Familiarity

O.k. So it’s day 4 of Staff Conference in Poland. This is Sunday and we’ve had great worship and participated in communion for the first time since we reached Romania. (The Baptist Church here believes that only an ordained pastor can serve communion, and since the preacher here isn’t ordained, we don’t do communion at church.) I’m understanding most of the language spoken since it’s been English, and I’m feeling more like Paula than I have since we left the States.

We’re on our way back to the hotel after some sightseeing in town, when I look up. There is a man, in uniform, waving a yellow flag at us. We pull over and sit in quiet. The universal look of “oh no, it’s the police” settles on our faces.

Ahh, but I am wrong. He is not just the police. He is the Polish Border Patrol.

Walking over to the car he speaks. “Ladchh, Kebagalll gachhhh, un vealuch .”

Ron pulls out his license, assuming that’s what he wants.

Polish Border Patrol changes languages. “You are American. Do you have an International Driver’s License?” Ron answers no. I want to stick my head over and explain that everyone we’ve asked has told us that we don’t need one. Instead I remain silent.

Polish Border Patrol. “Not good”

I gulp.

“Let me see your passports.”

I gulp again. Newbies that we are, we don’t have those either. We just take copies of our passports when we go out in Romania because of possible theft, so it never occurs to us to bring them with us today. They are in the hotel, which Ron is explaining as I scramble in the glove compartment for the duplicates.

Polish Border Patrol One consults with Polish Border Patrol Two. I consult with God, the Only One. “Enter into this situation Lord, may you be glorified” (Wow, this actually comes out naturally. The Holy Spirit is definitely doing HIS job.)

Polish Border Patrol Number One: “You drive to hotel and we follow you. You get passports.”

We drive. The kids are unnaturally silent, and I think this might make good newsletter material. (I learned a little something in missionary training.)

We pull into the Hotel Parking Lot and various missionaries enjoying the sun glance our direction. I smile thinking that there is no better place to be when in trouble. Even though I’ve known Eastern European missionaries only a short time, I do know there aren’t many who don't pray when they see one of their own followed by authorities.

Jumping out of the car, I take the hotel stairs in twos, and run to get our passports. Fellow missionaries are a blur, but when I see them I whisper “PRAY”.

I come out the hotel door and see my kids standing like they are glued to the outside of our car. I also see one of International Messengers polish speaking missionaries and his cute wife high stepping it over to the patrol.

A conversation begins in Polish. The Border Patrol talks through our missinary, and interepretation comes in bits and pieces.

Missionary: “He says you need an International Driver’s License”

Ron and I smile like people in all languages smile at authorities.

Cute Missionary Wife starts to talk. She shakes her head, raises her hands. She talks some more and starts to laugh. Border Patrol laughs too.

Missionary: My wife is telling the authorities that she has never had an International Driver’s License.

Border Patrol (through Missionary Interpretor) If you had been stopped by just the Polish Police you wouldn’t have needed an International License, but this is a new rule and only we know it.

Now I think that Poland isn’t sounding much different than Romania.

The Cute Missionary Wife talks some more. Her head is sticking in the Patrol car and she’s going on and on. I hear more laughter.

Missionary: “My wife is telling him you just got to Romania. She let him know you don’t
even have a place to live.” (Hey, there ARE reasons for everything. )

Missionary: “It looks like you will just get a warning, no fine.”

Big breath. Big smile.

We stand and wait, watching the Patrol hand copy all the information off our passports. The cute missionary wife keeps talking to the Patrol, and I’m thankful for God’s beauties. In any language He can use gorgeous brown eyes.

That night I'm telling our story to some missionaries.

“Hey, that would make great newsletter material” one says.
“I know” I say and feel like one of the gang.

Another looks at me soberly. She asks questions. “You know, that’s something.” she says. “A similar thing happened to our friends who were here another time. He spent the night in the Polish Prison, and we had to hire a lawyer to battle him out the next morning. NO ONE gets away from being stopped in Poland without at least paying a fine.”

Well, that familiar feeling of the old Paula is still gone, but I think that’s o.k. My God has stayed the same, and His miracles are plenty familiar for me.