It was 1973 when revival came to my family. I was the oldest of nine children, and had seen my fair share of struggles. Mum and Dad had come to a crisis in their faith, and they hoped to find the answers they were looking for as they took a leap of faith into the unknown. Brought up in the Catholic tradition we certainly did not know what a Christian convention was, but we were promised that this would be a life-changing event.
The boys fought as usual for the prized front seat between Mum and Dad. And the rest of us piled into the back of our old Commer van, seated on two bench seats, and headed off for the trip to Mildura. It was a trip that we all hoped would be the catalyst for a brighter future.
When we arrived at the camp ground, the place was abuzz with anticipation of what the next four days would bring. My grandparents were there waiting for us, and I noticed that people seemed to treat each other like family. It was the first time I had ever experienced such a gathering, and I felt right at home. The night rally’s were my favourite part of the convention as we sang, clapped, danced, played various percussion instruments, and listened to the preachers animated sermons. I drank it all in, and I didn’t want it to finish.
As the camp was nearing an end, we stocked up on several buckets of grapes for the trip home. Turns out that we really needed those grapes to keep us hydrated, because the old van overheated numerous times. The only way Dad was able to keep the van going was to drive real slow. What should have been a 4 hour trip back home took us 12 hours. What I will never forget is the vision my little two year old brother praising the Lord along with us and singing the new songs we had learnt all the way home. It was certainly a trip to remember!