The Story of Nelly’s Walk with Jesus

It’s hard to know exactly where to start my story without dragging out my testimony, but to give the full picture, I need to begin with my childhood.

I was born into a Mexican Mennonite family on March 23^rd,1997. I had four older siblings who were all quite a bit older than me, and eventually two more after me. My parents took my little brother and me to church only a handful of times a year. At this church (the Old Colony Mennonite Church), I always felt like an outsider. At home, I could mostly be myself and wear what the church considered “worldly” clothes and watch cartoons after school. All of these things were preached against at church, and even as a child, I felt like I was living some sort of double life.

At home, I spoke only English. My mom was the primary German speaker, so while I could understand German fluently, I spoke it poorly. Knowing German was essential when attending the Old Colony Mennonite Church. All of the scripture was written and read in German, and often a different dialect than what my parents spoke. So while we attended, I can’t say that I retained much scripture from the little time I spent in Sunday school and eventually Wednesday evening youth studies.

My primary experience with religion was praying for meals in front of more religious family members and reciting a five-worded prayer before bed that I didn’t understand. My mom was also quite superstitious about bad luck and karma (“what comes around goes around”). She often spoke about the end times, the devil, fiery hell, and sin, which scared me a lot.

On and off through the years, my parents struggled within the church. They eventually formed a friendship with our neighbours, who invited them to attend a church called Wallenstein Bible Chapel. This was my first pleasant church experience; I remember feeling excited to go. Yet I still felt like an outsider, living a double life, German Mennonite girl and “worldly” English girl.

Soon after attending Wallenstein Bible Chapel on and off for a few months, my parents moved to Palmerston, Ontario. I started attending a mid-week kids’ program at a local church, similar to Awana, there were maybe eight kids total. This became a highlight of my week. We were taught Bible stories and Christian kids’ songs. One of my favourites was the one where “the devil sits on a tack.” I thought it was funny, because for all my life I saw the devil as powerful and scary, so the thought of him sitting on a tack always made me smile. This program was run by two or three volunteers. The main leader’s name was Darlene. She will always have a special place in my heart for taking two hours every Wednesday evening to spend time with us kids, who mostly came from broken homes.

Around this time, my oldest sister got married in what my family called a “worldly” church. Even though my parents had tried a church besides the Mennonite one, my mom was very hard on my sister for marrying someone English in an English church, not because the church was wrong, but because of what our extended family would think. There was a stereotype well known to the Mennonites that “the English” tend to divorce, whereas within the Mennonite church that just didn’t happen, even in extreme cases when it probably should have.

After both of my sisters were married, they would often have me over on weekends to hang out or sometimes to babysit their kids. On Sunday mornings they’d take me to church at Woodside Bible Chapel, a sister church plant from Wallenstein. I had severe anxiety at the thought of joining the youth program because I felt like an outsider, so I always stuck to the services. As a kid I found them a bit boring, but when the worship music came on, I was always in awe. I know that I felt something powerful happening in my heart when we sang.

I would need hours to connect all of the dots and explain the nitty-gritty of my family dynamic, but I’ll try to explain how God worked in my life over the next few years without going too deep. My two older brothers struggled with drug addictions as teenagers and into adulthood. I didn’t fully understand the severity of it, but I knew it was bad because my parents were fighting and crying more than usual- especially my dad, which scared me. My mom had mental health issues throughout my childhood and beyond, so I was used to her wide range of emotions, but seeing my dad cry felt like something terrible was coming. Around this time, my dad attempted to take his life for the first time. Fortunately, he was caught and spent some time in a facility to work on his mental health.

By the time I was 10, my entire life felt like it was crumbling. Every day was unpredictable with my brothers’ rebellious outbursts. They were completely out of control, and my parents just didn’t have the support system or education to know how to deal with their addictions. The basement reeked of marijuana, and pornography was often left open on the family computer exposing my little brother and me to things that still affect me to this day. It felt like I was living in a house of horror.

All of this was happening while my dad still occasionally took my brother and me to the Mennonite church. Then my youngest brother was born, in the midst of all the chaos. My parents finally decided to kick my oldest brother out; he was incredibly strong-willed and not willing to give up the drugs. He moved out for around a year or so. I can’t remember the exact timeline.

One day, just a week before his 21st birthday, he came home with his suitcase. He seemed incredibly happy, but in an eerie sort of way. He picked my brothers and me up and took us out to a Chinese restaurant. Something about his demeanour was off, but as a 12-year-old, I didn’t know what it was. I was just thankful that he seemed sober. In my heart I was thanking God for this miracle. He was such an awesome guy when he was sober, funny and charming.

The next day he went for a drive and disappeared. My dad was extremely concerned because of his odd behaviour and the phrases he had been repeating. He called the police and explained the situation. They were quick to track him down.

The next day felt like a bad, confusing dream. My dad picked my brother and me up from school and explained he thought something bad might’ve happened to Henry (my oldest brother). Shortly after, we received a knock on the door. They had found my brother. He had committed suicide and hung himself from a tree. My dad collapsed to his knees, and my mom let out a scream. I remember running into my baby brother’s room, slamming the door shut, crying and feeling so alone.

I felt such a deep betrayal by God for not healing my brother from his addiction. My brother’s funeral was the largest that the Old Colony Church in Drayton had ever held. He was very likable and well known, but it wasn’t just that. I felt like a zoo animal being watched and judged for how my brother’s death came about. This is when I decided that I hated the Old Colony Mennonite Church and that church people were fake, acting godly and religious but being evil behind closed doors. Quickly, more rumors about his death circulated than support from the church. (I’d like to note, now as an adult with family members and friends still in the Mennonite church, I know that my feelings towards the church at the time were heavily influenced from inside of my own home, there are many God fearing, wonderful Christians at the Mennonite church.)

I quickly developed this opinion against the English church I went to with my sisters too. Some of the girls from youth weren’t very welcoming,(looking back now, they did nothing wrong, it was just an awkward meet) so I assumed they were religious and fake as well. My view of God became very sour. I think I still believed He was real, but nothing about it seemed good. When we sang worship songs about His goodness and mercy, I sang the words with my lips but felt conflicted in my heart.

When I turned 13 I was forced to go to the Wednesday night youth Bible study at the Old Colony Mennonite Church, and I hated it. We had to recite statements from the Catechism in German, which felt humiliating. One person at a time had to stand up and read the phrase aloud in High German. There were about 50 of us so we’d go around twice. I couldn’t read German, but the teacher would stare at me with piercing eyes until I’d quietly mumble my best attempt so I could sit down.

By 13, I had completely rejected Jesus. I knew of Him; bits and pieces I had learned from churches but mostly I knew of the people who represented Him, and most of them seemed awful to me: fake, judgmental, “goody two-shoes.” My secular friends and teachers from public school were kinder and gentler than the people I’d experienced in church.

After my brother’s death, my home life grew even rockier. My parents fought more and more as they grieved in unhealthy ways. My mom mentally checked out of her role as our mother and turned to an emotional affair to process her grief, while my dad clung to us kids. He spent most of his time either working or with us.

It was the last week of 7th grade when my dad discovered my mom’s emotional affair. That evening was filled with screaming, dishes breaking, and panic. As the big sister to my precious little brothers, who were 10 and 3, I did what any big sister would do, I called for help. I phoned my older sisters, and they came over to de-escalate the situation. They decided I would go with one of them, my mom and two younger brothers would stay together, and my dad would remain home to give each other space while they figured out what was next.

The next morning my dad drove over to pick me up. He felt lonely and wanted his kids near him. We were what held him together since Henry’s death. This is a moment I’ve replayed in my head countless times. I was still sleeping when he arrived, so my sister told him to come back later since I needed rest after the late, chaotic night. Later that afternoon we got word: my dad had committed suicide in our family home.

For years I replayed the scenario: What if I had been awake? I could’ve kept him company. Things would have been different. I could have saved him. Why did God let him drive over to get me, only for me not to wake up? My dad was my safe person at home in the midst of chaos, a mentally ill mother and drug addicted brothers. My heart was broken.

So once again, our family became the subject of public spectacle at a funeral in the Old Colony Mennonite Church.

Where was God in all of this? Why were tragic deaths part of His plan? The trauma, heartbreak, and neglect after my dad’s death drove the final nail in the coffin for me. There was no God, or so I decided. I even remember praying, telling God I didn’t believe in Him, which is ironic… because if there was no God, who was I praying to?

By 13 and a half, I was involved with boys and drinking on weekends. By 14, I was partying and smoking pot. Most weekends I was either drinking in a farmer’s field or at some sketchy motel party if it was too cold outside. I was living a life apart from God, and my soul was crying for help.

I filled the ache of losing my dad with attention from boys. I quickly figured out how to catch someone’s attention and keep it. Some of my friends were becoming Christians, and I pitied them. What a boring life, I thought. I couldn’t have fun without being drunk, because when I was sober, the weight of real life was too much.

By 15, I had a steady boyfriend, Henry (the same name as my oldest brother, who had passed away). His spirit seemed gentler than anyone I had dated before. I didn’t have a relationship with God, but something inside me said, this is good. This is right.

Henry had grown up in the Mennonite church too, but neither of us were professing Christians. Our partying and drug use began to hurt our relationship. Meanwhile, my home life worsened as my mom dated random men she met online and let them live with us after barely knowing them.

At 17, I hit absolute rock bottom. I saw no reason to live. Being raised mostly Mennonite meant I had no proper high school education. I was working full-time at a job I hated, with no hope for the future. When I thought about tomorrow, all I saw was darkness.

One day at work, I felt overcome by the thought, I don’t want to live anymore. I abruptly left, saying I wasn’t feeling well, and drove to a park. I walked around trying to figure out how I could end my life. I undid a shoelace, realizing it was too short to use for anything. Frustrated, I broke down crying. Tears for my brother, for my dad, for my life, for God’s “betrayal.” All the tears I had tried to drink away came flooding out.

Somehow, I managed to call Henry while he was at work. He didn’t understand, but he knew something was wrong, so he came straight to the park. I’ll never forget how his face softened when he saw me. He had no words. He just hugged me tightly.

Not long after that wake-up call, we decided to give church another chance. What did we have to lose? Suddenly, the lyrics in worship songs hit my heart so deeply; especially the ones about brokenness, God’s love, mercy, and hope. I still struggled with sin, but now I felt God’s presence and an overwhelming sense of His love wash over me.

Henry and I got engaged four months before I turned 18, and a month or two later we were baptized.

Looking back, I was such a baby Christian. I was still living in so much sin. I confessed Jesus as Lord and Saviour, but the weight of my sin lingered. I questioned if I was truly saved. Others questioned me, too, when I admitted that Henry and I still smoked pot.

What I see now is that once we were saved, we felt conviction about sin, something we had never felt as deeply before. But we lacked strong Christian friends and support. After a year of marriage, still saved but struggling, we thought, Something’s missing. A baby! That will complete us.

A few months before conceiving, we stopped smoking pot and tried to “better ourselves.” Hazel was born, and I thought life was perfect. She filled a purpose-shaped hole in my heart. Two and a half years later Eli was born. Again, we were in awe. We were determined to raise our kids in a perfect Christian home.

But very quickly we learned: a family doesn’t fill the Jesus-shaped hole. Life was still imperfect, even as saved Christians. we obviously had a lot of baggage from our past, we learned that - yes we were saved, but we still had to deal with the baggage that accumulated from being together before being Christians. We went through trials in our marriage, we also suffered from a miscarriage, but then were blessed with sweet Enzo a little while later. We felt God calling us to move almost an hour away from our families during Covid. Life didn't magically become perfect after being saved, but having God to lean on during these times was so comforting.

Two months after Eli was born, we got word that my brother Pete (just 1.5 years younger than my late brother Henry) had died of an accidental overdose. The grief of losing my brother and dad resurfaced. My world cracked again. But this time was different. This time I had a church community, a stable marriage, and Henry’s steady love.

Our small group and other Christian friends prayed for us. And while the grief was sharp, I experienced a supernatural comfort. Losing someone with the hope of Jesus is different than losing someone without it.

Before Pete died, he had spent a year in Teen Challenge, where he was baptized and gave a powerful testimony. He became an inspiration to many, graduating sober and full of hope. His death reminded me that “the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Without Christ’s sacrifice, Pete’s testimony would have meant nothing. But because of Jesus, his testimony still speaks.

This brought me back to my own salvation. At 18, I was immature, but God began the process of sanctification. Today, 28-year-old Nelly would be unrecognizable to 18-year-old Nelly. I am only where I am because of God’s grace, His renewing mercy, and His beautiful pursuit of me.

The more disciplined I become in prayer, in the Word, in fellowship, the more I feel God at work. My sin feels louder, my conviction sharper. I am fully dependent on Him now.

I tried living without God, and it was the darkest, most hopeless time of my life. I thought my broken childhood defined me, doomed me to the statistics. But at my lowest, God scooped me up and brought me from death to life.

His handiwork is woven all through my story; from neighbours who boldly shared their faith, knowing my parents were Mennonite, my dad's intense love for his kids, Darlene who invested Wednesday nights into us kids, my sisters who took me to church, the small group who showed me true fellowship. These seeds had a significant impact on my life.

I could hyper-fixate on the brokenness I came from, but what good would that do?

I no longer identify as a child of a broken home. I am a child of God.

Myself and my two (deceased) older brothers. (Pete on the left and Henry on the right).