My room was part of the attic, small and cozy. There was a twin bed, an open place to store my clothes, a small table and chair, a shelf by the bed and one square window that opened up to the roof. As Donna showed me around, she seemed not at all eager to provide any of the normal hospitalities associated with American households. There was no “If you need anything, let me know.” Or “We’re glad you’re here” If anything I was given the impression that my arrival was inconvenient. It was a pain to find me pillows and enough blankets for my bed, in fact. I was to keep in mind that everyone around there woke early and prepared their own meals. A few rules were laid out about cleaning up after myself and not to wake anyone up when I came in late after our show. “Welcome” I said after she left my room.

The Wandlings and I disagreed on numerous issues aside from what went on in the house. I usually avoided them altogether, seeking refuge at Nick’s apartment and only leaving my bedroom at Viilor in the morning hours when everyone had already left for the day. It was clear that Larry and Donna felt uneasy around me as well and I will probably never know why they were selected as the “hosts” of the house. They seemed to have no desire to make it comfortable for anyone but those who were part of their select group of friends. Though I have been a Christian since the age of 12 and I received my early lessons about God in a southern Baptist church, I had been raised by parents who gave me a good deal of freedom to be my own person and my moral judgement was rarely, if ever, questioned once I became an adult. Having to answer to the Wandlings and the Scotts was a new concept to me and I did not welcome it.

Ten days after I moved into Viilor Nick and I broke up, deciding that we weren’t in the best situation to work on a romance and -to be honest- I was beginning to feel like I shouldn’t continue dating someone who wanted to go into foreign missions. (Since my test run was feeling like a disaster) However, we still did everything together including shopping, preparing meals, washing clothes and planning each weeks radio show. At one point, we were instructed that Nick was not to be up in my room when no one was home. We were not to be alone “unsupervised”. I was also not to “tamper” with the downstairs stereo except to insert a CD when no one was home and press the play button. I had the least amount of money I had ever tried to live from and I had the least amount of freedom and support from my hosts. House rules sprouted weekly and I was informed only after I had broken them. Had I known that I would be subject to such household rules before I came, I surely would have reconsidered. I have often wondered if this was why God kept me in the dark about it before. Perhaps it was part of the plan.
The icing on this stale cake was when I was accused of “stealing” a scoop of peanut butter from the Wandlings. Yes, I said “peanut butter”. When this was first brought to my attention during a particularly stressful meeting with Margaret Scott, I had no idea what she was talking about and was so insulted I was beside myself. Each housemate had his own food and section of the cupboard. I was allowed to eat the oatmeal left behind by a previous tenant, but the peanut butter was Larry’s. I do like peanut butter and I did want something more than oatmeal and toast for breakfast, but I never touched it. The whole thing was hard for me to believe. I told Margaret that I didn’t do it, but she didn’t seem to believe me. I was extremely angry and cited my reasons, saying things that I doubt Margaret was used to hearing. If I had gone into a mad fit and hurt someone, I’ve no doubt I could plead temporary insanity and get away with it. I felt delirious with disbelief at everything that had happened between me and the Nazarene organisation there. So much was wrong and the fact that peanut butter was a reason for finally deciding to ask me how I was blew my mind. I was given an ultimatum. Abide by the rules or find another place to live.

I had never been accused of being a troublemaker. I was the good kid in school. I loved God, my family, and my friends. I respected authority. But in the Holy Prison of Wandling, I was a Bad Seed. It was a no win situation. I believe it was at this point that someone brought up the issue of my visa renewal. John Scott was going that week to renew visas for several of the workers including Nick and I. I had to decide “what I wanted to do” within a matter of days. At one point John called me on the phone and unless I could measure up, he said he would not renew my visa. This would make me an illegal alien in Romania. Does that sound like a threat to you? It did to me. And though I know friends of the Scotts are reading this now, I stand by this story.

So who did eat the peanut butter? Well, Matt and Anita Hanlon stayed over one night, (at the Wandling’s offer I might add) and the following morning when I told them they could help themselves to my food for breakfast, they thought the peanut butter was mine and had a bit. I never knew this until a week later when I recounted my horrible meeting with Margaret and Matt realised his mistake.

Two things happened during that time which probably did not help our relationship with the household. A) We crashed a community car and B) We were unofficially arrested.