Every time Derrick walked into Zion Baptist, a certain memory always came back to him. He was about seven years old when this story took place. It was at the old church building on Lyndale Avenue North, a few years before it had been torn for the freeway.
That Sunday, Derrick’s mother had decided he was “ready for big church.” No more children’s room. No more coloring sheets. No more whispering games with the other little kids in the back classroom.
“You sit with us today,” she told him. “You a big boy now.”
He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but he nodded. His mother looked so proud.
When they walked in, the sanctuary felt enormous. Voices echoed, and fans swished. People greeted each other with warm hugs. He could smell perfume, cologne, and peppermint mints all at once. Derrick sat between his parents, feet swinging above the floor. He liked the way the sunlight came through the stained glass windows and hit the choir robes, making them look like gold.
One of the deacons, Deacon Talbert, came by and rubbed the top of Derrick’s head.
“You made it to big church today, huh?”
Derrick smiled shyly and nodded his head.
When the choir stood, Derrick sat straighter. He loved the music at Zion. His mother was not in the choir yet—she joined a few years later—but she stood near the front, singing along with all her heart. The song that morning was “Blessed Assurance.” Derrick didn’t know all the words then, but the melody caught him. It felt warm, like someone wrapping him in a soft blanket.
The choir rocked gently. Women’s voices rose high. Men added low harmony. Someone shouted “Yes, Lord!” from the back. Derrick didn’t understand why people cried sometimes when they sang. But even at seven… he understood the feeling. Something steadied him. Held him. Made him feel like no matter what happened in the world, God was bigger.
Later in life, whenever things got scary, like the gunshot at Phelps, or Ray-Ray being murdered, he could still hear that song in his head.
During the prayer, everyone bowed their heads, but little Derrick peeked up at his father. His dad wasn’t a deacon yet, he was still just Brother Jackson back then. But he prayed like someone who had carried things, survived things, and knew where his strength came from. Derrick remembered the way his father’s voice softened:
“Lord, keep us and guide us… Strengthen us when we feel weak… Hold us together when the world tries to pull us apart…”
Even as a little boy, Derrick felt something in those words. He wanted to be strong like his father. Steady like him. Rooted like him. And he felt proud—real proud—when older men in the church shook his father’s hand afterward and said,
“That was a good prayer, brother.” “You blessed us today.” “You got a calling on you.”
Those moments shaped Derrick more than he knew at the time.
During the offering that day, Mrs. Brown, an Usher, leaned down to Derrick with a smile.
“You wanna help pass the offering envelopes?”
Derrick’s eyes went wide. He looked at his parents for permission. His father nodded.
“Go on, son.”
Derrick took the stack of envelopes carefully—like they were something special—and walked down the aisle behind the usher. People smiled at him as they took one.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
“Aren’t you a handsome helper!”
“Look at young Master Jackson”
He felt proud. Like he belonged. Like the church was trusting him with something important. When he got back to the pew, his father put a hand on his shoulder.
“Good job,” he whispered.
Derrick never forgot that feeling.
After service, when people were talking in the aisles, little Derrick saw a bright red balloon someone had tied to a chair for a toddler’s birthday. He wanted it. Badly. He tugged on the string. It slipped, and floated up to the ceiling. He gasped. The toddler cried. People looked up. Someone laughed. Derrick froze, horrified. His mother came over, eyebrow raised.
“Derrick Jackson… what did you do?”
He pointed at the balloon stuck on the ceiling.
“I—I just wanted to hold it…”
Instead of scolding him, his father picked him up gently.
“Tell the baby you’re sorry.”
Derrick did. The baby sniffled. Then smiled when Derrick gave him his own pack of animal crackers.
“See?” Derrick’s father whispered. “You made it right.”
That lesson stayed with him. Mistakes happen, but you fix them, say you’re sorry, and then move on.
Back in the present, summer of 1971, Derrick sometimes thought about that day back when he was seven. About the music, the prayer, the offering envelopes, the balloon, the lesson, and the warmth of that sanctuary. It explained why he stayed calm when other kids panicked. Why he felt grounded even when things around him got chaotic. Why he treated people with respect. Why he paid attention to right and wrong. And whenever he felt confused or unsure… he could still hear the choir singing “Blessed Assurance” like a memory stitched into his heart.