Berkeley was on fire. It was a night of terror. Rioters were smashing cars, windows, throwing homemade fire bombs into buildings. The night sky was lit up in flames. And I watched it, as I sat on the hood of my car with a garden hose running.
It was 1969, and, even though our ministry was in Berkeley to evangelize, I was alone that night. Just days before, someone had thrown a large chunk of concrete through a window of our staff housing. Shards of glass flew into the crib of a 6-month-old baby. The child was unhurt, but that was it! And so, I had insisted that my entire staff leave the city.
Somehow, back then, I owned a red 1969 Chevy Malibu Super Sport with a black vinyl top. Being a poor boy from the barrio, I wasn’t sure which would be the greater loss—the car or the…
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