In spring of 1975, I was assigned to Congo-Brazzaville, a Communist country. Just before I left America, I was struggling greatly. I did not want to go to Africa and (as I imagined) be eaten by cannibals or be flung around the jungle by gorillas. I did not want to fall off a boat and be eaten by a crocodile, and I did not want to sweat with malaria or eat boiled monkeys and fried caterpillars. I was struggling a lot with the idea of being a missionary to the Congo. My fear was stronger than my faith. I told Reverend Moon that there was no American Embassy in the Congo because it was a Communist country. He looked at me for a minute and said, “OK, you don’t have to go.” I did not say to him, “Oh, goodie, thank you so much!” I sighed; my conscience told me what I had to do.
One day, not long after this meeting with Reverend Moon, I was walking down the street and I passed a Catholic Church. I felt a yearning to sit in the cool pews and to breathe the air of my early childhood religious tradition. I went into the church and lit a candle. I prayed for a minute, and then I looked around. I saw Jesus receiving the Cross with his arms wide open. The Holy Spirit touched me, and tears streamed along my face. I heard such sweet words inside my heart: “Pamela, look: I do not hide my face or turn a w a y. I received the Cross with arms wide stretched. I chose what was chosen for me. Be brave, and I will walk with you.” Knowing Jesus would be right there beside me, I had the courage to go to the Congo.
So it was, that on May 28, 1975, I arrived in Brazzaville. Weeks earlier, in faith, I had applied for a visa in Paris. Miraculously, I was given one. As the weeks and months followed, in faith I lived a life of poverty, with no language skill and sick with malaria most the time. In faith I was imprisoned, and in faith I came out. All in the short time of 6 months. By the time I left Brazzaville, I had renewed my simple faith that we are here to be loved by God, to love others by service, and are free at all times to choose the way of Christ, even if imprisoned.
While in prison, I talked with Jesus. I was so afraid I would be abused or tortured. I cried in front of the big African guards, “I want my Mama! I want my Mama!” I was a real ninny—a real sincere one. I think it was at that moment they decided I wasn’t a C I A s p y, in spite of my being an American. Instead, they saw a sister who missed her mother.
In the middle of the night, I asked Jesus how he forgave the people who had wanted to kill him. Where did that kind of love come from? I was afraid of my captors. I was afraid of the cross. Jesus said to me, “Pamela. I wanted to comfort my Heavenly F a t h e r. I didn’t want my Heavenly Father to become discouraged and disappointed by my situation, so I encouraged him: ‘Father, forgive them! They don’t know what they are doing!’ I wanted Heavenly Father to have a victory, the victory of forgiveness, even by my death. Can you do that Pamela?”
I got such peace that night, and I was ready to help Heavenly Father love the African communists who kept His daughter a prisoner. I couldn’t wait to meet the first one. That was the day I was set free. It was truly a dramatic miracle. I had passed over the cross to the other side.
A few months later, I was sent to the other Congo — Kinshasa Congo, Zaire — and there I worked for three years as a member of a dynamic mission team. I established a typing school for girls, to give them skills as an alternative to prostitution. We were free to teach our mission of unity and true love. We lived together: white, black, yellow. Within two years, our membership grew quickly and successfully. Jesus helped us so much, especially when we were persecuted by Christian missionaries. After awhile, they realized that we were all on the same team and to fight with each other was actually laughable to the African people. The Africans understood the message of Jesus better than anyone! In the end, they assisted the white missionaries to become friends with each other.
From I Am in This Place, pp. 5-6.