If you grew up in northeast Alabama under the spell of the Congregational Holiness Church, then you know the altar call was never gentle. It was not an invitation. It was not a suggestion. It was a five-alarm spiritual emergency, and the way those preachers shouted it, you would have thought Heaven had a very small window of business hours.

The preacher always waited until the tent’s temperature had risen to the point where the sawdust felt warm as bathwater underfoot. Then he would lower his voice to a whisper that somehow reached the far corners of the county.

“Somebody here tonight is runnin’ out of time.”

That line alone could stop a grown man’s heart. For a child, it felt like a sheriff’s spotlight had just snapped on and was sweepin’ the tent lookin’ for anyone who had so much as looked sideways during prayer.

The preacher would pause, let the words settle like dust in a sunbeam, and repeat:

“You know who you are.”

Sir, let me tell you, I did not know who I was, but I assumed it was me.

Children do not consider themselves a statistical improbability. They assume they are the bullseye of every sermon delivered in the tri-county area. So, I sat there, small and sweaty, tryin’ to recall every misdeed I had ever committed. The list took longer than expected.

Meanwhile, the pianist began to play soft and mournful, the kind of tune that suggested someone had already missed the last boat to glory and the preacher was tryin’ to catch the next one on their behalf.

Then the preacher’s voice rose.

“If you die tonight, where will you spend eternity?”

I was eight years old and had not considered my mortality with such precision.

“Come now,” he’d call. “Do not wait. Do not hesitate. The Lord is dealin’ with your heart.”

And the panic began.

Grown men shifted in their seats.
Grown women whispered fervent prayers.
Teenagers tried to pretend they felt nothing, but looked guilty anyway.
Children like me debated whether to sprint down the aisle or risk eternal consequences.

It was spiritual musical chairs, and the music was endin’.

Every time, the same thought hit me.

If I did not go down, and the Lord returned before breakfast, I would have to explain to the angels why I missed my chance. I never pictured this conversation goin’ well.

Once, during a particularly fiery altar call, the preacher declared:

“Tonight may be your last opportunity to escape the fires of perdition.”

The man behind me stood up so fast his folding chair collapsed under him with a metallic shriek. The sound nearly sent me into cardiac arrest, and I took it as a divine sign. I leapt up and ran to the altar with the conviction of a man who had seen the first trumpet in the sky.

When I reached the front, someone draped an arm around my shoulders and prayed loud enough to qualify as an emergency weather alert. I confess I did not always know what I was repentant for, but I repented for it anyway. I figured it was safer to cast a wide net.

And here is the curious thing.
The altar call was both terrifying and comforting.
I feared the preacher’s words, feared the thought of bein’ left behind, feared the unknown cough in the night that might be Gabriel clearin’ his throat.
But the moment I knelt down, fear eased off just enough for a child to breathe.

People cried over me.
People prayed for me.
People hugged me even if they had never spoken to me before.

Fear brought me to the altar.
But kindness kept me there.

It is a strange thing when the same moment holds both cold dread and warm mercy.
It is stranger still when you are too young to make sense of either.

Every revival night ended the same way.
The preacher would give one last warning.
The pianist ended on a dramatic chord.
And the tent slowly emptied, leavin’ behind a sea of footprints in the sawdust that looked for all the world like tracks made by souls stampedin’ toward Heaven’s gate.

That was the race we all ran.
Some out of guilt.
Some out of fear.
Some out of hope.
Some out of habit.

As for me, I ran because it felt like the safest place in a world that seemed eager to end at any moment.

And when the preacher shouted that last altar call, I never once believed it was meant for someone else.

Not in northeast Alabama.

Not under that tent.

Not with the Lord leanin’ close enough to hear my heartbeat.

*****

New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.