46 GOOD MORNING, HOLY SPIRIT
Finally, at three or four o'clock in the morning, with a
quiet peace that I had never known before, I fell asleep.
BELONGING
The next day at school I sought out those "fanatics" and
said, "Hey, I'd like you to take me to your church." They
told me about a weekly fellowship they attended and
offered to take me just a couple of days later.
That Thursday night I found myself in "The
Catacombs." That's what they called it. The service was just
like that morning prayer meeting at school—people had
their hands lifted, worshiping the Lord. This time, though, I
joined right in.
"Jehovah Jireh, my provider, His grace is sufficient for
me," they sang over and over. I liked that song from the
first time I heard it and loved it even more when I found out
it was written by the pastor's wife, Merla Watson. Her
husband, Merv, was the shepherd of this most unusual
flock.
The Catacombs was not a typical church. The people
who went there were just an exuberant throng of Christians
that met every Thursday night in St. Paul's Cathedral, an
Anglican church in downtown Toronto.
These were "Jesus Movement" days when the so-called
"hippies" were getting saved faster than they could cut their
hair. Come to think of it, I hadn't seen a barber's chair either
in quite some time.
I looked around. The place was packed with kids just
like me. You should have seen it. They were jumping up
and down, dancing and making a joyful noise before the
Lord. It was hard for me to believe that a place like that
really existed. But somehow, from that very first night, I
felt I belonged.