The first time I met Jesus of Nazareth was at 324 North Cleveland Street in Enid, Oklahoma, inside the red-brick church my grandparents attended. The sanctuary was big and warm, held up by glulam beams that arched like open arms. To get there, I either spent Saturday night at Grandma and Grandpa’s house or waited for them to drive across town to pick me up for church. I was about five when I started going.
Staying at Grandma and Grandpa’s was a welcome escape from a tense home life. Dad and his wife thought partying and doing drugs were more important than raising my half-sister and me.
Compared to our tiny one-bedroom house, my grandparents’ house with an underground pool in an upscale part of town, next to the country club, was a mansion. I could count on a delicious meal and a warm bed there. And lots of hugs.
Getting ready for church at their house started the night before with a bubble bath. Afterwards, I’d snuggle into bed between grandma and grandpa and doze off to The Love Boat. I would wake up in their bed or in one of the guest beds. At their house, I dressed in clean, pressed clothes. Grandma combed my hair until she found me presentable. Grandpa drove us to church in their Chrysler New Yorker. That was the routine. I loved every minute of it.
Thanks to my grandparents, I learned early that Jesus was the Son of God. I also learned that He could be my friend when my Sunday School teacher taught me about a chief tax collector from Jericho named Zacchaeus.
The classrooms were off to the side of the sanctuary, in front of the fellowship hall, where the coffee brewed in a big, silver coffee machine urn. My classroom was small, rectangular, with a few windows. It was cheerful and fun by design. There were colorful wall hangings and a felt board that displayed Bible characters and background scenes.
One Sunday morning, my teacher, whose name I don’t recall, was waiting for us like she always did, perched on the edge of her metal chair with some pictures in her lap. She had the same glow every week—rouge, Aqua Net, and a smile that told you she believed every word she said. When we filed in, she clapped her hands once, gently, to direct our attention.
“Good morning, boys and girls,” she said. “Today we’re going to meet a man named Zacchaeus.”
She held up a picture: a squat little man in a robe, halfway up a sycamore tree, peering down through the branches. Even at five, I knew a story was worth listening to if a grown man had climbed a tree.
“Zacchaeus,” she began, “was a chief tax collector. Do you know what that means?” She looked around the room. A few kids shrugged. I didn’t know either, but I pretended to think about it so I wouldn’t get called on.
“It means,” she said, lowering her voice as if sharing something slightly scandalous, “he took people’s money. More money than he should have. And people didn’t like him very much. Even though he was rich and important, he wasn’t welcome. He really didn’t belong with the other Jewish people.”
She paused to let that settle and then continued. “But Zacchaeus had heard that Jesus was coming to Jericho. And he wanted to see Him. Oh, he wanted to see Him so much.”
Our teacher’s voice had a way of climbing along with the story, pulling us up with it. I could almost feel the dusty road under my sandals, the crowd pressing in.
“But Zacchaeus was a little man,” she said. “And he couldn’t see over the crowd. So what did he do?”
The boy next to me blurted out, “He climbed the tree!”
“Yes!” she said, delighted. “He climbed the sycamore tree. Because when you want to see Jesus, you don’t let anything get in your way.”
She explained that Jesus stopped beneath the tree, looked right up at Zacchaeus, and called him by name. “Zacchaeus, come down from there. I’m going to your house today.”
Our teacher laid the picture down. “Imagine that,” she said softly. “Jesus choosing him. A man nobody liked.”
I remember sitting there, my legs swinging above the carpet, thinking, wow, Jesus picked the people no one expected. And maybe he’d pick me, too.
Our teacher leaned forward, elbows on her knees, as if the next part were the whole point of the story. “Do you know why Jesus went to Zacchaeus’s house?” she asked.
We didn’t. None of us moved. Even the fidgety kids were still.
She held up another picture—Jesus and Zacchaeus sitting at a small table, bread between them.
Jesus went,” she said, “because he knew Zacchaeus’s heart could change. Everyone else only saw a man who took more than he gave. They saw a cheat. But Jesus saw a man who could start over.”
She continued to hold up the picture of Zacchaeus for us to see, his hands raised up in surprise or surrender—hard to tell which. “And do you know what Zacchaeus did after Jesus came to his home?”
A few kids shook their heads.
“He stood up,” she said, lifting her chin as Zacchaeus might have. “And he said, ‘Lord, I’m going to give half of everything I own to the poor.’” Her voice trailed like she still couldn’t believe it. “And if I’ve cheated anybody—and he had—‘I will pay them back four times as much.’”
She laid the picture down.
“That’s what happens,” she said, “when Jesus fixes broken people. People change. They become kinder. Softer. Braver. Zacchaeus thought he didn’t deserve a visit from Jesus. But Jesus visited anyway.”
Then she looked around the room, her eyes landing on each of us.
“And that,” she said, “is why Zacchaeus climbed the tree. He had a hole in his heart. All the money he stole could not fill that hole.”
I remember sitting with this story. And in that quiet moment, something settled over my little heart: the God of the universe had a Son, and that Son knew me. Not just the world. Not just the crowds. Me. Just as surely as He looked up into those branches and called Zacchaeus by name, He knew my name too—knew it, loved it, spoke it with a tenderness I’d never heard from any human voice.
That understanding didn’t stay in the classroom. It followed me out of my seat and into the sanctuary where I answered an altar call one summer evening, a little boy who asked Jesus to come into his heart. I’ve always thought I was born with a believing heart, an innate tendency or predisposition towards faith.
That bent toward belief didn’t fade when the circumstances around me changed. When my grandparents moved to Wyoming, the people who had first brought me to church were suddenly gone. But something in me kept pulling me back. So on Sunday mornings, at seven, eight, and nine years old, I got myself ready and waited for the Sunday school bus. No one told me to go. I simply went because I wanted to. Because the story that had taken hold of me felt truer than anything else in my small world. It was a quiet act of loyalty—child-sized, but real—and it became the first habit of faith I learned on my own.
I value more than anything that Jesus’s love has stayed with me through the years. Having experienced the incarceration of a parent, the lowest of lows during high school, not wanting to live anymore, marriage with a mentally ill person, the excruciating pains of divorce, the pandemic, and the paralyzing weight of my sins, all times that Jesus carried me on his shoulders, I can’t imagine wading through this life without Him.
And so when I speak about who Jesus is, I don’t speak in abstractions. I speak from a life He’s held together. Jesus Christ is not some great moral teacher, as the atheist turned Christian C.S. Lewis asserted in Mere Christianity. No, Jesus is more than a carpenter.
I know Jesus to be the Prince of Peace. Son of God. Christ. Savior. Son of man. Mediator. Holy One. The Lamb of God. King of kings, Lord of lords. Chief Cornerstone. Head of the Church. Rock. Firstborn over all creation. Judge. Word of God. Light of the world. Alpha and Omega. Word. Emmanuel. I Am. Lord of All. Way, Truth, Life. True God. Author and Perfector of our Faith. Bread of Life. Bridegroom. Deliverer. Good Shepard. High Priest. Resurrection and Life. The True Vine.
And when I stack all those titles together, when I let them speak with the weight they carry, I begin to understand something simple and profound: Jesus is not far away. He is approachable. He meets people right where they are, in their brokenness and in their hope, and He calls them by name just as He called Zacchaeus. I’ve seen Him do it. I’ve lived it. Jesus stands ready to mend broken hearts. To offer salvation and restoration. To bind up wounds. To be anyone’s dearest friend if they will invite Him in.
Word Count: 1,540
Here are six “writing” takeaways from this chapter:
The Beginning
1. Begin with a doorway the reader can walk through.
I opened with a real address, a real church, and a real five‑year‑old boy entering that space. That specificity grounds the reader immediately.
Try This: Start your story by naming a place or detail only you could name. Let the reader feel the floorboards under their feet.
2. Pair setting with emotional contrast.
I didn’t just describe your grandparents’ home—I contrasted it with the turmoil of my own home. That contrast creates instant stakes.
Try This: When you introduce a place or person, ask, “Compared to what?” Use the comparison to reveal the emotional truth of that moment.
The Middle
3. Build a scene with objects, voices, and movement
The felt board, the sycamore-tree picture, the teacher’s Aqua Net—these details let the reader see the story instead of being told about it.
Try This: When recounting an important memory, list three sensory details first. Use them as anchors so the scene can breathe on the page.
4. Slow down for the moment that shaped you.
I lingered on the story of Zacchaeus—not rushing, not summarizing. I let the scene unfold at the pace my five-year-old self experienced it.
Try This: When writing a turning point, give it more oxygen than the moments around it. Slow your tempo. Trust the scene to hold the weight.
The End
5. Shift from the personal to the universal
After showing the child’s experience, I widened the frame to how faith carried me through adulthood. This shift gives the story resonance.
Try This: At the ending, step back. Ask, “What does this small story say about the larger life I’ve lived?”
6. End with clarity, conviction, and one clean truth.
My closing paragraphs aren’t coy; they say plainly what I know to be true.
Try This: Close with one sentence that states the meaning of your story without hedging. Memoir rewards the writer who dares to be clear.
