Hello, my name is Natalie. Believe it or not I loathed writing this. My story. Who writes about themselves anyway? Through our own eyes we often feel that there is nothing worth sharing and certainly nothing for which others may glean. But sometimes I think this is because we are all standing a little too close. It is our story so it’s only natural we should feel so close to it. This however tends to leave us a little nearsighted, and when we are nearsighted we only see what is right in front of us. But if we are only seeing what is right in front of us then we are missing the full picture. Unless… we take a step back, and the focus shifts. Everything becomes clear. And you realize, it was never about you or your story. It was about faith. And faith is a strong word, so I will explain. I was born in the great northern state of Washington, in a little town called Snohomish. It is not so little anymore but it will always endear me. But as will would have it, and will often has it’s way, I was southbound before I could remember my northern start. The rolling hills of Tennessee became my home and heartsong. How could a girl not fall in love afterall? With two older brothers I was the oldest girl of seven children. Life was and still is bustling. I kept busy on my family’s farm. Milking goats, collecting eggs, mucking out barns, gardening, and packing around small children. I was near to always in the kitchen. My love for food and home cookery I adopted wholeheartedly from both my parents. Serving someone a hot meal can be just as rewarding as eating it yourself. My Grandmother would come each year to visit us from her home in Snohomish, often for months at a time. She was a depression era saint for the Kingdom if I’ve ever met one. My mother was always grateful for the help. An extra adult in a house full of squabbling children is a godsend. During her visit my sister and I would share the top space of our bunk-beds, and Grandma would take the bottom bunk. I still fondly remember her snapping at us to hold still as any movement even in the slightest would squeak the bed terribly. She taught me many things. How to make a bed, fold laundry, and clean a dish, but perhaps most of all, she intrigued me toward something. And this she did not through any teaching, but by being. Being an example. Children have eyes in their head and they see more than we realize. I saw my Grandma, and even more so, I saw Christ in her. I was 11 when she died. We said goodbye over the phone. The elderly pass, this is the natural way of things, but with their passing, there is often new life that follows. The following summer, my mother had her seventh child. I was blessed to catch that beautiful little ray of sunshine the moment she entered the world. I remember handing her to my mother; my mother, who was weak, and bleeding, but rejoicing. Those were common things in my life, but nay if they were mundane. My passion for the written word budded at a young age. I was a little girl who wanted to be an author. I still am that little girl at times. But as so many of us I’m sure know, teenage years can be hard in their own way and life can feel crass. In the years that followed, I would watch my family lose everything we had ever worked for. At 13 I would nearly die of Lymes disease and take the remainder of my teen years recovering. I would watch my family struggle, in every way you pray against. I would feel heartache, anger, helplessness, shame, and fear like never before. I would even feel nothing at all. Those chapters of life were terrifying. At times it felt like we were barring the door and barring our teeth, ready with blood still on our faces for the next storm forming on the horizon. Suffice it to say, writing became my God-given way of survival. It changed me, in every way. Every bruise, scar, and screaming-match was written about, not literally, but they bled into my ink reservoir and became blooming fields of redemption in some way. Poetry can be found in every corner of life, but what no one tells you is that poetry is only the long-evolved representation of the story that truly unfolded. There is a behind the scenes monstrosity that exists almost tenfold. It is ugly. And if anyone tries to sugarcoat it, they’re going to be left with broken teeth. I am a writer, and I aspire to consider myself a poet, but in the end, even I could not be fooled. Making poetry out of my own story, I was simply incapable of. I read a quote once, “You can use a spear as a walking stick but that will not change it’s nature.” Well, I am here to admit, I am, by nature, broken and filthy. A sinner. But here is that moment of stepping back I was talking about. I was never the author, and I am certainly no great or renowned poet. Thankfully, my God is. God takes those battle-cries and screaming-matches and turns them into hymns of amazing grace. He takes those withered hands and bloody knuckles and turns them into vessels of His generosity. He takes those ashes of a dead life and paints a masterpiece. He takes those broken dreams and weary hearts and puts a new song in us. He takes jaded eyes and helps them see through the lens of heaven the fullness of His splendor and grace which has always been there, we just couldn’t see it because we were standing… too close. At 18, the waves of grief came to a shallow roll, and I would finally catch a breath. Truly the storm had not subsided, I had just become a little more seaworthy. By then, I was a jaded human being, and insufferably stubborn too. But God allowed me to see this in myself and I did everything by His grace to push beyond it. That year, I met a man. We married 16 months later. I became a mama. Motherhood did not come as easily as I imagined but one thing was for certain, I loved that baby. I named her after my Grandma. Looking back on all of this now, it’s easy to see. Hindsight truly is 20/20. The girl who wouldn’t share her story for fear of sounding pretentious was the same girl walled up inside her self-built kingdom of pity. Talk about hypocrisy. Life had built a hard person. An entitled person. And it built me in those feel-good moments too. Moments of success. Moments of verbal praise and affirmation. But God… He builds you in those broken moments. Those moments of eery silence. Moments of deep shame and bitter regret. Those moments that seem to bare unending pain and loss. Moments you sit up late at night, your eyes bone dry because you’ve already emptied them out the night before. And those moments when you’re left simply asking why? Life builds a hard person, but God builds a strong person. There is a considerable difference between being hard and being strong. Life had left me battle-hardened, but through that lens of heaven, and time, I became what I learned from God what it is to be battle-softened. It takes a strong person to lay down their arms. But for God to shape me I had to first be pliable. And wouldn’t you know, God had to teach me to be teachable. To be filled with God we must first be emptied of ourselves. I still pray those words. And this I know, we will overcome by the Blood of The Lamb and the word of our testimony. If you had asked me a few years ago what that phrase even meant I could not have told you. But now I know. It’s about faith. So there is my story in a nutshell, albeit a little larger nutshell than you were probably expecting, but, if you are still reading, thank you. As for now, the story is not over. It’s in Gods hands.
she is equipped
