personalblog

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,

a walk with my father.

Natalie Price

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,

learning to be.

Natalie Price

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