I remember as a little girl watching the ladies in our church—the ones with white, gray, slightly purple hair, or coal black hair—who sat across the aisle from us or who were in the choir singing. I was most impressed by their ability to sing every word of every verse without ever looking at the hymnal. (Yes, I am of the PreBigScreen Age, when we memorized the page numbers to our favorite songs and got in big trouble if we knocked a few hymnals on the floor during the sermon.)

I wanted to know all the words to all the verses too! I knew if I practiced I could be just like them. But, there was something else I noticed about these ladies. When they sang songs like The Old Rugged Cross, they would cry. I remember being certain they were sad that Jesus died on the cross. It is sad. But, it didn’t make me cry—not really.

I wondered what it was that made people cling to their Bibles. I mean, I brought mine most Sundays. I had a pink Precious Moments Bible, but I mainly clinging to mine because my Sunday School teacher marked down if we brought our Bible, an offering, or if we read our Bible everyday. I brought mine in hopes of being 1:3.

It didn’t look like these ladies were trying to cry. They would just be singing and tears would gently slide down their faces as they sang about Jesus. I wondered if I’d ever understand what made these strong, independent women at church often without a spouse or any other family members—cry.

I remember singing Tell Me The Story of Jesus and watching these same ladies sing with delight as those same tears dripped from their eyes.

I also remember overhearing a conversation among adults around this same time. (They don’t call me nosey Rosie for nothing.) A man was sharing his frustration about a preacher who preached a salvation message every Sunday. I remember hearing him say, “We all know the story of Jesus. Can’t he move on to something else.” I respected this man as a leader. I remember wondering if that’s how we should feel. Maybe he was just so spiritual that he didn’t need to hear the story of Jesus. He already had that down. He wanted the meat, not the milk.

Just this Easter morning as I was getting my littles ready for church, I was thinking about how quickly Silas and Piper are growing up. Words that I’ve spoken since the first days after bringing my newborn home, I still repeat with astonishment as if they were the first time I ever uttered them. Mommas feel the reality of their babies growing up, so much so that little tears drop from our eyes.

I thought of that man from my church. I wondered if he’d say—“Kids grow up.” “They grow up quickly.” “Get over it. Move on.”

But, every momma knows that it isn’t possible, because they keep growing. They keep changing. They keep melting your heart! The same words that we’ve said over and over have a deeper meaning than they did the last. They do grow up so fast! Tears running down my face or love swelling in my heart! I can’t get over it. I can’t get over how fast they grow, and neither can anyone else who loves a kiddo.

Tell me the story of Jesus,

Write on my heart every word;

Tell me the story most precious,

Sweetest that ever was heard.”

Tell of the cross where they nailed Him,

Writhing in anguish and pain;

Tell of the grave where they laid Him,

Tell how He liveth again.

Love in that story so tender,

Clearer than ever I see;

Stay, let me weep while you whisper,

”Love paid the ransom for me.”

Tell how He’s gone back to heaven,

Up to the right hand of God:

How He is there interceding

While on this earth we must trod.

Tell of the sweet Holy Spirit

He has poured out from above;

Tell how He’s coming in glory

For all the saints of His love.

Tell me the story of Jesus,

Write on my heart every word;

Tell me the story most precious,

Sweetest that ever was heard

I hope someone told you the story of Jesus today...

because like unlike momma’s babies,

it never grows old.

--Rosie