“I have never seen so many cars trying to get into a place,” I told Guy as I checked my watch, hoping not to be late. Officials in bright green safety vests blew whistles and waved traffic in and out of the many entrances.

“We are supposed to meet them at the main entrance,” I reminded Guy as we were waved into the back entrance, gate two.

Falling in line with others, we finally eased into a parking spot not far from the main doors. My sister-in-law was waiting for us. We had just long enough to gather up the rest of the family and find our seats.

They were in line at the Café (resembled Starbucks) for a drink and a snack. So were too many other people. I fidgeted; not wanting to miss what we had driven two hours to see. “You can’t take your drinks inside,” my sister-in-law told her children. I ended up with their bottle of water and Dr. Pepper in my purse. “Are we ready?” I ushered them along.

I noticed a big screen TV in the Café. “Will all these people stay out here to watch?” I asked.

“Some of them will.” I couldn’t imagine.

We followed a crowd up an escalator to the second floor. Thank goodness we were not on the third level. Then we found seats behind the control station. That is the best way for me to describe the row of monitors, computers, cameras, and light controls.

As I absorbed the magnitude of the auditorium, the plush seats and the four huge widescreen monitors, one for those on the main floor and three for those who were not, I was anticipating something magical happening.

In the middle of the stage was a grand piano. A set of drums was enclosed in its own isolation booth, bass and acoustical guitars leaned on stands, a keyboard awaited the touch of a musician’s hands, and microphones were in place.

As the lights lowered, those who had been mingling in the lobby filed in quietly. Spotlights flooded the stage, and the musicians strolled out and picked up their instruments. Only then did I noticed the horn section in its own orchestra pit. Horns, guitars, keyboard, grand piano. What a combination.

A white curtain rose, and from behind it emerged a group of singers, all dressed in street clothes. When the music began, the sound of their voices was heavenly. The big screen flashed the words for us to sing along. Quite surprisingly, those in the auditorium were all singing. I clapped with the others and tried to chime in on the chorus. This wasn’t the first time I had been somewhere and not known the songs.

Although the music was breathtakingly lovely, the highlight was a violinist playing softly under a single spotlight. Not a foot moved, no one stirred and not a sound was made as she moved us to an emotional high. The conductor, with her playing “Amazing Grace” in the background, told a story of a famous violinist who spent nearly an hour in a subway tunnel where people were too busy to notice or to listen.

At that point, what impressed me most was the reverence of the thousands of people in attendance. There were no kids or adults running up and down the stairs; no talking back and forth; no whispering; no noise. Silence; reverent silence in the room.

Without an announcement or a set-up, the spotlight moved to an elevated area where eleven people wearing long white robes stood in a glassed-in case of water above their waists. The person in charge spoke to the eleven. He did not orate; he did not question. He merely stated their purpose and intent.

This was the event for which we had come. The time in a person’s life when family should be present. This was an occasion that I would cherish and be proud to witness. My brother Henry was one of the eleven, standing in the pool of water, waiting for his turn to be emerged in baptism. What a happy moment for all of us.