It was a hot, sunny day in the dry, sub-Saharan countryside. Temperatures were already in the mid-90s F (mid-30s C), and it was not yet noon. Laurie and I were enjoying the peaceful, air-conditioned bus despite the dusty, bumpy ride on this sometimes-paved, sometimes-not two-lane highway heading to a town in the far south of the country.
We were making a field director visit to one of our AFM missionaries in this creative-access country, so-called because it prohibits proselytizing by Christians.
I then heard the clicking of the turn signal as the bus slowed down and veered off the road. We stopped beside a small shanty, where several men in military fatigues, shouldering high-powered rifles, stood outside. Being new to this country and not understanding their language, we did not know what was being said.
One of the guards boarded the bus and rattled off some orders. Passengers started getting up and heading for the door. This was obviously a checkpoint. Fortunately, another man on the bus who spoke both the local language and English translated for me. He was a Canadian missionary serving another denomination and had been working in this Central African country for many years. He knew the routines.
“Only a routine check,” I was told, but it still did not ease my anxiety. Laurie and I exited the bus with the other passengers, only to discover that Laurie could have stayed in her seat. We learned that only men were required to disembark at checkpoints. The men stood in the group while, one by one, each showed his travel documents and was allowed to reenter the bus.
When it came our turn to show our documents, however, the soldiers motioned for us to stand aside until they had all the local men back on the bus. Thankfully, my Canadian friend stayed with us even though he had permission to board.
The bus driver, getting impatient and wanting to get going, came outside and started arguing with the officers. It was literally a heated debate in the hot African sun. My Canadian friend pulled out a small bill to offer the guards, but they would not accept it. The whole time, I stood there, silently praying in my mind. There was nothing else I could do. I did not understand a word of their conversation, though I knew they were talking about what to do with us. I had visions of being stuck with these military men, with whom I could not communicate, while our bus left us behind to wait for another.
Our driver, though, came to our rescue and persuaded the military officers to allow us back on the bus. We were so thankful for his persistence and for the kindness of our fellow missionary, who bridged the language and cultural barriers.
Jesus bridged a much larger barrier for the human race. “While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8). Reflecting God’s love to a dying world is the driving force of the missionary movement.
