On a stormy early October evening in 1962, as thunder and lightning tore across the skies over downtown Asunción, Paraguay, we fought our way onto one of the crowded buses on the Avenida Mariscal López. Our church choir was headed to the soccer stadium, where the Billy Graham Crusade — we called it La Festival de Esperanza (Festival of Hope) — was to be held that evening.

Hundreds of churches from throughout Paraguay, including my own Mennonite congregation, had participated in preparing for this event. For over a year, church leaders had trained thousands of “counselors,” who would help people come to Jesus, and had also arranged a group of several hundred of us to sing in a choir for the Festival.

At eleven, I was the youngest member of our choir. But when I sang those exquisite hymns, I felt like an adult. Even though there was much about Mennonites that I didn’t understand and didn’t like, such as why it was a sin to have long beautiful hair, I loved singing in the choir.

My Mennonite missionary parents founded and managed a leprosy hospital 81 kilometers east of Paraguay’s capital city. Their dual mission was to save lost souls and heal sick bodies. Since there was no school on the leprosy station, I attended school in Asunción during the week. When I was home for weekends, I made sure I took a bus back to the city in time to sing at the service on Sunday afternoons.

As we approached the stadium, dodging deep puddles of muddy water, we could feel the electricity in the air. We knew there’d been strong opposition to the Festival in this overwhelmingly Catholic country. In fact, to our knowledge, this was the only exception Paraguayan officials had ever made to the law banning evangelistic campaigns outside the tolerated church buildings. Protesters had organized a counter-demonstration consisting of a parade of 15,000 students and a music fiesta. They also had loaded two planes with tiny sacks of pepper, which they were planning to spread over the campaign gathering to disrupt it.

Despite the protests, it was quite obvious to our church leaders that God was all for the Billy Graham Festival and against those who opposed it. This afternoon, in a pre-Festival briefing session, the church leaders informed us that in response to their prayers, God had ordered the violent storm that hit the city earlier that afternoon, scattering the parade, destroying preparations at the fiesta site, disabling both planes, and causing the death of two people involved in the opposition.

But wouldn’t you know it: Our God-approved Festival was scheduled to begin right on time.

Crowds poured into the stadium, many of them drenched from traveling through the rainstorm. Loud speakers blared hymns in Spanish.

We made our way up to our assigned seats. I looked around me. Our combined choir took up a whole section of the bleachers. There must have been hundreds of us. Everyone looked so serious.

We were there to help Billy Graham save sinners.

The Reverend’s voice boomed through a loud speaker, his interpreter following along in Spanish. He spoke of heaven. Of sin. And of forgiveness.

His sermon that night was a sharp warning of judgment to come, a trumpet call to repentance. I couldn’t rip my gaze from his intense face. His eyes were mesmerizing, his deep strong voice compelling. His words unleashed within me a kaleidoscope of fear, hope and confusion. I was there as a church-going choir member, not as part of the crowd that needed to find Jesus. Yet I knew at that moment that he was speaking to me. My eleven-year-old sinfulness lay like a heavy weight on my heart. I desperately needed to finally get rid of the hurting inside.

After the sermon, our choir sang a few hymns. I managed to mouth the words so I wouldn’t stand out, but the notes stuck in my throat.

He rose again and thundered into the microphone, “By coming forward you’re saying to God, ‘I’m a sinner.’“ He continued, “Tonight, accept Christ in your heart and in your life.”

That was the cue for our choir to repeat over and over again the alter call song:

Tal como soy Señor,
sin nada que entregar
mas que el corazón.
Me rindo todo a ti;
Tómame Señor, tal como soy.

Just as I am — without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bidst me come to Thee —
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.

It was an invitation to be ‘born again’ into eternal life. And when he extended the invitation, they came, thousands of them, out of the bleachers and to the center of the stadium, seeking salvation and new life from the Savior of the world.

As if possessed, I felt myself rising from my seat and making my way past my choir group and down the steps. As I moved past the other choir members, I saw the look of surprise on their faces. This is really embarrassing, I thought. But I kept stumbling forward.

By the time I reached the center of the stadium where the counselors were stationed to speak to people one-on-one to clarify questions and pray together, my tears flowed freely.

“Forgive me, dear God. I am a sinner, and I don’t want to be,” I prayed.

Reverend Billy Graham waited patiently at the podium for each of us who stepped forward, tenderly guiding us with the words, “You come. You come.”

—

On February 21, 2018, USA Today published this statement. “The world’s best-known evangelist, the Rev. Billy Graham, died Wednesday. He was 99…”

Over the course of six decades, he touched the lives of more than 200 million people at crusades in stadiums, parks and arenas on six continents — and millions more via television.

The USA Today article continued, “Almost everyone, it seems, wants to personally thank Billy Graham.”

Today, as I reflect on that thunderous, rainy day in Paraguay 56 years ago, I understand their gratitude. My spiritual life no longer centers on being ‘born again.’ And yet…I too want to thank him.

I can still feel the divine adrenaline coursing through my young body, as Billy Graham’s voice resounded with clarity in a world of confusion, proclaiming inspiration in the face of apathy and courage in the face of fear. I may not have found ultimate salvation at his feet. But I indelibly learned about the power of believing in something larger than myself.

And for that I am grateful.