The Day I will Never Forget

I remember it like it was yesterday. A Saturday evening that should have been about joy and celebration—my sister’s wedding filled the house with music, laughter, and dancing. But I wasn’t there. Instead, I was deep in the forest with a gang of boys, sneaking into someone’s farmland to steal avocado pears. It wasn’t our first time.

We’d done this before, slipping in and out of plantations, hearts racing, sacks filling with stolen fruit. I’ll never forget one night when we were caught. The owner stormed out of the shadows, his double-barrel gun aimed straight at us, calling us thieves. My blood froze—until one of the men with us, the feared cult leader everyone called Capone, stepped forward. His voice was sharp, daring: “Shoot! If you don’t, I’ll kill you for pointing that gun at us.”

The farmer trembled. Imagine—an armed man, terrified of a thief’s boldness. We walked away that night with our loot, while he quietly trailed behind us to lock his gates. That was the life I knew at barely sixteen—taking by force, living on the edge, never thinking twice.

So on Saturday, December 12th, 1993, when we headed out again, it felt like just another raid. Sack on my shoulder, pears in hand, I thought nothing of it. Until we passed an uncompleted building. That’s when I heard it—a faint sound, like someone groaning.

I paused. Maybe a fight? Maybe a cult initiation? Curiosity burned inside me. I dropped my sack and crept closer. The sound grew louder—groaning, crying, even shouting. My heart pounded. I crossed the road and leaned toward an open window.

What I saw shocked me. Not a fight. Not blood. Not cultists. Inside that half-built structure, people moved around restlessly. Their voices weren’t groans of pain, but prayers. It was a church.

I hissed in disappointment. A church? That wasn’t what I came looking for. I turned away and rejoined the others, carrying my stolen pears home. But that night, something strange happened.

When I lay down to sleep, I couldn’t. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw those figures again—men and women pacing, praying, crying out inside that broken building. The image haunted me.

By morning, I couldn’t resist it anymore. Sunday came, and I went back. I found the church. And that day, in that unfinished building, I gave my life to Jesus.

The pastor smiled as he welcomed me. His words sent a shiver through me:

“I knew you would come. I’ve been praying for you.”

And that Saturday, once meant for stealing, became the day my life changed forever.