other one knowing.

Since that season, we have moved back to our family in our hometown. I’ve made it through grad school, and Hunter changed his career. He’s home so much more and the best father to our sons in every way. We get to go on dates, and I don’t have papers due anymore. The Lord has worked on my heart to see that the vocational work he has for me is a calling and an opportunity, and I’m having the most fun in my job I’ve ever had. The days are long, but the blessings that come from contributing to kingdom work both at my computer and raising my kids, I never saw coming.

Everything I daydreamed about when I sat on a cold basement floor trying to work while my toddlers played is my life now. Maybe it’s because we know what hard looks like, raising kids without family around. Maybe it’s because we’re wiser and appreciate the small things so much more. Maybe prayer and fighting for your marriage in a quitting culture produce the kind of gratitude that makes life richer for us. But every day when I drive back home and see Hunter’s car in the driveway, I smile knowing I was right.

Whatever I face in life, what I’ve walked through, what I’m still processing, what is yet to come: Hunter Price is the person I want to do this life with, every time.

Saying yes to forever with someone else, so much my opposite, has been like a roller coaster in every way. It’s not what I expected, but it has been more. I’ve been anchored by the decision I made nearly fifteen years ago at eighteen. And I’m so grateful my stubborn, fixed-mindset back then was good for one thing–the best thing.

To Hunter,

Thank you for ten years of patience and resilience. Thank you for breaking through tough conversations with laughter and levity. Thank you for driving, for asking questions, for thinking of how you can support me when you have so much on your to-do list, too. Thank you for wearing Tennessee Orange and not interrupting my ten-minute rants about fictional characters you can’t even remember the names of. Thank you for being so intentional with our boys and for being the calming presence at the dinner table.

Most of all, thank you for being everything I’m not, but making me believe I can be. Knowing you has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. Seeing your personality show up in our kids is one of my favorite joys. If this has been the first ten years, I’m so thankful to have you for the next fifty.

I love you. And I’d pick you again, Strong Side.

Love,

Left Side

sound mind.

Natalie Price

I don’t sing as often as I used to. But growing up as a Nelsen kid, there was singing all of the time. We had guitars and a piano at home for accompaniment, but when I close my eyes to remember, I only hear things acappela. I loved to sing. I’d sing so loud and at such length, my parents would gently try to ask me to sing quieter or give me permission to close the door so I wouldn’t disrupt their work.

My mom still sings in the church choir, and I’d hear her practice each week. My brother played and sang in the youth group worship band, and so did I. When my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins came over for celebrations, we had an unspoken tendency to hold hands in a circle and sing the Doxology, harmonies and all before eating. Every Who down in Who-ville had nothing on us.

I’d hear my grandparents sing or hum as I played with toys in their living room. My grandpa had this way of saying words that sounded more like he was singing them, particularly when he used the word “anyway” to transition the conversation. Music in every facet had meaning to our family. But the person I loved to sing with the most was my dad.

Every so often, he’d play his guitar and we’d sing Scripture he had set to music. Sometimes we’d sing together at church. He would often tell me how much he enjoyed hearing me sing. Dad would sing silly songs too at home. When my brothers and I were young, he wrote each of us a song. Jer’s song was upbeat. “It’s a Jeremy, it’s a Jeremy, it’s a Jeremy Taylor day!”

The first lines of the song he wrote for me ended on a low note and said, “I’m Natalie, I’m Natalie. I love my mom and dad. I’m Natalie, I’m Natalie, and sometimes I get sad.” Dad would always joke with me not to trip over my lip.

The truth was, I had Eeyore tendencies even at a young age. I was strong-willed and felt things deeply, emphasizing the lows of my day at the family dinner table. By high school, victimhood was part of my defense mechanism. On par, I denied it if people tried to tell me that. At the same time I was using deflection, I believed I was always the problem. If I could just try harder or be less needy. If I could be what people wanted, but also be different than everyone else, then the life I was living would have meaning.

Control was my master. I was chasing contradictions built on the shaky foundation of my self-belief. And somewhere along the way of unhealthy thinking, I didn’t sing as loud or as often as I once did.

It made for a confusing internal world. I had knowledge of all the “right” things, but I longed for the kind of wisdom that helps a person live differently. I’d always enjoyed books, but once I entered adulthood, I consumed more literature than my own humanity could sustain. That, too, became a measure of how impressive or interesting I could be. If I read or listened to 300 books in one year, I hit 400 the following year. I thought having this amount of information would ensure I’d never run out of opportunities for connection. My focus derived from a strong need to control my own narrative, rather than accept God’s invitation to participate in his narrative for me.

I read more slowly now. I read books through a second time. I realize that no amount of information consumption can change me when I don’t take my thoughts captive. There are so many that invade my mind. I’m critical of my appearance six ways to Sunday, my overreactive parenting, my chronic indecision, the chaotic responses I give to other people when I feel defensive (which is too often), and all the downsides I see to being on the other side of a relationship with me. Much of my daily energy goes towards image management, wondering what I look like to other people, overanalyzing conversations, and planning for scenarios that only live in my head.

Each morning, I wake up to this kind of unhelpful, overstimulating mental noise. Slowing down has certainly helped my racing thoughts. Writing things out, processing through what is true according to God’s Word and what is my own embellishment. It’s messy and challenging. I lose my temper with my kids and feel shame for that often. I know all the right things. And yet out of the overflow of my heart, I act and think in a way that opposes truth frequently. When I think I’ve reached the end of myself, I find that there’s more I haven’t worked out with the Lord. In some ways, I wonder if that’s just life on this side of heaven or another generous invitation from Jesus to give him all my burdens.

Every fall, I pray over what my word of the year should be come January. Last October, I sensed I was so broken I needed two words for the first time in a decade of picking a word for the year. So for 2025, I chose sound mind. I had heard a song by Kory Miller earlier in 2024 by the same name. Its lyrics would surface in moments of negative thinking, during frustration and impatience.

Over this past year, I’ve been discovering what pursuing a sound mind looks like after years of learning what it doesn’t. I started running again last November, and I found myself replaying Kory’s song again and again as I put one foot in front of the other. I played it in the car. In the kitchen. Without realizing it, I was playing it in my mind. And I started to sing along. It brought out something childlike in me to sing,

“Now every lie is broken because of the words You’ve spoken. I trust the way You made me. I was made for You.”

This is the slow path to renewal. And Jesus, in his steadfastness, has been meeting me on the road.
In my sadness over things I don’t want to process.
In my emotional tension, when I’m picking things about myself apart.
In my dissatisfaction with my perceived lack of spiritual progress.

When I feel my mind spinning, I hear him whisper, “sound mind.” After I raise my voice at home after promising myself I wouldn’t, and my stress levels have risen, “sound mind” comes to mind, and I see a better way. As I start panicking with all the things I have to do, I think “sound mind” and start making a list. There are times I can still know that Jesus has given me the gift of a sound mind, and still, I turn him away. But the frequency with which I choose to say yes is strengthening.

2 Timothy 1:7
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.”

I’m Natalie. I’m Natalie, and sometimes I get sad. Often, I lack godly self-control. Sometimes I make things way more about what I feel rather than the people I love. But I can still sing my way through it. I can rise up against the disorder in my mind with a song. I can try to find the small child I once was, who sang about Jesus in grocery store aisles, confident that Jesus makes me a new person in Him. Because:

“You give a spirit of praise for the heaviness. Gave us a song to raise in the midst of it. I’ve got a sound mind.”

May you and I choose to sing when we don’t know what else to do. When we sense ourselves fighting to control our story outside of God’s love. May we sing when we feel certain and ask for the words to echo when we don’t. In this, may we sense His nearness through the steadying gift of a sound mind.

Take care & take heart,

a better way.

Natalie Price

The world likes to creatively and continuously divide us into two kinds of people. Positive people and pessimists (though I prefer the term “realist”), Type A personalities and Type B, morning people and night owls. I was in college, voluntarily signing up for classes that began at 7:50am, when I realized that I was, in fact, a morning person. I love paralleling my routine with the sunrise. I revel at the thought that I’m one of the first awake, and in the quiet of the morning, I’m most confident in the nearness of Jesus. Because I’m still. And I can sense him in the stillness.

It was on that college campus in rural Indiana that I chose to read my Bible each day if I could. I’d come back from my first class of the day and read at my dorm room desk before it was time for the next lecture. I was inconsistent, but always better for it when I made the time.

Over the next several years, my consistency improved, and I got creative with how I got in the Word. Then motherhood happened and I learned what it was like to begin again. I listened to the Bible audibly over baby cries and when I was driving or folding laundry.

I’d feel guilty when I would try to recall what I just heard, because I couldn’t on most days, distracted by spit up or the next checklist to tackle. In those first years, I would only make it to May until my Bible reading plan was off track. And then the next year, I made it to July.

But I learned not to quit. Having the plan was important to hold me accountable, but even then, I knew the objective was to let God’s Word get through me more than measuring myself by how I made my way through it. It just took practice.

The church I grew up in always ended the last Sunday of the year with a vision message about being in the Word of God somehow, every day. Each pastor took turns giving this message, and I’ve never forgotten its importance. My grandparents modeled this; my parents practiced it. I can tell you exactly where I’d see my dad’s Bible as a kid, visible and lived in. My mom’s Bible would travel around the house with her, most often landing on the kitchen table or counter. Seeds of steadiness took root within me long before I took up the daily rhythm myself.

Many years of practice later, I eventually arrived at December 31st in my reading plan. A small decision made alone in a quiet dorm fourteen years ago formed a habit of being in my Bible every morning. Not without struggle or adaptation over the past decade, but with resolve. It started trying to wake up 15 minutes before I predicted my kids would wake up. With trial and error, I kept waking up and trying again. It’s since morphed into giving myself an hour to sit at the kitchen counter with my Bible, my journal, and the aroma of brewed coffee.

In previous years, I’ve gone through the New Testament, Psalms and Proverbs. One year, I read the four Gospels once a month. Just Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John twelve times over. This year I’m going through the Bible in a Year again, the plan I started with when I was 18. Each day when I finish reading, I reflect on blank journal pages. Never with any lines. Just white space reserved for ideas and ink.

I’ve had a lot to reflect on this year. I miss my grandparents. I wonder if I bring them up too often to other people, if I’m supposed to be removed from the grief by now. The truth is, I’m surprised by how often I wake up each morning and sit at the countertop and think about their legacy. Of what I wish I could tell them. What I remember when I think about them. So I write it all down.

One of the conversations I had with my grandpa in the last year was about memorizing Scripture. He was passionate about making it a priority. He’d work at his desktop computer and email the grandchildren documents with Scripture, ready to print, cut out, and keep in front of us. I never printed it out. I never tried, not even for Grandpa. I thought it was a nice idea, but I stopped trying to memorize verses when I got to high school because I had tests to study for and the periodic table to learn.

My dad is built like my grandpa. As a kid, I’d roam the house, looking for my parents to predictably ask them for things. Sometimes I’d come across empty rooms and observe the surroundings before trying another. Dad had a tall honey oak dresser with the pulls built into the drawers. No hardware, just solid wood that had goldened with age and a doily covering the surface. I’d see his watch and his wallet and a small, sweaty stack of his business cards, curved from being held in the shape of his palm.

On the blank side of the cards was Scripture in his all-caps handwriting that he wrote out with his favorite Pilot pens. He would take these cards with him on his morning runs and return them to the dresser when he got back. Perspiration at times made the blue ink bleed as he’d fixate on what they meant and what they asked of him.

As January turned to February this year, I sat at the foot of my grandmother’s hospice bed while she slept and read the book, A Long Obedience in the Same Direction by Eugene Peterson. I fought back tears as I read, in part because the words he wrote are powerful and have outlived their author, and also because I wanted to live out the title like my grandma had. Eyes always fixed on Jesus. An obedience to his Word formed through fortitude and faith.

I finished the book after Grandma made it to heaven, and throughout the text, Peterson persisted in encouraging the reader to memorize Colossians 3:1-17, all the way to the very end. I printed out the passage from Bible Gateway and taped it to my bathroom mirror. I’d read it over and over while I brushed my teeth. Eventually, I moved the paper from the front of my mirror to the backside of the medicine cabinet door in favor of something much shorter, James 4:10.

Not long after Grandpa went to be with Grandma, I was sitting at the kitchen counter during my morning time with Jesus, and Grandpa’s words came to mind again. I failed to honor his hope of hiding God’s Word in my heart when he was living, but just like the mornings are new again, so is my opportunity.

I grabbed a stack of index cards and a Pilot pen. I flipped to the blank side because that just seemed right, and began to write out Colossians 3:1-17. One verse for every card. The cards made their way to my car dashboard, sliding around the open console for months. Every now and then, I’d flip through them when I was waiting at a light or waiting for the school bus. A few weeks ago, I made a last-minute decision to take them with me into the gym. A learned behavior observed in childhood.

As I began to move and to sweat, I worked my way through the cards and through the verses. In an hour and to my shock, I had all seventeen memorized after months of putting it off. If anyone saw me on the Stairmaster that day, they likely thought I was whispering incantations above everyone’s heads and smiling about it. But what I felt was free.

The Word of God is inspiring. Knowing that and experiencing it are two different things. “Grandpa, thank you.” was all that came through my mind as I walked out to my car. Lighter. Equipped. This was different from all the summer camps I spent memorizing Scripture and earning prizes. The prize now was a clear mind, a growing sense of the Holy Spirit speaking through the Gospel, made portable.

I went back to the YMCA the next day, and the next, and worked on memorizing it again. Once I had the first seventeen verses down, I kept going all the way into Chapter 4 the following week. I wrote out what I memorized and recite it now at home. I smile when I see that sweat is starting to wear the edges of the paper.

“May the peace of Christ rule in your hearts,” and “May the Word of Christ dwell in you richly” are slowly working their way into my self-talk. This is what Grandpa knew. This is the baton he handed to the generation after him. The Gospel changes everything. Seventeen index cards are infiltrating my entire thought process; their words are infusing themselves into my soul.

I still feel my imperfections, my impatience, and my shortcomings. I have an acute awareness that I’ve allowed my pride to hinder so many things, especially at home. And yet, I recall the beginning of Verse 1 and my eyes get set on a new path, a better way to live.

The last several years have been a process of renewing my mornings. Now, I’m reorienting my days by putting the Bible on wheels in my brain, so that when I get up from that kitchen counter, I am still being conformed to Christ. This morning, I was soaking in my last few minutes with the Lord, journaling final thoughts. My kids were arguing, followed by the bang of the piano keys, intentionally hammered on with an attitude intended to drown out the cries of the other brother, while a walkie-talkie was squelching between static, trying to reset itself to base.

Hurriedly, I went to my shelves to find a quote I had written out at the beginning of the new year in an old journal. As I sat back down, I overshot my search and landed on February 2nd, 2025 instead. My memory of those first few months of the year is hazy at best, eating meals out of my purse on the way to the hospital, leaving where I was on a whim to try to make it to see my grandparents in haste, never knowing if it would be the last time.

My breath caught in my chest when I read the notes I had taken that Sunday. Our church teaches the Bible expositorily, verse by verse. I flipped to my notes from the Sunday before and the Sunday after to make sure I was seeing correctly. We were finishing our study of 2 Kings before moving on to the book of Titus.

We weren’t studying Colossians at all. Except that Sunday. We studied Colossians 3:1-17. Four days before my Grandma passed away. The same day I began reading A Long Obedience in the Same Direction by her bedside.

On the last page of my notes, I wrote out the words Pastor Johnnie gave us that day:

  • Change the way we think!
  • 1 Peter 4 “because love covers a multitude of sin”
  • Thankful people are changed people. They see and treat people differently.
  • It’s really easy to complain; sometimes it’s hard to be grateful.
    • Abide in me & I in you.
    • You’ll know how to pray when you do.
    • John 15 & Ephesians 5
  • Whatever you do, whatever you say, may it be consistent w/ Christ

Jesus knew. He knew what I needed. He began his pursuit of my heart and my mind through Colossians 3 nearly eight months ago. Each morning at the 5 o’clock hour, when I turned on the dim light above the kitchen sink, he was preparing me to receive his Word for the very moment he ordained. The impressions made on my heart, seeing my parents carve out quiet time, seeing sweat-stained business cards in an empty room, talking with Grandpa in his recliner about memorizing the Bible, are evidence of God speaking to me through every conscious thought and subconscious memory still today.

If there’s only one thing I’d change–of course, it’s that I didn’t start practicing all of this sooner. My self-talk over the years has gotten really destructive and unedifying, likely a story for another day. Which is another reason why I’m grateful for the mornings. I am so thankful they always come with an invitation to begin again. To start new. Jesus is always teaching me something, and he’s always showing me in ordinary moments that he is the better way.

“Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another,…” Colossians 3:12-13a

May the Word of Christ dwell in you richly, too, that you may experience the love of Christ firsthand, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.

Take care & take heart,