Family, Memory, and the Stories We Inherit

Series: Family & Legacy Stories
Friday, August 14, 2026

What memories do you have of going to church as a child?

Pull Up a Rocking Chair.

One of the benefits of growing up in a small church was the opportunity for generations to worship and fellowship together.

As a child, I watched.

I observed.

I listened.

And I learned.

Oh, I was a handful for Mama.

I did not sit still in church.

We always sat on the front pew, which presented a serious problem for a curious little boy. Everything interesting was happening behind me!

So I would stand up in the pew and turn completely around to see what everybody was doing.

Mama would gently sit me back down.

Before long, I would pop right back up.

There were people back there, and I needed to know what they were doing.

Apparently, The Curious Pilgrim started rather early.

Mama told me that when I was even younger, I sometimes crawled up into the pulpit while Daddy was preaching and grabbed hold of his leg.

Daddy didn’t stop preaching.

He didn’t scold me.

He simply kept preaching with his little boy attached to him.

Mama always came prepared. She had one of those church hand fans and would fan me when it was hot. Sometimes she tried to get me to lie down and take a nap.

A nap?

During church?

I might miss something!

I especially loved the music.

Daddy liked some of those fast-paced songs, and I loved them too. If people started clapping, I clapped.

I loved the songs where the different parts came in—bass, tenor, alto. I listened to the voices blend together and watched people’s faces as they sang.

Actually, I watched people’s faces a lot.

I watched them while Daddy preached.

I watched them while we sang.

I watched them while someone prayed.

I wanted to know what was happening.

I didn’t understand theology.

I couldn’t have explained worship.

I didn’t know anything about liturgy or church history.

But I was learning.

By being there, I learned how people prayed.

I learned how they worshiped.

I learned the songs.

I learned the stories.

And I learned something else that may have been more important than anything anyone could have explained to me.

I belonged there.

I loved the hugs before church and after church.

These weren’t simply people who happened to attend the same worship service.

They knew me.

They knew Mama.

They knew Daddy.

They watched me grow.

And somehow, even as that restless little boy standing in the front pew trying to see what everybody was doing, I knew I was one of them.

I was part of the church family.

Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts one generation can give another.

Children learn from what we tell them.

But they also learn by watching us.

They watch how we treat people.

They listen when we pray.

They hear us sing.

They notice whether there is joy on our faces.

They experience our hugs.

And somewhere along the way, those experiences become memories.

The memories become stories.

And the stories become part of who we are.

More than seventy years later, I can still see that little church.

I can hear the singing.

I can see Daddy preaching.

I can feel Mama’s hand trying once again to get me to sit down.

And I can still feel those hugs.

Maybe all that curiosity came from something I already felt deep inside.

I wasn’t watching strangers.

I was watching family.

The family of God.

And without realizing it, I was learning how to become part of the story myself.