wrong? There are only six Americans in this compound,
packed with thousands of children and a growing number of
older teenagers who seem to be high on something and
standing on the outskirts of our makeshift arena.” Fear struck
my heart so quickly that I felt a panic attack coming on—and I
don’t think I ever had a panic attack before that day.
Not being able to control my emotions any longer, I burst
into tears. (I laugh as I write this because it sounds so silly, but
I was absolutely petrified, thinking we were in danger.) Almost
in attack mode, I asked the young pastor where the driver was
going. He assured me that he would be back before the service
was over, but that did not console me.
I then turned to my husband, who seemed not to understand
the depth of my fear. In fact, he firmly put both of his hands on
my shoulders and said, “Snap out of it! Do you think Billy
Graham cries at his crusades?” (Not funny then, but funny
now.) I took one deep breath, hoping my tears would subside,
and they did, but only for a few short minutes.
It was dusk by then, and soon the sky would be pitch black.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fire in the field next to us.
A fire! A fire? I was, once again, completely beside myself.
Standing near the tent where the choir was rehearsing was a
group of pastors—men and women—who had attended my
husband’s marriage seminar earlier that day. I spotted one of
the pastors, a large black woman, who was wearing her African
clothes to the evening crusade rather than her church clothes.
Something drew me to her.
I rushed up to Jenny. I didn’t try to hide from this beloved
pastor in this community the fact that I—the evening speaker
— was a frightened wimp. I had lost all confidence in who I