We sat in the interrogation room trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for our behavior. We couldn't tell the police in Bosnia the real reason for our actions. They wouldn't understand.
We were prayer walking.
A dozen of us from Jefferson, Oregon, had come to visit two United Nations workers in this war-ravaged village half a world away. The police might accept that, especially when we explained that we brought clothing and money. But why, they would ask, were we strolling the streets, looking around, then catching a knowing glance at one another and mumbling to ourselves?
We might have gotten away with it, if one of our number hadn't done the touristy thing and snapped a photo of a passing army vehicle. The police were suspicious of foreigners. Now they had us at the station for questioning.
This was a matter for prayer.
But then we were used to that. So many amazing things had happened since that pastors' conference ten years earlier, where God had started the transformation in ...1