I can still smell the green vinyl of the used couch in our living room as I knelt with my mom, with my face buried in my hands and my nose pressed into the vinyl. She had decided I was old enough — after all I was four years old. She didn’t want to wait any longer. She was eager.
When I was born I was taken to the front of Joy Road Baptist Church in Detroit Michigan held aloft and dedicated to Christ. I did not receive infant baptism. The thought of baptizing an infant was repugnant. Where do you find that in the Bible? That was a surely a man-made Catholic tradition.
My parents had “found Christ” less than a year earlier. After twelve years of painful miscarriages, my parents had discovered Jesus through the preaching of Billy Graham. The radio was on one morning as my mother was getting ready to go shopping. With keys in one hand and purse in the other, she stopped in the kitchen before heading out the door. She heard something she’s never heard before.
She heard the compelling voice of Billy Graham passionately explaining the precious blood of Jesus that was shed on the cross. It was shed for my mom to pay for her sins. It could save her from hell and ensure her a place in heaven.
My mom raised without any religion, heard John 3:16 for the first time: “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.”
She told me she fell on her knees on the kitchen floor. With tears rolling down her cheeks she “accepted Christ as her personal Lord and
Savior and asked him to come into her heart.”
You can read the whole thing HERE.