Unlikely Smuggler
(I can’t remember if I posted this for you guys in an earlier blog post. But I was looking something up on my laptop and stumbled across the OLD OLD essay I wrote, you know, a zillion years ago and thought it might give you a chuckle or two. Can you believe I was such a little smuggler back when the USSR was still in existence? Life is so strange. And God is so good.)
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Unlikely Smuggler
by Tara Klena Barthel
‘What am I doing?’ I thought as my mind swirled and my hands began to shake. ‘I’m only seventeen years old. I’m supposed to start my senior year of high school in a few weeks. I should be home eating a DQ Butterfinger blizzard!’ But instead, I was standing in the passport-control line of the Estonia border, my bags stuffed with illegal materials from the underground Christian church.
‘If I get caught, they will never give me back my passport. I could be stuck here for weeks, months, maybe even years!’
‘What have I done?’
It all began when a Christian missionary music team gave a concert at our local church. I loved accompanying the choirs at my school, and I was passionate for sharing the Gospel. At the encouragement of my church leaders, I auditioned for the team, was accepted, and soon found myself en route to Estonia for a short-term summer missions project.
The year was 1987 and the cold war continued to rage. Estonians longed for their freedom, but the Soviet Union held them tight in the grip of communism. We entered the USSR as tourists and our days were filled with government-sanctioned sightseeing trips. But at night, we snuck out of our hotels and walked long distances in circuitous routes (in case we were followed) to gather in the home churches of the underground Christian Church. Our last night in the country was one that I will remember for the rest of my life.
People of all ages crammed into the tiny apartment to welcome us and share fellowship together. ‘Thank you for coming.’ the pastor, a former drug addict, embraced us all with love and gratitude. ‘We pray often for contact from the West and we thank God that you are here.’
A young girl, about my age, came and put her arm around me. She spoke only Estonian and Russian, and I spoke neither. How would we communicate? We smiled, pointed up toward heaven and said lovingly ‘Jesus’ and ‘Jesu’ as we held each other’s hands. It was enough. We were sisters in Christ.
As the night wore on, our team leaders shared Bibles, Christian music tapes, and other literature with the church members. We searched for translators to help us pray together. My young friend found a woman who spoke Russian and French, and suddenly my high school French classes became precious to me.
‘Je m’appelle Tara.’ My name is Tara. The woman translated my words to Russian and my new friend’s eyes lit up and she excitedly responded. ‘Her name is Tatiana.’ I learned that she was in school, like me, and that she had only recently become a Christian, also like me. We prayed together and laughed when we realized that in heaven, we wouldn’t need a translator anymore. One day, we will just sit and talk as we worship the Triune God for all eternity.
As the evening ended, the pastor asked me to come with him and his wife to their backroom. His low voice and steady eyes put me on the alert. What was going on? Why did they want to talk with me?
‘Tara, do you understand that one Bible in the USSR can be shared among an entire church and most Christians do not have any Bible study or teaching materials at all?’
‘Yes. I’ve heard that.’
‘Well, in between the times that we have contact with Christians from the West, we work hard to prepare evangelistic tracts and teaching materials in our languages. We can type manuscripts and record sermon tapes here, but we have no copying or reproduction facilities. We wait until contact is made with Christians from the West, and then we ask them to carry the materials out of the country where they can be reproduced and smuggled back into Estonia. As you can imagine, carrying these materials through customs involves great risk, so we pray and fast for wisdom to know just the right person to carry the materials.’
Fascinating, I thought, but what does this have to do with me?
‘Tara, we believe that you are the person to carry these contraband materials for us. Will you take them to our contact in Finland?’
I was in shock. Me? Carry illegal Christian materials from the underground church? What could I say? Numbly, I nodded, put the manuscripts and audiocassettes in my bag, and headed out the door.
At 3 a.m., having not slept in over twenty hours, I was sure that the Russian white night was illumining KGB spies out to get me on every corner of the narrow cobblestone streets. Back in the hotel, I called our team leader and explained what had happened.
‘Don’t you think it would be better to split up the materials and give just a few things to each team member?’ my voice was fast and unnaturally high-pitched. ‘Then if one of us got caught, maybe some of the material would get through?’ It made perfect sense to me—how rational!
But as we prayed together, we knew what we had to do—I was to carry all of the materials. Alone.
Shaking, I wrapped each illegal item in the gray newspaper that covered my touristy souvenirs and stuffed them deep into my suitcase. ‘Surely they are not going to unwrap every item. Are they?’
Standing in the customs line the next morning, I kept telling myself, ‘There’s no way they’ll unwrap everything and find the materials. Just be cool. Relax. Everything will be OK.’
My team leader had asked our sound-guy, Mike, to walk with me. Mike was legally blind and we thought that the guards might take pity on the ‘disabled guy’ and not hassle us. As he held onto my arm, Mike could tell that something was wrong as I began to tremble.
‘Mike,’ I whispered, ‘there is a girl just ahead of us in line. She’s about my age and she has a blue backback. Oh no! Mike! They are taking everything out of her backpack, her toiletries, her clothing, and every item in her bag. They’re looking in every pocket and unwrapping every single piece of gray newsprint from each and every souvenir. They are even unstacking her little babushka dolls!’
I wanted to run away. On the dock our new friends were smiling and waving—I wanted to turn to them and hand them my bag and say, ‘I can’t do this! I don’t want to go to jail!’ But I didn’t move. It was as though I was riveted to the ground.
‘Tara,’ Mike gently said to me, ‘God is bigger than any Russian guard. Trust Him. He is Emmanuel—God with us. Do not fear.’
‘Well,’ I thought as we moved up to the guards, ‘I guess I can tell the people in the Gulag about Jesus. I hope that my family doesn’t worry too much about me. I assume that they’ll be able to get me out of prison one day soon.’ Silently, I handed the guard Mike’s passport and my passport. He looked me straight in the eyes, and then looked down at our bags. And then something happened that is forever emblazoned in my heart and mind.
The guard waved his hand, ‘Go on through.’ He did not open one bag. He did not even unzip a zipper and pretend to search the bags. He just waived us through.
‘That’ll teach ‘em for messing with God’s army!’ Mike whispered as we walked out the door and onto the ferry back to Finland—to freedom.
Once our team reconvened, I learned that each and every other member of my team had been strictly searched—pockets, purses, bags. They had to turn over addresses of friends that they were hoping to stay in touch with from Estonia; they were made to account for missing books (Bibles) and currency that they had when they entered the country.
I was the only person who was not searched. I made the connection with the contact in Finland, turned over the materials, and have never had any further contact with anyone in Finland or Estonia.
But every now and then, I wonder how those dear friends are, and what impact those materials might have had on the proclamation of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I guess I will just have to wait until our family reunion one day in heaven—when no translators will be needed and we will simply revel in the glory of God and His grace poured out on us, His children. Especially that fateful day back in 1987 when a seventeen-year-old high school senior from Morris, Illinois became an unlikely smuggler for God’s army.