The Stories That Define Us - Part 1
Our stories shape who we are and who we become. They can either defeat us or give us courageous wings to fly. My story? It comes wrapped in joy, laughter, adventure, pain, tragedy, loss, and adversity. But God—He is my Author, and only because of Him can I tell you what He has done for me on the written pages of my life. So, let’s take an inside peek of some of the stories that have defined who I have become in my journey with the Lord.
The Beginning: A Pinto, the Moon, and a Tricycle
Winding through the country roads of Ohio in the early ‘70s, my parents were raising financial support as Assemblies of God missionaries, preparing to plant churches in Spain. That’s where the pages of my story began.
As we traveled from one church to another, I’d sit in the backseat of our brown Pinto station wagon, staring at the moon in awe, convinced it was following me.
But that wasn’t the only memorable thing about my toddler years, living in Piqua, OH for two years.
Some kids have stories of scraping their knees learning to ride their bike. I, however, have a slightly different tale…
Apparently, at the wise and mature age of three, I decided that clothing was optional and took my tricycle for a joyride—completely naked—through the neighborhood. And I must admit, this was a regular occurrence. And to make it even more hilarious, we lived right across the street from the town’s hospital. Get the picture: lots of traffic.
Legend has it, my poor mother was mortified and had to chase me down as I happily pedaled my way into childhood infamy.
This was, of course, just a glimpse of what was to come—adventurous, independent, and always ready a plot twist of some hilarity (as you can see in my photo below).
Spanglifying My Way Through Life
When we arrived in the Canary Islands, we settled into a home perched on the beautiful hillside of Las Palmas, a view so picturesque it graced the front of local tourist postcards. But for all its outside beauty (more of that in part 2), I had one glaring issue: I needed friends immediately, and there was one minor complication—I didn’t speak Spanish.
I approached my dad with this concern, expecting a heartfelt strategy session, and instead, he gave me a no-nonsense response: “Go out and play, and you’ll learn the language.” Well then.
I trusted him, and sure enough, two weeks later, I was bringing friends home and speaking Spanish. My dad was unimpressed. In fact, when retelling this story, he likes to throw in how shocked he was that it took me no time at all to pick up enough Spanish to run around with my new friends while he was still struggling to speak it after a year in language school. I wasn’t speaking fluently, just quite yet—hence my brilliant invention of Spanglification.
Spanglifying 101: Take an English word, throw on a Spanish accent, and add an a at the end. Instant Spanish. Friend became frienda. Logical, right? Until the day I got upset with one of my new friends and, in my very best dramatic tone, declared, “¡Tu no eres mi frienda!” (Translation: "You are not my friend anymore!") Turns out, the actual Spanish word for friend is amiga—but hopefully I can get some points for effort. LOL!
Where Are You From?
Spain became my home. It was where I felt most accepted, most welcomed, most understood. It just made sense—these were my people! They were night owls, I was a night owl. They loved bread and cheese, I loved bread and cheese. They napped in the afternoon, I…okay, let’s be honest, I still love naps. It was a match made in heaven.
So whenever someone in the States asked me, "Where are you from?" my answer was always the same: "Spain." Because that’s what felt true. But every time we came back to the U.S. for itineration, it was hard. I didn’t fit in. The American church felt like a fashion show, while in Spain, most women had one church dress they wore every Sunday. My American friends didn’t relate to my experiences, and some even saw my stories—like that time I watched a man jump off the Eiffel Tower—as showing off rather than just sharing my life.
That quiet insecurity crept in, leaving me feeling like an outsider in my own passport country.
Unknown Territory: America
Fast forward to 1988. I had just graduated from Black Forest Academy, a boarding school in Germany nestled in the breathtaking Black Forest. Those last two years of high school were some of the best of my life—filled with music, late-night talks, dreams unfolding, and the bittersweet reality of grief. I lost a close friendship to depression. My brother-in-law was in a tragic accident that left him in a coma for a decade before he passed away. Yet, through it all, my faith became stronger, more real.
Then came the moment that changed everything—flying over the Atlantic, heading back to a country that felt foreign. America.
I was stepping into the unknown, unsure of what the future held, wrestling with insecurities that whispered, You don’t belong here.
But here’s what I know now: God was writing my story, and no matter where I felt out of place, I was never out of His hands.
Your Story Matters
We all have a story. Some chapters are full of adventure, others heartache, and some feel like filler pages that don’t make sense. But every part—every single word—matters. Because God is the Author, and He never wastes a sentence.
Maybe you’ve felt like you don’t belong. Maybe you’ve wrestled with feeling unseen, unheard, or misunderstood. Maybe you’ve questioned if your story even matters.
Let me remind you: You. Are. Not. Alone.
That’s why I write. Not to show off my Spanglification skills (though, impressive, I know), but to share real stories—the messy, the funny, the hard, and the holy—to remind you that God is in the details of your life, too.
And if you’re looking for a place to dig deeper, to be encouraged, and to connect with faith in a way that feels real and unfiltered, I invite you to check out Unveiled Living. Because sometimes, we just need a reminder that our story isn’t over yet.
See you this Thursday for part 2.
Love it! I too did not like clothes at that age!