It was a cool, crisp late September morning in 1988 on the Finland-Russia border. My travel companions and I were definitely at a point of no return. The West was behind us and we were inside the U.S.S.R. for the first time ever. Everything seemed different. The gray overcast outside seemed also to pervade the inside. It also cast its somber mood over the customs officials and police with whom we were dealing. There was not a smile on anyone’s face. I wondered, to myself of course, “Have they ever smiled?” If so, it did not show on their faces that day. Could it be my fears were trying to become self-fulfilling prophecies of doom and gloom? No, not really. We were calmer than we had a right to be and we were silently praying.

          There were hundreds of family and friends praying for us back home. In fact, I had promised myself, and have said so publicly, I would not leave the city limits of my hometown, Florence, Alabama, if there were not at least one hundred souls who would promise to pray for us on this very occasion. My wife, Jean, and I had calculated the difference in time zones so that our prayer partners would know exactly when the border-crossing would occur.

          Why so much concern? Even three years into Mikhail Gorbachev’s new policies of glasnost, what we carried in our suitcases was still on the Soviet’s list of contraband. We were not requesting official permission, which would have been denied. We were “smugglers.” The hour of truth was upon us. Among many specific prayer requests, this one was at the top of my list: that we be able to successfully get our Bibles and other Christian materials into Russia to believers who had none, and that we have no problem with the border guards and Soviet police in particular.

          In an effort to be less conspicuous as inexperienced Christian missionaries, we had traveled first to Sweden . There in the beautiful capital city of Stockholm, we had joined a group of retired businessmen and women with their spouses. Scandinavians are not perceived to be a threat to anyone. We were as fair-skinned as they, and blended in as well as any Americans could have. So far so good. They were going through customs, single file and one at a time, without even the suggestion of a problem. It was going so well, in fact, I was praising God. In less than five minutes we would all be back on the bus, safely headed toward our destination and toward destiny itself.

          I was the last one to clear customs inspection. It was finished; over. No ordeal after all. So matter-of-fact. “Just wait until I get home and report how God answered our prayers,” I thought. “It will be a thrilling beginning of what I know is going to be an exciting trip throughout. With this kind of beginning, there will be, of necessity, a great ending also.” Then one suspicious female officer asked to see what was inside my suitcase. I promptly placed it on the table and opened it fully with nothing but the greatest confidence that all was well. Sure enough, there was nothing but clothing and personal effects in my luggage. Still without a smile, she nodded approval. As I silently replaced the items which had been removed for inspection and continued to praise God for this obvious answer to our faith, trust, and prayer (all under my breath, of course), I became aware that our Swedish friends had already vacated the building and were waiting outside in the bus. The three Americans and one French woman who made up our team were still there. No problem. It was that other suitcase at my feet that could have been the problem but no one had noticed it, until I picked it up to leave. Then it happened.

          Suddenly I knew we were not quite ready to leave. Something was spoken in Russian I did not understand, and very abruptly at that. I smiled. The words were repeated loudly with a scowl, and Ms. Customs Officer moved toward me as if to force me to obey her order that I had not understood. My willingness to overlook it as unimportant had not impressed her any more than my smiles. An innocent shrug of the shoulders had been misinterpreted as an act of defiance. Now she was demanding to see that other case. Yes, now! All of it! At once! Several other police and customs officers closed in quickly. Opening the inside flap of my largest suitcase, I myself revealed its contents: Bibles, New Testaments, children’s books, several titles of well-known Christian books by outlaw writers. There was no defense. Now what?

          This was my first visit to “the worker’s paradise.” I thought to myself that it was probably the last. Even this visit might be only hours long instead of weeks, as originally planned; but there was peace. The circumstances did not dictate peace. My guilt did not produce peace. I had not raised it up from somewhere deep inside my soul. It was a peace that passed understanding.

          My inner thoughts had carried me away; for several seconds, anyhow. Now the gloating groans and menacing movements of my captors were creating a commotion I had to face. They were hurling questions at me in rapid fire: “Who are you? What are you doing? What is the meaning of this? Do you know what you are doing? What is this?” as they discovered a booklet boldly proclaiming Karl Marx to have been a Satanist. “Why have you brought these dangerous and provocative materials into our country? Contraband? These are Bibles-No?” Finally they gave me opportunity to reply. “Yes, they are Bibles. I am a believer and . . .” She interrupted just as I had begun my defense. Did I speak the Russian language? Did I read the Russian language? “No.” “Then why, why have you brought these provocative materials into our country?”

          Why indeed? It was just the beginning. Little did I realize that this would go on for hours. Having been found at almost the last second, now my friends were also being questioned and searched. The doors were shut. The bus driver, tour guide and those innocent Swedes were all outside. The four missionaries were inside a closed and locked building. There were present at least a dozen customs officers and police, now joined by armed militia. There we were. Where was God? Our faith in answered prayer was shattered but still passing all understanding was peace, blessed peace.

          I remembered Daniel, that great Old Covenant prophet, but I was no Daniel. However, somehow there was faith to believe that my God was the same as Daniel’s. Again, prayer was the only avenue of assistance. “Father, please make our impossibilities your opportunities to work miracles, as in days of old; or just one miracle, Lord, if it pleases you.” The peace I was experiencing made me bolder, as a physical presence in my innermost being, where normally there would have been fear. “Lord, in Jesus’ name, get me out of this mess WITH my Bibles.” After all, I thought to myself, it is His Word we seek to deliver to His people, just as much as we are His. So why should I worry?

          So I worried not. God is my witness. There was still that wonderful, anxiety-destroying peace; God was still in control. Our captors had neither peace nor control. Their questions continued. “Regardless of how it all turns out,” I told myself, “I will trust God and God alone.” No tricks, no lies, no demanding my rights as an American citizen, no playing innocent. We were guilty, we knew that, and the Soviets knew it too.

          How far, how very far, from hometown and family tranquility. How in God’s name had I gotten myself into this situation? How would I get out and what would happen to us before we got out?

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