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.

Several weeks ago when I was looking at myself in the mirror, I became alarmed. My gaze fell on my something shiny and bright peeking through my hairline. Gray hair. Two to be exact. At 32, the aging process has found my calling card.

Each night after my discovery, I searched through my hair to see if any more had appeared and was disappointed every time I saw that they had. I’m sure everyone has touchpoints throughout their lives when they realize that they’re getting older. This has been one of mine. As a licensed cosmetologist, I’m aware I can stage a cover-up of the external aging reality up to a certain point. As a human being, I’m more aware now than I want to be that aging is inevitable.

In complete contradiction, I was telling someone last week that I am so grateful to be out of my twenties and into my thirties. I wouldn’t trade knowing what I know now with what I didn’t know then. Wisdom is a gift.

As I have been facing my own aging, being a parent continues to remind me that it’s not just me. Griffin lost his first tooth last month, and my emotions went into conflict with one another. I celebrated with Griff on his milestone, knowing there would be many more loose teeth to come. As I locked eyes with his new smile, I searched for the baby I had years ago. A growing boy proudly beamed back at me, and the phrase, “The days are long, but the years are short.” flashed through my memory.

Time is so finite.

I’ve spent a lot of hours in hospital rooms lately. And I’m learning that growing old eventually leads to greater dependence on other people. It’s been an honor and a privilege to be one of those people for my family. And I know that someday, I’ll have a head full of more than two gray hairs and a body that doesn’t work as well as it does now. The toothless boy I care for now may be taking care of me. And that’s humbling to think about.

How strange it is to think about life linearly. To know that all the memories I have are fixed. Each day offers only the opportunity to move forward and create new recollections.

Leave it to me to find gray hair with a magnifying glass and spring into crisis management over my life. As always, when I am thinking of dramatic titles to use if my life were a movie, the Lord usually gives me a word or phrase to meditate on instead.

Jesus must have understood how much I was thinking about growing old, my kids growing up, watching my parents age as they care for their aging parents…because he gave me Isaiah 26:4.

Trust in Adonai forever,
for the LORD Adonai is a Rock of ages.

Rock of ages. I’m no Bible scholar, but I dearly love how some translations say “of ages”. My sons, my parents, my grandparents, me. The Lord is sovereign over our every decade because he is in control forever. How comforting it is that one thing is constant. He’s the everlasting rock.

The concept of aging has pushed me to process a full range of emotions the last two weeks. I’ve laughed when it seemed I should be crying. I’ve cried when I was trying to hold it in. I’ve been quiet without trying. I’ve had things I’ve wanted to say and I’ve struggled to know what to say.

So many silent prayers have only been three words: Rock of Ages. Sometimes it’s all I can offer. But it fixes me on a future filled with hope. For me. For my family who have walked with Jesus for decades. I’m so grateful we have hope beyond our years.

While I draw this fleeting breath, 
when mine eyes shall close in death, 
when I soar to worlds unknown, 
see thee on thy judgment throne, 
Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
let me hide myself in thee.
Rock of Ages, Reverend Augustus Montague Toplady, 1776

Take care & take heart,