Chapter 1

And So, It Begins…

Every story needs a beginning, and mine starts in Batavia, New York, on a summer morning Here comes your visual setting the stage for two dynamic decades, with 1973 taking the spotlight.

That was apparently unforgettable to everyone but me. August 8, 1973, 6:14 a.m., Genesee Memorial Hospital. I arrived weighing 9 pounds, 1.5 ounces and stretching 21 inches, which according to family lore made nurses nod approvingly and whisper, “He’s going to be a tall one.” I can neither confirm nor deny the accuracy of their prediction, but I do admire their optimism.

 Of course, I don't recall a single detail of that day. I imagine there were tears (mine), joy (everyone else’s), and the usual fussing about how a baby that size must’ve already had a personality. They weren’t wrong.

 But this isn’t just a tale of birth stats and baby blankets, it’s the beginning of a journey stitched together with love, hard lessons, quiet prayers, and the unmistakable fingerprints of God. From this first page to the last, what you’ll find isn’t just the life of Nathan Wade Boothe; it’s the steady unfolding of grace across time. And yes, sometimes that grace showed up in church pews… but just as often in hospital beds, summer road trips, awkward middle school classrooms, or while fumbling with guitar strings and PowerShell scripts.

My Family

The Roots: Richard, Barbara, and Bethany

Before the diplomas, the job titles, and the boxes labeled “fragile,” there was family. Not perfect, not always simple, but deeply formative. The early chapters of my life were narrated by the voices of Richard, Barbara, and Bethany, each one echoing through the corridors of faith, identity, and the occasional kitchen argument. They set the tone for how I’d love, wrestle, and eventually learn to trust that God works even through the mess.

Bethany and I grew up as preacher’s kids in a home that could've doubled as a seminary annex. Gospel music was practically on tap, and anything with a movie rating or a beat you could dance to was either discouraged or downright sinful. For a long time, church life was all I knew, it was the only lens I had.

As the years passed, though, my parents’ once-rigid rules began to ease. By the time I hit my teens, our household playlist had expanded beyond Southern gospel, and movies (with a firm rating filter) made occasional appearances. It wasn’t a rebellion, just change. As our home relaxed, so did we.

Early on, I learned that a Boothe was expected to smile through anything. Recently, my mom summed up our family image with a bit of a reality check: “The Boothes were hypocrites, we made it look like our lives were perfect when they were anything but.” And she wasn’t wrong. At church functions and family events, people saw us as tight-knit and cheerful. And Bethany and I earned plenty of “model child” nods.

But behind the curtain was a more complicated story. My father faced significant internal challenges, including suicidal ideation, depression, and a strong desire for control, which had a substantial impact on our family. My mom worked tirelessly to keep our world intact and protect us from emotional fallout. I don’t recall many details from that time, but I’ve learned how my father pushed me to act older than my age. There wasn’t much room to just be a kid.

It might sound harsh, but the truth is, he cared deeply. He just didn’t always know how to show it, especially while carrying the weight of his own personal battles. As will be discussed in later chapters, his journey changed course, and he underwent notable personal growth.

I’d like to write more about my dad, mom, and sister to build a little more perspective for you has you read this book.

My dad, Richard Boothe, liked to work with his hands.  He had a wood shop where he crafted furniture (small pieces), frames for pictures, and things like sheds and home improvements.  As far as jobs go, he was a salesman, a security guard, an engineer, a pastor, a therapist, and director.  His passions were church ministry and mental health.  After his death, the Suicide Prevention Coalition named their library after him for the work he did for them.  It’s ironic that the thing that haunted him early in life ended up being what he made a positive impact toward and was remembered for.

My mom, Barbara Boothe, was a stay-at-home mom until we moved to Lynchburg when she had to get a job to help pay the bills.  My dad was attending Liberty Baptist College to get his degree in Theology so my mom got a job in the Registrar’s Office.  She started off at the bottom as an office clerk and eventually made it to Director of Records also known as the Registrar.  She earned her doctorate while working at Liberty.  She made a lot of positive impact on the people that worked for her and she tried her best to remain honest in an environment that was anything but at times.  The struggle between her morals and what she was being asked to do is what finally caused her to step-down and become a adjunct professor for the distance learning program.  Through everything, she has remained faithful to God and has been deeply involved in the church.

My sister, Bethany Lay, is three years older than me and has stayed in the church world her entire life.  She graduated from Lynchburg Christian Academy then attended Liberty University where she got her BS and MS degrees.  She went on to work at some of the biggest churches in the country and has become the authority on church building and spiritual gifts.  I always thought she had it all together and had a lot of friends until I read her faith journey.  I found out that her K-12 years of school were filled with depression and disappointment.  It shows how dysfunctional our family was and I had no clue about my sister’s life.

My World Today: Adrienne, Our Boys, and a Few Furry Friends

After some awkward haircuts, break room chats at Cinemark, and a hint of romance, Adrienne appears. We met while working at the theater, started dating in Feb 1996, engaged in Dec 1996, broke up because of her mother, engaged again in Nov 1997, and got married on January 10, 1998, at Bethesda Methodist Church in Huddleston, VA. It was the church she grew up in, and where her parents are buried. Sentimental, sacred, and a little bit dramatic.

Case in point: wedding day drama. There were a few uncertain moments regarding whether Adrienne’s mother would bring Adrienne to the church; however, this situation was not unusual or unexpected. She did bring her, and was very cordial.

The wedding was small, attended only by close friends and family. My dad officiated, my friend Kevin stood beside me as best man, and Melissa, Adrienne’s best friend, was the maid of honor. And of course, no wedding’s complete without a kitchen fire. At mid-ceremony, the fire alarms went off thanks to some smoke drifting from the back. Someone sprang into action, dad kept talking like nothing happened, and we got through it with style (well, maybe "style" is a stretch).

The reception? Regal, if you redefine regal as “Sam’s Club snacks and a homemade cake.” It wasn’t lavish, but it was heartfelt. And honestly, that’s what made it memorable.

Amid strained greetings, smoke alarms, and a Sam’s Club feast, the day was more significant than just a wedding. It was a moment stitched together by grace. Standing in that little church where generations had worshiped, we weren’t just saying vows; we were stepping into something sacred, something God-authored. Faith is sometimes present not in remarkable or clear moments, but in everyday situations and in maintaining commitment and care even when circumstances are imperfect. Our wedding day, for all its unpredictability, felt like God saying, “I’m here. Keep going. This is good.” From that starting point, our household, children, and pets have developed. Not always polished but always held together by grace.

Life Now: Chaos, Custard, and Canines

Today, Adrienne and I are raising four boys, Noah, Tyler, Lucas, and Samuel, and three dogs who seem convinced they run the house: Sky (a Saint Berdoodle with diva tendencies), Daisy (a Miniature Schnauzer and full-time grump), and Cal (a Toy Aussie Poo whose energy could power a small town).

Adrienne has grown from the shy, quiet girl I dated at first to a outspoken, strong mother and wife.

Here’s the rundown:

• Noah, the eldest, keeps things calm and balanced. He’s living in Buffalo, working as a regional manager for a pest control company. He and his wife Ella are building their life up north—far enough to miss the chaos, close enough to still get texts about it.

• Tyler came into the world with opinions and hasn’t stopped forming them since. He’s walked a tough road with a stutter, much like mine back in the day. Chick-fil-A did not prove to be a lasting option for him, but Meadows, a frozen custard shop, has been a suitable choice. Now he’s on track to manage the place, and he’s finally doing work that suits his strengths.

• Lucas is my creative soul still finding his space. He’s all about video games and expression, and I’ve been encouraging him to explore storytelling, game design, anything that channels his imagination. For now, he’s working at Chick-fil-A like Tyler once did and discovering a bit more of himself along the way.

• Samuel, known as Sam, is our youngest and quickly remembers personal details after just one meeting. His memory is incredible, and his love for science might just lead him into my field. He’s autistic, and like so many on the spectrum, he thrives when diving deep into topics that fascinate him. His brilliance shows up in unexpected, beautiful ways.

What I see when I look at our family isn’t just personality and chaos—it’s divine craftsmanship in motion. Each of our boys brings something unique and sacred into the mix, woven with strengths and struggles that echo what grace really looks like. God didn’t hand us a quiet life, He gave us a vibrant one—full of learning curves, late-night talks, quirks, and unconditional love. Faith is there in the stutters overcome, in the creative sparks waiting to be lit, in the deep dives into science and memory, and even in the barking dogs who remind us daily that joy can be loud. This household might not fit the mold, but it’s a living, breathing testament to how God uses the ordinary to build something extraordinary.

My Relatives

The Crandall’s: A Steady Presence

Among the various members of my family, my maternal grandparents, Grandpa and Grandma Crandall, provided the greatest sense of stability and reassurance. We didn’t take many traditional vacations growing up. No beach trips or amusement parks. Our summer getaway? Visiting Grandma and Grandpa in New York. It may not have come with roller coasters, but the memories stuck just the same.

Their house was simple and a little old-fashioned, which added to the charm. I do not remember whether there was a television. If there was, it was not used while I was present. Entertainment came by way of fudge bars and imagination. There was a chest freezer in a little room before you entered the house, always stocked with frozen fudge bars. They were always the highlight of my visits and likely boosted my childhood sugar intake.

The kitchen had appliances that looked like they were borrowed from a 1950s museum exhibit. I especially remember the fridge with a silver pull-down handle that felt like opening a vault. The water smelled unmistakably like sulfur. Consuming the local water was not advised, so we arranged for water to be transported from external sources, ensuring proper hydration through alternative means.

Through the kitchen, you’d enter the living room, home to Grandpa’s throne: a big, soft chair where he planted himself like royalty. One of my clearest memories is sitting on his lap while he rubbed his evening stubble against my cheek. It felt like sandpaper with a sense of humor, and he knew exactly how to turn that into laughter.

To the left were some steep stairs that led to the second floor, steep enough to make your legs question the climb. Upstairs was a long, closet-like room filled with toys. My favorite was a plastic Noah’s Ark, complete with Noah, his wife, and a parade of animals. I don’t know what became of that ark, but I’d love to stumble across it someday just for the nostalgia.

The outside of the house? A whole different adventure. Situated on a road heavily traveled by tractor trailers, Bethany and I made a game of getting truckers to honk. All it took was some enthusiastic arm pumping, and many obliged. We would see who could get the most trucks to honk.  I’m sure I won most of the time.

Behind the house was a sprawling vegetable garden, though my interests were mostly limited to the peas. I’d pick them straight off the vine, crack open the pod like a treasure chest, and snack away. Other veggies were available, but let’s be honest - peas were the VIPs.  My sister didn’t share my passion for peas or anything green for that matter.

Bordering the garden was a line of trees that led to a hidden tunnel we dubbed Tarzan’s Jungle. Why Tarzan? No clue.  We likely liked the name or just enjoyed shouting it as we ran into the woods. There were no vines to swing on and no tigers or monkeys to befriend.   But our imagination was in full gear.

When Grandma and Grandpa eventually relocated from Pavilion, New York to Lynchburg, Virginia, they brought more than just boxes, they brought presence. They visited nearly every weekend, usually under the guise of laundry, but really to just be around us. That consistent thread of love and comfort became one of the most cherished parts of my upbringing.

Grandma was known for her macaroni and cheese. I’m convinced it was the best made, no competition. Adrienne has come close, but Grandma’s recipe holds the crown. That said, there was a minor culinary incident later in life. One evening, she served up her classic dish… with onions. Onions. I took a big bite, expecting creamy nostalgia, and got crunch instead. In that moment, I questioned everything. Was my grandma going senile already?  I voiced my opinion (politely but firmly), and Grandma never attempted that variation again.

Grandpa was the quiet kind—he didn’t talk often, but when he did, it meant something. He had a sincere faith and wasn’t shy about sharing it. I still remember coming home one day to find a leather-bound Bible sitting on my pillow. No explanation, just a quiet gift. I already had a few, but I suppose he thought I could use another and maybe a gentle nudge toward a straighter path. I wasn’t rebellious, but I didn’t quite fit into the typical “Christian kid” mold either.

His persistent headaches were the decade’s big mystery. The doctors scratched their heads, ran their tests, and came up empty every time. But family legend has its own theories, and let’s just say my grandma’s personality was… vivid enough to be considered a medical factor. We joked (quietly) that she was the cause, a walking, talking tension headache with a flair for commentary. He’d sit there with one finger pressed against the side of his head like it was holding back a tidal wave, stoic as ever. I felt for him; truly, I did. But despite it all, he never uttered a word of complaint. If suffering in silence were an Olympic sport, he’d have medaled every year. And somehow, that quiet resilience became part of the family’s fabric, endurance wrapped in humor, held together by love.

What lingers most from those Crandall summers, beyond fudge bars, pea-snacking, and honking contests, is the steady presence of love that felt divinely appointed. God’s fingerprints were all over that house: in Grandpa’s quiet wisdom, in Grandma’s unapologetic macaroni magic, even in the unspoken lessons passed down during laundry visits and toy-room explorations. Their faith wasn’t loud, but it was embedded, woven into the rhythms of their lives like a background hymn you don’t realize you’ve memorized. That plastic Noah’s Ark might be gone, but the ark of their influence is still floating strong. And whether through a Bible left on a pillow or the patient endurance of a man who never complained, God’s grace had a seat at the table, and it never needed onions to make its point.

The Boothes: Distant and Complicated

While my maternal grandparents were steady pillars in my life, my paternal grandparents, Cleon and Neva Boothe, were more like shadows on the wall. They were there, technically, but mostly out of reach. Cleon had remarried a woman named Onnolee after divorcing Neva, though I never knew either of them in any meaningful way. My mental scrapbook includes just one vivid moment: Cleon, living above a general store, walking Bethany and me downstairs and letting us choose candy. It was sweet, literally, but fleeting.

It wasn’t until much later that I dove into family history with all the enthusiasm of a caffeine-fueled detective that I began seeing the threads that had been quietly woven beneath the surface. And those threads, well... they were tangled.

I discovered that Cleon had a reputation for dishonesty and infidelity, not something passed down in bedtime stories. Neva, his first wife, came from a large family, and in the 1940 Census I found something curious: her sister Mildred was living with them as a housekeeper. Just a detail at first, but it would come back around.

Then I found the court records: Cleon had filed for divorce in Reno, Nevada. Odd, since he and Neva lived in New York. I later found that Neva had filed, too, on grounds of adultery. Cue the “housekeeper” detail again. Was there more to Mildred’s role than sweeping the floor?

Fast-forward to a Rutherford family reunion—Rutherford being Neva’s maiden name, where my parents kept commenting on a man who looked almost exactly like my dad. Same face, same build. They chalked it up to family resemblance. I saw it as a breadcrumb.

At this point, I’d accepted that genealogy wasn’t just about names and dates, it was about mystery, about untold stories. So, I asked questions. First, to Stanley Rutherford, Neva’s brother and a genealogy enthusiast himself. He knew more than I could ever hope to record, but when I asked about Cleon and Mildred, he claimed to know nothing.

I wasn’t done. I asked Aunt Luetta, Cleon’s daughter. We’d spent summers visiting her growing up, surely, she’d open up. Again, nothing. I began second-guessing myself. Maybe the affair really had taken place during Cleon's escapades in Nevada?

Then came a surprise visit with the Shermans, family friends from New York. While catching up, I mentioned the mystery. To my shock, Mr. Sherman knew something, he’d been Cleon’s business partner. He said Cleon used Nevada as an escape, and yes, Cleon told him about an affair with Mildred but never mentioned a child.

I circled back to Aunt Luetta, this time with receipts. Armed with court documents, census records, and a firsthand account, I asked again. This time, she confirmed it. The man at the reunion who looked like my dad. Suddenly, that resemblance wasn’t just coincidence, it was connection.

That moment changed something in me. I used to see family history as a nostalgic exercise. Now I see it as a living truth: raw, complicated, and profoundly human. Discovering that Cleon may have fathered a child with his sister-in-law didn’t just rattle the family tree, it made me rethink the quiet spaces in our lineage. The things unsaid. The roles people play to preserve order and appearance.

What this tangled tale taught me is that even the messiest branches of a family tree aren’t beyond the reach of grace. God doesn’t shy away from complicated stories; He steps right into them. The Boothes didn’t offer the warmth or stability of other relatives, but through their shadows, I saw the light of redemption taking shape. Sometimes faith isn’t inherited like a cherished Bible; it’s unearthed in court records, whispered confessions, and uncomfortable truths. And in those moments, those unexpected revelations, God reminds me that understanding and forgiveness walk hand in hand. Even the secrets, the brokenness, and the mystery have a place in His story. Because nothing is wasted, not even the chapters we didn’t plan to write.

 Aunts, Uncles, and Cousins: Fragments of Connection

When it comes to extended family, those aunts, uncles, and cousins who orbit your life like second-string satellites, my relationships have mostly come in brief, scattered bursts. No holiday traditions or recurring reunions, just moments here and there. Still, some stuck with me more than others.

Take my uncle Jimmy, my mom’s brother. He was mostly absent during my childhood. Their relationship was shaped by difficult history and years of silence. But before he passed, Bethany and I made the trip to Florida to visit him and his family. It was a short visit, but meaningful. A unique face-to-face encounter offers a deeper understanding that stories or photos cannot provide.

Before his passing, Jimmy and his wife Jean gave me several items that I keep. I have conducted DNA tests for all family members, not in anticipation of significant discoveries, but as an additional means of learning about our backgrounds. Maybe not by bloodline, but by curiosity. Jean also shared stories from Jimmy’s Navy days, the countries he visited, the bases he served on. It wasn’t much, but it painted the outline of a man who lived a broader life than I ever saw growing up.

On my dad’s side, he had four sisters, but the only one I really got to know was Aunt Luetta. I’ve seen photographs of the others, ghostly snapshots tucked into albums, but no memories to match them. Each summer, we traveled north to visit Luetta, where we met with our cousins. We were friendly when we crossed paths, exchanged smiles, asked how school was going, but I sometimes wish I’d reached beyond the surface. There's something bittersweet about realizing you knew faces more than you knew people.

Now, Aunt Luetta, she’s a force of nature. Over 90 and still going strong. She walks slower these days, but she drives, crafts, and stays active like aging’s just a casual suggestion. Her favorite creative outlet? Making glass angels. Not just for decoration, but for sharing. She gives them to just about everyone she meets, and I think we’ve got at least three or four in our own home, small tokens from someone who quietly pours love into everything she does.

Visiting her always came with highlights. First, the air organ, a musical mystery I hadn’t seen anywhere else. Learning to play it was part curiosity, part comedy. The second? Spaghetti dinners. She’d invite our whole extended family over, fill the house with laughter and sauce-stained plates, and for a few hours we felt like something more than just relatives, we felt like we belonged.

Even with scattered connections and faded photographs, God shows up in the fragments. Through Jimmy’s quiet gift-giving and Jean’s handed-down stories, I caught glimpses of redemption in relationships that once felt beyond reach. And in Aunt Luetta’s relentless vitality and glass angel ministry, I saw the kind of faith that doesn’t make a scene, it makes a difference. These moments weren’t loud or rehearsed; they were subtle, sincere, and sacred. It reminds me that grace doesn’t always appear in the center of the stage, it often lingers on the edges, waiting to be noticed in spaghetti dinners, organ melodies, and the smile of someone you wish you’d known better. Faith breathes in those encounters. And sometimes, it’s not until you look back that you realize God was weaving it all together.