Part 13 - The Story of my Life

What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgment nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

 The Battle of the Bulge as Chaos reigns

This morning, when I looked outside, the night sky was still with us in all its glory. I was surprised to find that I could see a few stars because from the warmth of my bed earlier, I could hear the rush of the wind as the traditional Cape Stormy winter weather bashed and lashed at the windows.

Outside there is chaos but inside our home it is warm, calm, quiet and cosy.

This is the way I would like to be. 

Though the storms of life buffet and bash me about, I long to stand firm in the chaos.

In reality there is quite a different game in play.

Chaos reigns inside me.

As  I unpeeled the layers of myself, as one would an onion, I have come face to face with this present reality. 

Chaos rules inside. 

Don't get me wrong, I realise that this state of play needs to change but I am also willing to admit that perhaps this is a life long struggle and a trial I will have to face on a daily basis.

The reason for the chaos I well know and the solution is clear but the journey is difficult and torturous. 

I long for inner stillness and rest. It is into this inner, deep place that God pours out his love and where he molds and shapes in all kindness and gentleness.

and so I press on knowing that the God who saved me is indeed at work in me.

Practically I can put His word into practice. 

"Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.  7 And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.  8 Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable -- if anything is excellent or praiseworthy -- think about such things.  9 Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me -- put it into practice.  And the God of peace will be with you." (NIV) Philipians4:6-9

I began by writing about chaos and have ended up writing about God at work in me for my good and for his glory. It is indeed where I continue to trust and walk by faith.It is the journey of the christian.

*

Thoughts on the battle of the bulge.

I began to struggle with my weight  as I entered puberty. In a very real and visual way I was building layers between myself and my inner turmoil and the world out there. I had no way of sifting through and sorting out the inner mess I was in partly because of my age but also my circumstances. As our first son enters Puberty, I have been reading about adolescence.

One of the things I am struck by is the very real fears and uncertainty with which teens experience life. One of the things that excites me is that with knowledge comes power. Some very wise and helpful people have written some helpful and real stuff for teens. So in a real way they too can be prepared for what lies ahead. 

That was not true in my case and so I marched forward into the teen years with a very deep and troubled inner soul but a hard exterior and without any way of making sense of the mess I was in.

Food became my very real friend and companion but at the same time my greatest enemy. I have had to work at controlling it rather than have it control me.

Now, in my 40's, the battle of the bulge still haunts me. From time to time it consumes me :) and I find myself out of control with food but for the most part I think my relathionship with food is steady. According to my culture I am probably over weight but according to my husband , he likes me the way I am. 

These struggles are the outward manifestation of a traumatic and damaged childhood experience. 

I have made peace with this truth and press on, step by step with Jesus' very real help.

Part 12 b - The Story of my Life

Mayibuye IAfrika

I want to say something about my beloved country.

We returned several times from the UK to South Africa, while living there. Because of our great interest in politics and in freedom for the majority of our people, we kept up with the political growth of this fledgeling democracy. 

We left with great hope in the ability of those who were now free to lead . 

In the year of our first democratic election, Doug was still very active in the ANC. We were tasked with helping people on that very first election day, to reach their voting destination. The branches had hired busses to help people too and fro. 

This was not neccessary!

 People came on their own.

Such was their desire to vote.

Old men and women; woman with small children, the tired, sick and broken stood for hours in those ques so that they too could choose , for the very first time, whom they wished to lead this beautiful country.

South Africa.

When we returned to live in Cape Town, we did so entering a very different country to the one we had left behind 5 years earlier.

It was as if a rebirth had occurred.

For the past 10 years we have walked the political journey. Some of what has transpired in this land has been deeply frustrating. I am reminded time and time again that those who lead us, lead us without the hope and wisdom that God gives. They try and try again; some oblivious to their state before him and some with selfish, evil intent.

Every day, we are faced with raw poverty as homeless people sleep under bridges and the unemployed sit waiting on the road side.
HIV- and Aids are real problems. Teen pregnancy and safety are real issues.
And yet if I think back to those days of racist rule and fear.
That is gone.
People are beginning to fight for dignity not based on the colour of their skin but simply because they are human.

South Africa is a very hard country to live in although it is not the most difficult by far. 

The gospel is alive and well here and freedom of expression allows for God's people to proclaim his name and rule without persecution.

And so we pray for people throughout this beloved country to be saved and truly liberated.

and so I cry

Mayibuye Iafrika.

INkosi Sikele iAfrika!

God reigns
All praise to Him.

Part 12- The Story of my Life

What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. [[A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgment nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

 

The Two will become one Flesh Indeed

Being married to Dougie started off as one big adventure and it has remained that way ever since. I am not that comfortable with adventures and so Doug has afforded me an opportunity to step out of my comfort zone into another area struggle – trust. 

The very first year of our married life together , we enjoyed in Johannesburg. It was a good first year. Doug's farther was born in Manchester in the UK and so that afforded him the privilege of having a British Passport. So one year into the marriage adventure, we left the country and city of our birth and heritage and flew to London. The first part of the adventure full on track. We lived in Brittan for 5 and a half years. Doug worked as a computer programmer and I attempeted to teach :) . We lived in ceveral places but finally came to rest in Bromley Kent. Our son James was born in Farnborogh Hospital in 2000. Becomming parents was to be part 2 of the magnifacent adventure.

Doug and I were very blessed in that he urned a good salary and so we were able to save a great deal. With this money we back packed around South America starting in Lima, Peru on through Bolivia, Chile, Argentine and finally Brazil. This was a life changing and enriching experience for us both. It was on this trip that I fell pregnant with James. 

An interesting beginning to an interesting part of life. :)

*

My very difficult and painful childhood had left me totally devoid of an ability to trust another person. My mariage to Doug is indeed the very place I needed  to learn to entrust myself to another.. Much of my relathionship with Doug has  been very much like a dance. A very special and unique Tango, with God  as the writer of the music and the guider of the steps. 

The adventure is into its 17^th year now and still we dance on. God has given me a very good man with whom to share the time on earth. He has blessed us with 4 great sons. The eldest is 12 and the youngest 6. Jesus is continuing his work as grand master artist as he uses our lives as his lump of clay with all its imperfections and brokenness. My difficult and broken childhood has left me with wounds and specific struggles. I am learning to trust others; learning to trust my God given husband and learning to trust our great and mighty God. As we walk along the journey called life, he is there, invisible but a real help in times of plenty and in times of need. 

We returned to South Africa, Cape Town towards the end of 2001. I was pregnant with another son, Thomas. He was born on December 1st 2001.  I have written something of the walk with have with having a special needs child. Thomas is on the ADHD spectrum and this has bright a different richness to our lives. I have also written on this blog about my husband and his discovery of being ADHD. We are not surprised nor ashamed. We stand ontop of the box that could so easily box  and we fight to give this special boy his wings so that he can fly. Knowing his strengths and weaknesses is indeed a help as we seek to parent him for God's glory.  And it is so with all our children. And so we began another part in the puzzle of our married life. That which afforded us the opportunity to love and care for 4 livley, smelly , busy , dirty , crazy and yet kind and loving, caring and fun boys.

 We have settled in Bergvliet Cape Town. Our boys attend a local, community school. Doug continues to brigthen my life with adventure that fits with his role as husband and father. God continues to chistle away at my character and soul. I continue to stand in his grace of forgiveness. 

In all honesty my marriage is nothing like I longed for. My dream was all full of false promises and fake, unrealisc hope.  Being a mom is nothing that I thought it would be either. Here and now is reality and I am in no doubt that my feet are firmly planted in the real world of life. My eyes are wide open and there is no naive hope.  There have been some very real times of trial as well as these great things. Life is like that is it not? 

But I have a real and lasting hope given me as a precious gift from an equally real and living, kind King. His name is Jesus. He knows me inside and out and nothing I can do, say, be or make comes even a little close to that which I have from being known and loved by this King.No matter what the future holds for all of us , I know God is with us and at work.

This blog shares something of our lives as we seek to live lives that bring glory to him.

We are blessed indeed.

Part 11 - The Story of my Life

 What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. [[A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgment nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

 

Lets Celebrate

We were married on the 1^st April 1995. I was 25 years old. Doug was 27. It was a gloriously warm day. The place of our marriage ceremony and wedding celebration was Helderefontein in Johannesburg. A beautiful, highveld country conference centre.

My friend Kate did my hair and Jacqui my make- up. I am not a make-up sort of gal but on this occasion I took the plunge. Kate has 4 sisters and her second eldest , Clare, had worked very hard to make my dress. It was off white in colour and made of crushed silk. I thought it really pretty. It was comfortable to wear.  I had a Spanish style vale with ornate paisley patterns on it.  I was very happy indeed. Most of our family and good friends were there and we danced into the evening. We honeymooned in the mountains of the Drankensburg. It was my first visit to those breath taking valleys and mighty peaks. We found a small church that Sunday, all hidden away in a crevice of a valley. I can not recall who talked or what the church was called but I remember the man spoke about the St James Church attack and how God had added to the church of Jesus through that one terrible occurrence.

Little did we both know but God was to bring us to that very church, St James, some 7 years latter, it was to become our spiritual haven.

Part 10- The Story of my life

ollows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. [[A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgment nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

 

Another baby that healed

My father had remarried. We were not invited. That was ok because the rift between us was pretty big. He had married a woman only 10 years older than me and someone he had been having an affair with. She was to become a very dear friend to me in the years ahead. But at this point in time I could never have imagined anything but brokenness between us.  My dad phoned to say that a baby girl had been born. I wept and wept. I was my daddy’s baby girl and now there was another.

“My baby sister is in that hospital,” I mentioned, casually to Doug as we drove past. “Lets go in and see her.” He encouraged.

And so it was that we walked into the maternity ward and shocked the socks of  L so that I could meet my new baby sister. She was so tiny. I could just look at her through the glass. It was to be the very beginning of a good and growing relationships on many fronts.  With forgiveness as my new companion and God setting the course I stepped into a land that I know I could never, ever have stepped alone. With the arm of Doug to lean on and his shoulder to cry into we began what is today 3 of the most precious relationships in my life.  I have two sisters. Cole and Samantha and I have a wonderful friend in My dad's wife.

God is good and kind and out of death comes life.

part 9 - The Story of my life

What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. [[A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgment nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

The Pull and The Call

Doug and I moved into our first home in Melville. Melville is a trendy little part of Johannesburg. We lived in a semi-detached house with a small garden and two bedrooms. It had all the old characteristics of an old Victorian house. It was great. We could walk to one of the best restaurants in Joburg, at that time. It was called Sams and served grand and funky food.

Our life in Melville was fairly uncomplicated. Doug was working at Magus as a computer programmer and I was teaching in Down Town Joburg. We were both trying to study through UNISA. Life was fun. We met with old and new friends. Went dancing and drinking. Smoked the odd Joint on the odd occasion. Doug was still pretty heavily involved with the ANC. Those early days when the Nationalist government was in discussion with the newly liberated ANC were tense and dangerous. One Sunday we heard the news of a college of Doug’s, Susan, who had been killed by one of the many bombs. The glass from her car window cut her jugular and she bled to death in no time. We sat stunned and silent. Her funeral was a huge affair. Her Catholic, Irish roots set the theme in the church with the open coffin and the ANC set the politic theme. Hamba Kahle Susan.

That was the first time I saw a dead body of someone I had known. I could see that it was in deed just a body. Susan was not there.

Doug spent many Sundays in long drawn out ANC sub-region meetings. He met some interesting intellectuals back then. It was exciting to see the future of our new democracy to be in its seedling stage.

Around this time I began to here the call of someone other than Doug and politics. In fact, his voice had been whispering and calling me for a while but it was here, in the home and at this time that his voice became very clear.

I had met many true christens throughout my life.  People who trusted and believed in Jesus and what he did for them on the cross.  

While studying I was in the class of a teacher who was a Christian. Her husband and her were Monocycles for Jesus. I had no clue what this was nor did I. I was a firm believer in myself and my ability to figure life out. Sure I meditated and read some new age stuff but hey, who is better to trust than yourself.

My best friend at school was a lovely girl called Kate. Her mother was a Christian and she had given me a little booklet that explained the gospel and helped the reader into a living relationship with Jesus. I had kept this little book safely with me through all these years.

Then there was the handsome preacher who everyone loved. Some friends invited me on a long, overnight hike with them and Mark. I thought I was in seventh heaven. Mark was a preacher. I get to ask him all those questions one gets to ask a preacher on a hike. Late that night, when the stars where up, He said, “Caren, if you want to know if God is real. Just ask him to show himself to you.”

And so that is what I did. It seemed like the only reasonable thing to do. I asked the God of the Universe to show himself to little old, arrogant, selfish a and demanding…me.

And he did.

From that time on , where ever I went, I met many, many Christians who told me the same true story. At College there were many times that I would choose to listen to some visiting Christian band or watch some dvd on offer. I was a reluctant convert and yet God did not give up. Like an invisible hand on a tug of war rope, he pulled and pulled. Gently I began to creep until I would listen at least.  One night outside some dive in Melville while on our way to play pool, Doug told me how to become a Christian. He of course was had flirted with Christianity in his youth. Little did he know that God was calling him back to him?

That very next day, while driving to work, I had a very real and honest chat with God. I asked him to forgive me and help me to trust him.  I was totally un-churched. I had seldom been to a real church or heard a real sermon. God called me and saved me on that day.

Doug and I were not married. We were still living together in Melville and I had just given my life to Jesus.

Like a heavy weight God placed this in my mind and heart. Suddenly, out of nowhere I really knew I needed to find a church. I had no clue what this meant or actually what had happened to me at all. But a church was what I thought I needed now.

And so, Doug took me, first we began with his old Charismatic church. Next we tried a large Baptist church in Rosebank and for a time this is where we found a home amongst God’s people.

I began a course about discovering what being a Christian really was. It was one of the best times of my life. The Bible became real and alive to me. For the first time ever I could understand and enjoy this very word of God. And so my journey as a believer in Jesus began. It was a very special time for me. Everything was new and different. Everything seemed good. People were kind. I was baptized in full body immersion one evening. My mother was there. I remember that she cried.

Part 8 - The Story of my Life

What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. [[A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgment nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

 The center was crumbling

I began my first job at a school in Bedford View. I was living in Parkhurst and was happy. I was teaching the four year old group at a private school. It was a nice enough school. These were the years just before the fall of Apartheid in our country. Our school was full of children whose parents were ANC exiles or rich black business people who were not able to send their children to government schools…. Yet.  The taxis would arrive in the morning full of sleepy little children who had traveled all the way across town from Soweto. They were a great bunch of kids.

These were very dangerous times in South Africa. The government had unleashed their last attempt to crush ‘The Blacks” as they tried to cling what remained of white rule. While teaching at this school Chris Hani was murdered. I thought our country would burn that day. The children at school replayed the funeral in the sandpit. They buried each other over and over, taking turns and singing freedom songs. Hamba Kahle Chris Hani.

I met my very first black friend while teaching at that school. Her name was Thembeka and she was lovely. We struck up a friendship immediately. She was beautiful and knew a thing or two about life and working at the school. She used to say to me “I hate whites” and I would turn to her and we would laugh.

I also met Princess at this school. She was a beautiful woman who had two children. She lived in Alexander Township which is situated right in the middle of wealthy suburbia. She was like the sunshine in that school. On a day I began to notice that Princess’ sun shone no more. Something was wrong. Something indeed was very, very wrong. I begged her to tell me. Her pain and sadness was clear to us and very worrying.

What had transpired was this. One cold and dark evening, as she made her way home under a bridge near her home, Princess had encountered a bunch of young thugs. They had raped her. She was pregnant by this rape.

I had tried to take her “the purple Doctor’” who could help with “this sort of thing” but she was too far pregnant. The little boy was stillborn and nothing more was every said about it. Princess showed me the death certificate without a word.

The youths who had raped her still hung about her neighbourhood. Her husband had abandoned her.

 At the same time.....

These were glorious days for me because I was in love. For real. In my last year of studying I had been introduced to a lovely man. His name was Doug.  Everything about Doug was special and good. He had a keen mind and was on the same political wave length as I was except he put his money where his mouth was. He was part of the beginnings of the first ANC branch in his local , rich, white are of Sandton. In those early beginnings , just after the ANC had been unbanned and Nelson Mandela had walked free, times were so full. Full of hope and expectation. South Africa our beloved country had so much to look forward to. There was to be a new beginning.  Little did I know that I was to experience a new beginning too.

Part 7 - The Story of My Life

What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. [[A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgment nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

On becoming a real Human Being

I began varsity in the year my parents marriage really hit the skids. I felt alone in my sadness and pain of loss without any way to really express it except though ideas and politics. I became the antithesis of my narrow minded upbringing. The flame that had begun in my mind through the suffering in stories read and eye witness accounts of people around me was fanned into flame. The hard reality and injustices of our country were fought hardest against in the corridors and halls of the Universalities in South Africa. Students all over marched and campaigned. It was a time of teargas and danger where the then government would think nothing of throwing a white ‘butt’ in jail.

I left home in the dry African part of Johannesburg and traveled down to the very different Western Cape. It was here that I was to study Psychology. In truth I was totally unprepared in my mind and heart for this rip from home and so did not last the year. I came back home after the first term determined to spend that year lying in the sun, pondering my future. My parents were still married but in name alone. It was a sad but resting year and perhaps a year I needed to gather some strength and reserves for what lay ahead.

In the January of the following year I set of to become a teacher. I entered the halls and passages of quite different institution. JCE or The Johannesburg College of Education. It was an institution still held firmly in the clutches of the Apartheid government and so I was back to ‘Whites Only”. And yet…..

The University students took some classes on our compass and that is how I came to Edward and Mike. In truth I was drawn to black men, I found then exciting and forbidden for if my family should ever learn of my affair with a black man. The thought sent my heart racing. And so a firm friendship was born.

The first boy I thought I loved was a nice kid in primary school who came from a dysfunctional family. He was wild and exciting. He rode motor bikes which bought him the freedom in body that I longed for in my soul.

I fell in love a few times after that. One was to a young man while we were at school. It was unresolved love. An infatuation with a really nice guy who was so different from me. He was friendly and warm. He was surrounded by interesting friends most of the time and seemed to have a real sense of who he was and what he believed. He was my first real “love”.  I thought he was wonderful and could not quite believe that he might fancy me.I often wondered what happened to him after he broke my heart.

And then, there was Edward. I don’t think I loved him but we grew close together through mutual studying and interests. That is we both thought Apartheid ‘sucked’. We laughed and had fun. We talked a fair amount. We danced and drank together.  Some great memories were made on the streets of Joburg while protesting against this or that. These were, as I’ve said, dangerous times, where the secret police reigned and kept a sharp lookout for those who created unrest.

Once, a friend and I went on this long protest march in down town Johannesburg. Hundreds of people were there too. That was the day we got our lily white faces on the 6 o’clock news. Boy did we laugh. What would my grandparents say if they spotted me, toyi – toying with the rest of black Johannesburg?

 In actual fact it was Mike who was in love with me. I was to discover this in my last year after the relathionship between Edward and I had fizzled. We were having dinner at The Yard of Ale in Bree Street when Mike told me this simple fact. It was sweet. I felt special but in truth I had bigger plans. I planned to travel the world. I longed to leave this strange country  that I loved.

In my last year at college I met Geoff. I can not remember where or how I met him. He was a small man with a kind and very gentle nature. He had a special laugh. He loved Jesus. We entered into a calm and gentle relationship.   used to argue with him a lot about who God is and how he works and all that jazz. In my arrogance I thought I knew it all. And yet I was not satisfied with my self imposed answers the the big questions of life.

Geoff was a man who showed me kindness and honour something I had rarely experienced  from a man. He came from Cape Town and was a stranger in Johannesburg. He spent some holidays with us as a family. By now my parents were no longer together. Life had taken on a new normal. South Africa was balancing on the brink of change and I was about qualify as a teacher.

Part 6 - The Story of my Life

 What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgement nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

When Apartheid was the fashion and fear its friend

I grew up in the 70’s having been born in the last year of the 60’s. I always liked that. Being able to say something like, “I was born in the 60's”. Well Just!

At that time South Africa was ruled by fear and violence. The laws that set people apart and established white supremacy were firmly in place. I grew up into apartheid with my feet  and early life experience rooted in it. Our schools dictated to by it and spread its evil. Everything was permitted by its rotten stench.  Totally oblivious , as a child should be, I began to observe and see what that meant to those people  who touched my little life.

There was Regina the so called Isangoma or’ witch doctor’. She was terrified of frogs but not of snakes. She was a person full of hugeness and fun. She cleaned the house for my grandparents. Then there were the two men who worked for my grandparents in The Federation. Michael Marowatla and John Sebhekho. John was a printer and Michael worked in the office as a clerk

. These two men were to be a big influence on my life. They were lovely. Kind and generous and funny. Never a harsh word  despite their bleak reality because in the township Soweto, from where they came, was a place of brutality and rule. I am so grateful for having known them, the little that I did because of them I think I saw things a little differently to most white girls my age. Let me try and explain what I mean. Most white children my age would have a very limited experience of being with and “knowing” black people. The only contact we had with black South Africa was if and when a man or a woman came to work in our home as a gardener or domestic worker. This meant we had a very, very limited experience of knowing anyone other than perhaps a house “help”. My experience was not shaped by this limited knowledge and by having John and Michael in my life was indeed a broader and richer experience. This was in sharp contract to my grandparent’s narrow view of people based on nationality, skin colour and gender.

And so , in some strange way, their racist and skew thinking which was being poured out for the hungry readers across South Africa and indeed the world in the literature they generated,  was indeed the very place that I got to experience something of the other South Africa.  The one that was hidden behind fear and rules.

I remember the first time I experienced police brutality. It happened on a day like any other, although in South Africa in those days, there was no day quite like another. It was on this day that I witnessed a white policeman beating a young black man.

The man was powerless to defend himself against the might of the Boera Man in is yellow van. My fear for authority and especially policeman was born that day and into the future many like it. The hard, harsh arm of the law was in motion and it beat and killed whoever got its way.

Such was the context of life in South Africa for this little girl.

 

Part 5 - The Story of my Life

 What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgement nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

 A place called Venters post

My mother’s parents came from Britain. They traveled all the way over to South Africa in the hope of a new life. In reality my grandfather suffered from TB and so when his doctors suggested a drier climate, well South Africa was the chosen destination. They were interesting and kind people. My grandfather came out first and lived on "The Mine" where he worked as a draughtsman. There first home and the place my mother would spend her childhood was, Venters Post. He wrote letters home to Madge, describing all that South Africa had to offer. When she joined him here they set up home and had two children. Christopher and Dianne. My mother was a shy and gangly child who had a firm and stubborn streak in her. She met my father ( I am not to sure where and  or how) and they married.  My father adored my mother in their early days and the boxes and boxes of a younger mom were evidence thereof.

My grandparents remained a very special part of our lives even though we seldom saw them. They would drive up to Johannesburg to visit us from Durban, where they retired or we would travel by train, overnight to visit them.  My grandfather drove a red fiat for most of my memory and we would wait in eager anticipation for them to arrive at Zeiss Road, as they made the long journey from Durban in Natal.  My grandmother was a tiny woman who loved to bake and cook. Our firm favourites were her rolls. She would leave them to rise in the heat of the Joburg sun and we would wait with mouths watering.  She made the most delectable mince pies and nothing, to this day, can match them.

My mother always said that she; my mother that is, would need to get back into her box when my grandmother came to visit. The profoundness of this statement was lost on me as a child. I came to realize that my grandmother was a strong woman who got done what needed to be done. I think she “saw” what was happening to me as a child, in part, and yet silence ruled.

My father would rarely accompany us on any of these holidays. In fact I can remember only two times we shared a holiday with him. Once to this Durban destination when I was in Grade 1 and once to the Kruger Park.   Hope I longed for more special time with him as a child. He was my hero as all daddies should be.  But this was never to be.

My Grandfather loved to read, garden and bet on the horses at the races. He had developed an elaborate card system that documented each available horse and their performance. I loved that box of cards. It was a part of him, an extension of who he was and so I loved it. He would sit on his chair, silently writing and thinking.
He came from a large family in Yorkshire. He had several siblings numbering 8 or 9. I remember as he looked through some photographs of his  family that he happened upon a sibling. "mmm, Now what was her name?" He asked.

My Grandfather came out to South Africa in his 2o's.  He left his family behind. We were fortunate enough to visit Great Britain when I was 17 years old. He came with us. It was his very first time back 'Home' and he had not seen his brother in 50 years.

My Grandmother had died by now. She had cancer. She had never seen her family again apart from the few visits of her sister Freda and husband John who came out to South Africa . John said that South Africa reminded him of Nazi Germany.
My Grandmother also had a large family and many siblings. Her father was a famous Yorkshire race horse trainer. She was a beautiful woman, full of grace and charm. I loved to sort through her silk scarves and try them on for size.
My grandmother and I had many pretend teas when I was a little girl. We would "smoke" our cigarettes and chat about our children. How she kept a straight face I dont know.
I loved them both very much.
They felt safe.

Part 4. The Story of My Life

What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgement nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

Being cut free

Fear seeped through every pore of my body as a young child. I was on guard you see, waiting and watching for the perpetrator of the ongoing crime.  I did not know this. I was far too little, but looking back I see it and feel it all so plainly. A child has little or no control over his or her life but others, the adults, well they have total control. It is the kind of control that needs to be measured and weight in the scales of care and love. And yet, for some of us that walk the land of this planet, the care and love has not been weighed and measured and we have fallen victim to those into whose hands we have been entrusted.

Such was my childhood. But on a day, we got to move. Not that far from the cottage of hell but it was a move none the less. A breaking of the umbilical cord. My father had once again set upon the great task of building a house. This was a bigger and broader house with a double story and a thatched roof. We are on the up it would seem.  With that move brought me freedom. I was 12 years old and very nearly entering high school. It was a nice house with a pool. We had a tennis court and an outside braai and a big, beautiful patio. There was some laughter and fun but happiness did not make its home in that house.

It was from this home that my parent’s marriage began to split at the seams and it was from this house that I left for university.

The day we were to leave on the long journey to Cape Town was the same day that my father made the decision to put some horses down? If you have never experienced this it is a traumatic and sad thing to see. A once huge brute of a beast, standing tall and stong is reduced to death by a single shot.  We drove off, saying goodbye to a once life and hello to the next chapter. Of course we had forgotten something and so had to return. Death and sadness was to great us and of course, as I reflect back now, it was a picture of the death that was shortly to enfold my parent’s marriage. But out of death comes life. There is always a hope and good things when the great God of the universe is at work.

Part 3 - The Story of my Life

What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgement nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

The Federation

My grandparents both worked, which in those times, in the late 60’s and 70’s was indeed unusual. They worked at their own business which was housed on the property on which we lived. The organization was called The Federation of the Covenant People.  It was a religious organization which had its roots and thinking firmly planted in nationalism and racism. My grandfather was the main” preacher” and he held meetings and wrote articles and gave lectures on the merits of his view of the bible. His views excited and drew those in the wider Joburg community of similar views as well as from other countries. Most of these people were kind and even sweet on the outside. My grandparents were deeply racist and openly anti – Semitic. I grew up hearing and being told of all the wrongs of certain groups as apposed to others. And yet for some strange reason I rejected their ideas at an early age. I suspect this was because despite my grandparents thinking that they were upright and supreme they were simply unable to protect a 4 year old little girl in their care. Nothing like the reality of trauma and abuse at the hands of those who are so sure of their self righteousness makes one question their beliefs.

My grandparents were very much a part of my early life. My grandmother was a large woman who continually battled the war of the bulge. She died her hair regularly, smoked the same brand of cigarettes that came in a flat while box with silver foil paper on the inside. I loved the small of those boxes and used to collect them to keep things in. She was a clever woman who ruled her husband in a subtle but clear way. Her marital advice to my mother was that my mom should be the one who made the decisions but that she should let my dad think he had. Much like the words from My Big Fat Greek Wedding. “The man is the head but the woman is the neck. She an turn the head anyway she wants to.”

My grandmother liked to play cards and bet using matchsticks as the money. One of the things we loved was to play this game with her. She had a gloriously heart laugh and loved a good joke. I loved her very much and enjoyed spending time with her despite the cool undercurrents and strange thinking she had.

My Grand father was a bubbly person. He had enjoyed life on the stage singing opera as well as wrestling at some point. He loved an audience and I suppose that is what drove him into the work at The Federation.  He was a deeply proud and selfish man. He loved to eat burnt food which with hindsight was probably his downfall.  Towards the end of his life he grew very quiet. He died of cancer one night with my dad at his bed side. All the greatness attributed him by my grandmother had vanished and he was alone to face his death.

Both my grandparents loved to drink brandy and ginger ale.  It was one of their signature drinks. They were of the most generous people I knew. They had little of their own but would always share with us that which they had. Christmas time was an example of this. They would buy us children all that our hearts possibly could desire. The gigantic tree brimming with gifts galore. My parents in comparison could never afford to give us half the toys and other stuff that my grandparents dished out. My grandfather was the controlling conductor of the Christmas event. He would dish out his gifts with a gigantic smile attached to his face, taking great pleasure in this act. It was totally over the top and yet forms a vivid childhood memory for me.

Part 2 - The Story of my Life

What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgement nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

Zeiss Road - The Road Less Traveled

For the first 21 years of my life, I lived in a place called Honeydew. It was plot lands where people lived on pieces of land of about 5 acres or so, sewn together like a patchwork quilt. In many ways Honeydew was an ideal place to grow up. There was space and lots of it. Our nearest neighbours we could just see through the trees that flanked the plot. The property on Zeiss Road was owned by my grandparents and it used to belong to a nursery of sorts. It produced a variety of fruit trees such as plum, guava, peach, apricot and apple. It also grew a wealth of other kinds of trees like a monkey puzzles that was so enormous it seemed to touch the very hand of God.

My father has always been partial to animals, having a special affinity with them. Because of this my childhood was full of not only beautiful trees and space but also lots of dogs and cats and even a bird and some fish at one point. A big fluffy matriarchal cat called Vicky ruled the roost through much of my early childhood along with a small, wiry mixture of a dog named Twiggy. She was sweet and gentle but deadly and fast when she needed to be.  I watched in horror as she once, in a flash, killed a little bird we had nursed back to health after one of Johannesburg’s infamous hail storms.

My father worked at this and that and began his own business in his 20’s. He was an entrepreneur of sorts and his keen business mind lead him to make a great deal of money in his life. His interest in new ideas and new ways to solve problems has been passed along the genes to me. I guess in some way we connect back through the generations through those genes that live on in us.

My father built the cottage which was my first home. It was perfect and suited the needs of this family. Following pretty quickly on my heals was my brother, Alan, and so the four of us set up home in this well built, solid little cottage. In those early days we had little money and seemed to survive on a healthy but small amount. My mother chose to stay home and not return to work. As a young mother her work kept her busy, cleaning, cooking and taking care of the two of us.

I often wonder what motivated my mother in this part of her life. Non- the less, this was our lot. For the most art our life at 2 Zeiss Road was interesting. It was a rich and full beginning to a life bursting with intrigue and torment.

Part 1 The story of my Life

What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgement nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

Part 1 – Oh to be Born when Man reached such Heights

It was a cold day in July 1969, when I was born. I was supposed to be a boy because according to granddad Finlay , “Finlays only had sons!”, and yet here I was. Small, beautiful and alive and very much a little girl. The fact that I was a girl, who should have been a boy, was a story that was retold me many times in my childhood.

I was born into very much a dysfunctional family with the polishing and gleam of what passed for functional and whole. I was born into a country that was ruled buy Apartheid and all the evils that knitted itself into the very fabric of each person. This larger reality was something that was to posses every one of us who lived in this beautiful land; no matter who we were and what our background.

The year I was born was the year that the first man walked on the moon. It was set to be a life full of exploration and adventure, if you believe in those kinds of signs.

My parents lived in a little cottage that my father had built. It was attached to my grandparent’s home with an interpleading door.  In a way we were tied to my grandparents by an invisible umbilical cord. Their thinking and life philosophy was to be one of the huge shaping influences in my young life and their lack of wisdom and realistic view of people was to be their shame and my near destruction.

The Bounce Factor

Today I took our son to his yearly check up with his neurological specialist.  He is on the ADHD spectrum and we have decided to take him to these yearly check ups , well, because we totally trust this doctor. He takes Ritalin and we feel the need to have her walk this walk with us in helping him in this area. The first change was that her room environment had changed somewhat , for the better.  She no longer shares her rooms with another doctor but has her own thing happening. Makes for a more personal experience me thinks. We arrived and had to wait a bit. I enjoy reading her leaflets and book choices to help support parents who have kids on all sorts of interesting spectrum.  I began to read my book  ( on that happened to be about adolescence - I mean was I nuts  trying to crack two stones in one afternoon but hey) and our son found his book and we got going. In came a mom and a bouncy boy. They were early and the doctor was running late. :) After about a second with this little man my heart began to soar and my tears well up with tears. He was a delight to behold. Full of bounce and " mom, see this and mom look at that."  Mom patiently said , " son quieter and not so fast and come and sit here calmly". my smile widened and I gave her a knowing glance. He was a sweet kid and once her got focused on something , well then he was away. We were called in to our meeting and afterwards Thomas said, " mom, I think that girl  was ADHD." "Which one ?" ,I was wondering , when he continued," you know the older, teenage one." He went on to give a very valid reason which was because she was totally distracted while filling in some form. What a funny little man. needless to say we left the doctor, happier, helped, poorer and with a plan of action. I always feel redirected and more certain whenever I leave her rooms. Long may that last. And so we press on with God's help as we face the next year on this funny and exciting ADHD journey.

The Dilemma of a Middle aged Woman

I am not a particularly good writer but I write the things placed upon my heart. It is a way for me to bring clarity and my hope is always that something of what I write might be an encouragement to others. From some of the letters I have received, I know this to be, in part true.

This evening my heart and mind are burdened with much. I have been tossing around in my head the ideas related work.

There is so much to so on this topic and so many angles to take when considering it.

Much of the deciding with regards to the type of work has already been decided for me in that I studied to be a teacher all those years ago. I have dreams and professions I think I would be good at and perhaps should have entered, with hind sight and wisdom and with the knowledge of self that years bring. But the thoughts that bash about my brain are of a slightly different nature. They relate to and spring from the opportunities offered us as women primarily as our children get older and are no longer dependent on us in that total way a baby is. Questions arise around work brought on by financial pressure and cultural pressure too.  Perhaps , too, we find our very own desire for self fulfillment and financial freedom a compelling draw towards returning to some kind of work.

I have observed and have experienced first hand the reality that as one enters into some kind of work that inevitably the work grows arms and legs and will grasp from you something that belongs to another. The boundry that needs to be drawn for each of us according to our own personal circumstances and energy and gifts and family needs is sometime s not all that easy to draw . It lands up drawing itself in a way that is quite often not reasonable and helpful. It sucks up energy that  our family might need and requires of us more and more. It delights and thrills and adds so much in one way and yet subtracts in many others. And so I am left with a head full of all sorts of questions and not that many answers.

As  a Christian woman, I understand that I am free. Set free by Jesus and his death on the cross. Set free to truly live for him and his cause. My life is his. So, I guess that asking him for wisdom on this matter is the course to plot. And so I pray and ask and think and talk. What is the best thing for my husband, for my children and for us as a family. What is it that God requires of me , a Christan woman? A friend commented  that some work to enjoy a style of living while others absolutely have to work; they have no choice. I disagree in part. I think it is so difficult to draw that life style line. What is it that is not necessary for a healthy modern life style and who can decide for all families what that should look like.

So, my mind turns round and round in circles. Asking and answering, but not really finding any peace at all. God tells us not to be anxious about anything but in all things present our requests to him and his peace will Guard our hearts.  And so I pray........