By Jacob Hatcher 

Community Columnist  

This past week my family and I went to a Good Friday service. With every head bowed and every eye closed, I felt a 5-year-old hand grab mine, then I felt a curly-headed boy lean against me.  

Immediately I was a child again, every church memory flooding back.  

In reality I was standing in a sanctuary in Hartselle – but not in my mind. In my mind I was sweeping a gym with my Papa. From there, I went to a Sunday school class that my Uncle Jimmy was teaching. In the next breath, I was at a pool party with my cousin’s youth group. Once the prayer concluded, I opened my eyes, but my mind was still drifting from place to place.  

As I sat down with my family, I found myself at Wednesday night children’s church with Granmother and Grandaddy. The pastor began his sermon, but I was sitting with Mama at our home church on a Sunday night, contemplating what it meant to follow Jesus.  

As the worship team began to sing, I could have sworn I saw Nana sitting there at an organ, and up on one of the risers, I think I heard my Uncle Mark singing the bass line of an old hymn.  

Once we arrived back home, and the children were all in bed, I grabbed my Nana’s note-riddled Bible. I just had to hold it in my hands.  

I thought about the ripple effect that Bible had had in my life and how the waters have yet to calm from those experiences. I thumbed my way through it, looking for any note I could find – not so much to read what she thought of a specific passage; I just wanted to imagine her writing them by the light of her old antique lamp.  

Once I was finished, I put the Bible back and poked my head in the kids’ rooms. Quietly, I said a little prayer that one day they’ll have a 5-year-old grab their hand – and when they do, I hope this night comes rushing back.