I grew up with hymns that felt like handrails
on a staircase I was still learning to climb.
They were the songs of people who had lived long enough
to know what trouble was,
and still believed God would meet them on the other side.
Back then, the sanctuary felt like a shelter.
The altos carried me,
the tenors steadied me,
and the words, those old, carved‑in‑oak words,
told me heaven was not a rumor
but a destination with my name written down.
Later, in ministry, those hymns became my companions.
Not props, not nostalgia,
anchors.
When I sang them, something in me settled,
like a child who finally hears a familiar voice
after getting lost in a store.
But now the music has changed.
The room feels louder,
yet somehow thinner.
The screens glow, the band swells,
and I stand there trying to find the thread
that used to tie my heart to safety.
I hear jokes about the old songs,
as if reverence were a punchline.
As if the saints who taught me how to hope
were outdated furniture.
And I feel something loosen inside me,
something I thought was bolted down.
I don’t say this to scold anyone.
I say it because I’m older now,
and the ground shifts in ways I never expected.
The hymns once carried my certainty,
and without them,
heaven feels a little farther away
than it used to.
Still, sometimes in the quiet,
a line rises up, uninvited, and familiar,
and I remember how it felt
to believe without effort.
To trust the promise of glory
the way I trusted the sunrise.
I don’t know if that feeling will return.
But I know the old songs are still in me,
waiting like a door I can open
whenever the world tilts too much.
And maybe that's enough
for now. -wcd
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