9 May 1945.
Spring comes quickly to Russia.
Before the last of the piles of dirty snow have completely melted, while the ground is still a quagmire of thick, clinging mud, something miraculous happens. Or so it seems. For the second year in a row I was able to accompany an excited group of American teens on a mission crusade to the youth of Samara. When our group returned to the United States, my sons, Michael and Matthew, and I stayed behind. We rented a one room flat and settled in for an extended time of ministry and fellowship.