Why do I write novels about rescuing kidnapped children and teenagers? One of the reasons comes from an experience we had in Europe. In the early 1990s, while living in Austria, Christine and I felt the war in the Balkans pressing close. The Croatian-Serbian conflict was tearing families apart, and we couldn’t stop thinking about the children caught in the middle of it—especially the ones left in orphanages that were themselves under fire.

I could not stop thinking about how much those children were losing, even if they managed to come through the war alive. I longed to give them safety, stability, and a family. When we inquired at the American Consulate in Vienna, the officials surprised us with what sounded like a clear, workable path.

If we could obtain an official Croatian document stating that the boys’ parents were either deceased or had formally relinquished them, because of the war, then the Consulate would accept it. They explained the process: once we brought them that paper and the boys, they would stamp the date on it. For two years, the boys would remain with us abroad. On the exact anniversary of the first day of the third year, we would return, and the Consulate would issue each child an American passport and citizenship. Best of all, because of this process, we would not have to navigate social work programs or adoption bureaucracy back in the States.

Christine and I were overjoyed. We had no plans of returning to America anytime soon, and the thought of welcoming two more sons into our family filled us with hope.

Our own two college-age sons were ecstatic. “Wow! Go Mom! Go Dad!” they cheered. The idea of having two younger brothers who already spoke Croatian and were young enough to quickly learn both German and English thrilled them. They urged us to move forward as fast as possible.

Through contacts, we connected with a Croatian pastor and his wife. Both were dedicated ministers, each responsible for six or seven churches scattered across Croatia. Because of the war and their ministry work, they only saw each other every six weeks, yet together they had a network of connections with government offices and local officials. If anyone could help us, they could.

For six weeks we prayed and waited as they pushed through doors on our behalf. At last, they returned with an answer—not the one we had hoped for.

The Croatian government, they explained, could not and would not issue such papers. To do so would be to admit publicly that they could not protect their own children, and no government in the middle of war was willing to sign its own failure. Even though orphanages were being bombed, and children were being killed, the state refused to officially acknowledge its inability to protect them.

We went back to the Consulate, discouraged but not yet ready to give up. Half-seriously, half in desperation, we told the officials, “We’ve traveled enough in Croatia that we could simply kidnap two boys.”

The Consulate officers didn’t laugh us out of the room. They sympathized but reminded us that such a move would never get past the required paperwork of the American authorities.

“Then what if we forged the documents?” we pressed.

Their answer was firm: we’d almost certainly get caught. At best, we would be barred from Austria, losing not just the chance to adopt, but also our life and ministry there.

The Consulate staff themselves were genuinely disappointed. They hadn’t encountered this situation before. And they, too, saw the absurdity—the tragedy—of children left unprotected by legalities while bombs fell around them.

But the door had closed.

I hope you enjoy my books.