When news broke early on Feb. 21, 2018, that Billy Graham had died, I was working at a landscaping company about eight miles from Montreat, North Carolina, the tiny mountain town where Billy lived.
I remember the day well. Minutes after I learned of his passing, I watched a swarm of police cars hurtling down Interstate 40 at high speed toward Montreat. The press with all of their paraphernalia descended shortly afterward. Loud helicopters hovered over the typically quiet area all day. It was an unforgettable disturbance in the otherwise ordinary community, which is small enough for me to have repeatedly interacted with several members of Graham’s family.
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