Flamingo's are normally found in marshes or large lakes. Flamingo Vlei is named after the flocks of birds that frequent our fresh water lake near Tableview, Cape Town. But the other day, my wife, Nola, went for a walk on Sunset Beach, where our home is, and saw flamingo's on the beach! She rushed home to fetch the camera to capture this unusual sight.
Like ballerinas they moved effortlessly in the shallow water, above their own rosy reflections, and seemed undisturbed by the clicking camera, till she came to close and then they scooped up and flew away into the baby blue sky. What a sight. We have it on our desktop as a picture now.
Can you imagine the beauty? It is serene, pastel coloured and unique.
Were they fishing? Or were they catching snails or mussels? But there they were, in all their glory, parading on the beach - just of us!
These moments of awe are the spice of life. These unexpected moments of beauty created just for those who are fortunate enough to be at the right place at the right time.
I have a little picture which I treasure. I used to keep in on my desk for several years during extreme hardship in the ministry as a missionary.
It is a picture of Hilton and a little girl when both were about 3 years old. We took them to the Oceanarium at the Waterfront. At the entrance we stopped at a huge cylindrical glass container that stretched all the way up to the ceiling. The glass container was filled with colourful fish swimming in clear water.
The container had a ledge all around it and because the kids were small we picked them up and allowed them to stand on the ledge. Both of them threw their little heads backwards, and stretched their necks to look at all the exquisite fish. They stood like that for a long time. We snapped a photo for keepsake.
Life is full of awe. As a child one discovers the awe that life presents.
I kept that picture on my desk to remind me never to loose the awe of life. Life's troubles and complications can tie one's mind up with the intricacies of life, and it is easy to loose the 'awe' of life.
But the soul of man needs to experience awesome moments from time to time to revive the weary soul. Without it life is a grind and it grinds one to the bone.
That is one of the many reasons why we live at Sunset Beach: every day we see the most awesome sunset! Sometimes we simply stop what we are doing and go to the beach below to watch the setting sun, dipping into the watery horizon and shooting its last rays up into the sky behind the drifting clouds with a promise that it will be there again tomorrow, and the day after, and the next day...
Nola is fond of such moments. We often enjoy them together. We taught our children to enjoy them. God gave it to us for free. It costs you nothing.
May this computerized cell-phone mad generation never loose the awe of life, the beauty of nature, the simple joys that God has given to all mankind, to enjoy and to relish in the absolute genius of creation.
What a joy it is to be alive!
What a peace it brings to see the flamingo's on the beach.
What a moment. What a treasure.
It makes one rich. May the image remain indelibly imprinted on our memories.
May there be many more such awesome moments of beauty.
Let us remind each other how awesom life is - in spite of what we have to endure.
The glory always outweighs the suffering.
Never loose the awe of life. Remain childlike in enjoying this life. We only have one.
Monday, 18 April 2011
Monday, 21 February 2011
Departure Lounge in Lome
Departure Lounge in Lome
Sitting in a hot and humid departure lounge in Lome, Togo, waiting for several hours before embarking on Ethiopian Airlines flight to Douala, Cameroon, I wipe away sweat from my forehead with the palm of my hand and rub it onto my chino jeans ala African style.
A cloth is useless and a tissue just gets shredded by my three and a half day stubble. The hand method is the best. The cloth gets drenched with two or three wipes and then it wets your trouser pocket. The hand is designed not to absorb moisture and therefore ideal for conveying sweat from the head to the jeans. Normal trousers can’t do the trick because it cannot absorb moisture. Jeans, either chino or blue jeans, are the working man’s trousers – they are made to sweat in!
There are two stand up air conditioners in the lounge where you can find temporary relief from the sweltering conditions. You need to plant yourself selfishly in front of the air con for a minute or two to get the maximum benefit.
The transit hall was full of people and so is the departure lounge. All flights use the same halls.
Gnassangbe Eyadema International Airport is unusually busy today because some flights have been delayed.
An Indian lady takes out a wad of money to pay for a drink.
I go to the toilet. The floor is messy. Can’t they aim?
Back in the lounge I drop down on the hard metal seats where you sit till your bum is numb.
Some passengers are called to board another flight. But as soon as they leave more people pour into the lounge. The distant drone of an propeller driven air craft sweeps into the open door at Gate 2.
The constant bell ringing before announcements makes me think of the Parisians police sirens that wakes one up at night.
I am the only person sporting a T-shirt. Most men have the American or English style collared button-down shirt.
Sweat is running off everyone’s faces now. The lounge could soon turn into a sauna!
No one enters the Sale Koromsa Ist Class lounge – and no one exits either.
I desperately need to cool down, but there are four people ahead of me at the air con. Their conversations seem to be important enough to keep them standing in front of the air con for several minutes. This leaves me gasping for breath like a Koi fish out of the water.
As I look out of the window I see the jet planes standing silently with open doors and bellies awaiting the next belly full of humans.
Ah, the air con is available! My kingdom for an air con! While I am cooling down others are already lining up. The next one is a nun with white head gear and white robe. When it is her turn she turns her back on the pleasure the air con provides and faces the crowd, the sweating crowd. Her look is stern; she does not want to betray the fact that she is enjoying the cool air.
A lady is pushed in the door on a wheel chair. Her legs reveal the terrible disease called elephantiasis. It is a crippling and painful disease, rampant in Africa. But no one pays any attention to her at all. They are used to it.
The announcer drops a bomb-shell: the flight from Adis Abiba to Abidjan is delayed due to operation crisis. It will now only arrive in Togo 2 hours later. ‘The company apologizes for this inconvenience.’
But no one responds to the announcement at all. There is no surprise, no anger, and no disappointment. If this was a departure lounge in the UK, USA, Australia or South Africa there would have been gasps of emotional responses and even rude remarks about the incompetence of the airlines. But not in Africa: Africa can wait; Africa can wait a long time because they have learned patience, like the patient earth waits for the rain in the right season.
A baby finally gives up all hope of ever reaching its home and lets rip with a high sounding shrill yell that pierces the drone of voices in the lounge. Nothing the mother can do can pacify the babe. The passengers in the lounge pay no attention to the baby crisis. It is normal for a baby to cry in Africa.
A bald shaven East European businessman enters the hall and looks around for a seat. There is none. He is so overdressed in his three piece suit, rimless spectacles, black leather attaché case and computer bag that he literally sticks out like a sore thumb. This is Africa, man!
Due to my concentration to scribble my observances into my little note book I had completely forgotten about the man sitting next to me. When I turn to him he is fast asleep, mouth wide open. Then I suddenly notice how many people are asleep in the lounge! No wonder no one responded to the announcement!
A very large businessman steps out of the first class lounge with his baggage.
Kids run up and down the aisles to entertain themselves. No one reprimands them.
There’s Douala’s call to board now! We converge on the ground staff desk to have our tickets ripped. I spot a white haired priest hunchbacked from too many devotions. He looks lifeless. Where there’s a nun, there’s a priest! Priestly rituals have a way of gnawing away at the soul until it slowly dies and gives up the struggle to try to enjoy life. Life becomes a dull routine. Man’s traditions make void the power of God, the Bible tells us.
A hooked nose Frenchman, smartly dressed in a white full length shirt revealing a pansy flowered coloured pattern on the inside of the collar, sleeves rolled back to reveal a blue leather strapped expensive name brand watch and stepping out in charcoal suede long pointed shoes pushes in front of me. I let him.
‘Merci,’ he says embarrassingly.
When we have to alight from the bus on the tarmac in front of the plane, I happened to be in front of old Frenchie. He lets me go ahead of him. I smile. He smiles and wants to talk but I just don’t have the energy to practice my French after sitting in the hot lounge for several hours.
All I really want to do is get on that plane and fly into the blue sky.
Sitting in a hot and humid departure lounge in Lome, Togo, waiting for several hours before embarking on Ethiopian Airlines flight to Douala, Cameroon, I wipe away sweat from my forehead with the palm of my hand and rub it onto my chino jeans ala African style.
A cloth is useless and a tissue just gets shredded by my three and a half day stubble. The hand method is the best. The cloth gets drenched with two or three wipes and then it wets your trouser pocket. The hand is designed not to absorb moisture and therefore ideal for conveying sweat from the head to the jeans. Normal trousers can’t do the trick because it cannot absorb moisture. Jeans, either chino or blue jeans, are the working man’s trousers – they are made to sweat in!
There are two stand up air conditioners in the lounge where you can find temporary relief from the sweltering conditions. You need to plant yourself selfishly in front of the air con for a minute or two to get the maximum benefit.
The transit hall was full of people and so is the departure lounge. All flights use the same halls.
Gnassangbe Eyadema International Airport is unusually busy today because some flights have been delayed.
An Indian lady takes out a wad of money to pay for a drink.
I go to the toilet. The floor is messy. Can’t they aim?
Back in the lounge I drop down on the hard metal seats where you sit till your bum is numb.
Some passengers are called to board another flight. But as soon as they leave more people pour into the lounge. The distant drone of an propeller driven air craft sweeps into the open door at Gate 2.
The constant bell ringing before announcements makes me think of the Parisians police sirens that wakes one up at night.
I am the only person sporting a T-shirt. Most men have the American or English style collared button-down shirt.
Sweat is running off everyone’s faces now. The lounge could soon turn into a sauna!
No one enters the Sale Koromsa Ist Class lounge – and no one exits either.
I desperately need to cool down, but there are four people ahead of me at the air con. Their conversations seem to be important enough to keep them standing in front of the air con for several minutes. This leaves me gasping for breath like a Koi fish out of the water.
As I look out of the window I see the jet planes standing silently with open doors and bellies awaiting the next belly full of humans.
Ah, the air con is available! My kingdom for an air con! While I am cooling down others are already lining up. The next one is a nun with white head gear and white robe. When it is her turn she turns her back on the pleasure the air con provides and faces the crowd, the sweating crowd. Her look is stern; she does not want to betray the fact that she is enjoying the cool air.
A lady is pushed in the door on a wheel chair. Her legs reveal the terrible disease called elephantiasis. It is a crippling and painful disease, rampant in Africa. But no one pays any attention to her at all. They are used to it.
The announcer drops a bomb-shell: the flight from Adis Abiba to Abidjan is delayed due to operation crisis. It will now only arrive in Togo 2 hours later. ‘The company apologizes for this inconvenience.’
But no one responds to the announcement at all. There is no surprise, no anger, and no disappointment. If this was a departure lounge in the UK, USA, Australia or South Africa there would have been gasps of emotional responses and even rude remarks about the incompetence of the airlines. But not in Africa: Africa can wait; Africa can wait a long time because they have learned patience, like the patient earth waits for the rain in the right season.
A baby finally gives up all hope of ever reaching its home and lets rip with a high sounding shrill yell that pierces the drone of voices in the lounge. Nothing the mother can do can pacify the babe. The passengers in the lounge pay no attention to the baby crisis. It is normal for a baby to cry in Africa.
A bald shaven East European businessman enters the hall and looks around for a seat. There is none. He is so overdressed in his three piece suit, rimless spectacles, black leather attaché case and computer bag that he literally sticks out like a sore thumb. This is Africa, man!
Due to my concentration to scribble my observances into my little note book I had completely forgotten about the man sitting next to me. When I turn to him he is fast asleep, mouth wide open. Then I suddenly notice how many people are asleep in the lounge! No wonder no one responded to the announcement!
A very large businessman steps out of the first class lounge with his baggage.
Kids run up and down the aisles to entertain themselves. No one reprimands them.
There’s Douala’s call to board now! We converge on the ground staff desk to have our tickets ripped. I spot a white haired priest hunchbacked from too many devotions. He looks lifeless. Where there’s a nun, there’s a priest! Priestly rituals have a way of gnawing away at the soul until it slowly dies and gives up the struggle to try to enjoy life. Life becomes a dull routine. Man’s traditions make void the power of God, the Bible tells us.
A hooked nose Frenchman, smartly dressed in a white full length shirt revealing a pansy flowered coloured pattern on the inside of the collar, sleeves rolled back to reveal a blue leather strapped expensive name brand watch and stepping out in charcoal suede long pointed shoes pushes in front of me. I let him.
‘Merci,’ he says embarrassingly.
When we have to alight from the bus on the tarmac in front of the plane, I happened to be in front of old Frenchie. He lets me go ahead of him. I smile. He smiles and wants to talk but I just don’t have the energy to practice my French after sitting in the hot lounge for several hours.
All I really want to do is get on that plane and fly into the blue sky.
Monday, 24 January 2011
I walked on mass graves in Kigali
I walked on mass graves in Kigali - and I cried. Two million people brutally murdered in three years in Rwanda. What for? Because of class distinction - between the rich and the poor. If you owned ten cows you became a Tutsi and if you had less you were considered a Hutu. The Hutu's exiled the Tutsis and many of them joined rebel forces to get back into their country. And then the genocide began...and the United Nations and the rest of the International Community would not believe the reports about the atrocities until it was too late. Koffi Anan's repentance as General Secretary of the UN came when the war was over: 'I should have done something about Rwanda ten years ago.'
The hills of Kigali are covered in houses, nice looking houses, and the roads in are in good condition. The taxi driver said to me,'do you like our city? Look how clean it is!'
But the red colour in the dark faces of the people in Rwanda reminds you of the slaughterhouse that Rwanda once was. The people are still weary of trusting anyone too quickly.
Yet Rwanda is one of the most fruitful and fertile lands in East Africa and could become the bread basked of Africa.
The Virungu volcanoes are still active and erupt every few years causing much damage and even deaths. Rain forests harbour 150 000 gorillas that Diane Fossey described in her books until she exposed the poachers and was murdered by them.
I walked in silence on the mass graves and shed tears for a nation that went through ethnic cleansing of atrocious proportions...and I was reminded of Hitler, Stalin, Yomo Kenyatta, Idi Amin and all the other dictators who brainwashed people into accepting their evil causes as if it were natural.
Then I remembered the words of Jesus: 'The thief comes not but to steal, kill and destroy; but I have come that you might have life and have it more abundantly.' The Good News of the Gospel of Jesus Christ is the only hope for the world today, and yet the modern society speaks of the 'post-christian-era' as if Christianity is outdated! What a lie from the pit of hell! The Gospel is just as relevant today as it has always been! It is fresh - like the dew on Mt. Hermon!
The Prophet cried out: 'Who will hear our report? And to whom will the arm of the Lord be revealed?'
That is the cry in my heart today, as missionary, perhaps one of the least, but at least I keep going to other lands to preach the Gospel of the Kingdom of Christ. We can do all the humanitarian work that we wish, but unless people have a change in heart the atrocities of genocide and the killing of wars will continue.
There can be no peace without the Prince of Peace, Jesus Christ the Lord of lords and the King of Kings. At His Name every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that He is Lord.
There is no other way!
The hills of Kigali are covered in houses, nice looking houses, and the roads in are in good condition. The taxi driver said to me,'do you like our city? Look how clean it is!'
But the red colour in the dark faces of the people in Rwanda reminds you of the slaughterhouse that Rwanda once was. The people are still weary of trusting anyone too quickly.
Yet Rwanda is one of the most fruitful and fertile lands in East Africa and could become the bread basked of Africa.
The Virungu volcanoes are still active and erupt every few years causing much damage and even deaths. Rain forests harbour 150 000 gorillas that Diane Fossey described in her books until she exposed the poachers and was murdered by them.
I walked in silence on the mass graves and shed tears for a nation that went through ethnic cleansing of atrocious proportions...and I was reminded of Hitler, Stalin, Yomo Kenyatta, Idi Amin and all the other dictators who brainwashed people into accepting their evil causes as if it were natural.
Then I remembered the words of Jesus: 'The thief comes not but to steal, kill and destroy; but I have come that you might have life and have it more abundantly.' The Good News of the Gospel of Jesus Christ is the only hope for the world today, and yet the modern society speaks of the 'post-christian-era' as if Christianity is outdated! What a lie from the pit of hell! The Gospel is just as relevant today as it has always been! It is fresh - like the dew on Mt. Hermon!
The Prophet cried out: 'Who will hear our report? And to whom will the arm of the Lord be revealed?'
That is the cry in my heart today, as missionary, perhaps one of the least, but at least I keep going to other lands to preach the Gospel of the Kingdom of Christ. We can do all the humanitarian work that we wish, but unless people have a change in heart the atrocities of genocide and the killing of wars will continue.
There can be no peace without the Prince of Peace, Jesus Christ the Lord of lords and the King of Kings. At His Name every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that He is Lord.
There is no other way!
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
The Quiller Memorandum
Wednesday's Child, the theme song of The Quiller Memorandum, a thriller starring George Segal and Senta Berger in the 1966's, is an exquisitely beautiful, sad tune. The opening line being, Wednesday's Child is a child of woe... Max von Sydow with his eerie, mysterious, oblong face and some other great actors like Alec Guinnes also play their roles in memorable performances, but it is the theme music that I remember the most, more than the names of the actors or the titles of the cast.
What makes one remember something for so long? What makes something find a lodging space in your memory bank for 50 years? Goodness gracious, already that long? And still the haunting tone of that melody seems to ruffle my feathers every time I hear it played or play it on the piano late at night when everyone's gone to bed.
When a violin plays the tune it tends to tug at one's heart strings even more...
I don't want to dwell on the performance, just the memory, the Quiller Memory, the face of George Segal, tilting his head to pay attention to what someone has to say. He also played in The St. Valentine's Day Massacre. I remember how he cheerfully greeted his mother on that fatefull day before he got massacred with his other mobster friends in a garage on the 14th of February. Although George Segal is known as a comedy actor as well, it is that serious face, that wry smile and the frowning and questioning eyes that seem to be imprinted indelibly on my mind. But more than my memory of his spy role in Quiller Memorandum, I wonder about the beauty of that tune...it calms the soul and stirs the spirit and carries one away to another world of beauty and peace and joy...there must be a heaven after all if there is such heavenly music!
Beethoven confessed that he heard music from another realm, from the centre of the Universe somewhere...perhaps we can hear it too... if we listen!
Funny thing, strange and eerie just as the John Barry score of The Quiller Memorandum, he sadly passed away in January on the 30th at the age of 77. Hans Zimmer who won an Oscar for the score for Inception (De Capprio starred and Ridley Scott directed)wrote an article for Time's Milestones on p.13 of the February 14 issue, 2011 in which he describes how he too remembers The Quiller Memorandum score. 'Sometimes the reason we have such deep and lasting emotional connections to movies is the music and everything that made the mood of those movies...' He was a Yorkshire man and even in his brightest work, you could always see the moors and the fog, even his cheeky stuff had an underlying darkness.
John Barry also wrote the scores for Zulu (which launched a young Michael Caine), Born Free, Out of Africa, Dances with Wolves, On Her Majesty's Secret Service (Bond), and Hammet. What he had learned from Barry is that mood is good, according to Zimmer.
Amazing that the Quiller tune drifted passed me at that time, so strongly that I could not ignore it, I had to write about it and remember it. And like Zimmer I cannot recall all the details of the Quiller Story, but the tune stayed in my memory bank. And it was in the same month that the composer passed away. Are we all in touch with the Infinite? Do we feel what is to come before it does? When will we wake up to this reality?
Astonishing...but true.
What makes one remember something for so long? What makes something find a lodging space in your memory bank for 50 years? Goodness gracious, already that long? And still the haunting tone of that melody seems to ruffle my feathers every time I hear it played or play it on the piano late at night when everyone's gone to bed.
When a violin plays the tune it tends to tug at one's heart strings even more...
I don't want to dwell on the performance, just the memory, the Quiller Memory, the face of George Segal, tilting his head to pay attention to what someone has to say. He also played in The St. Valentine's Day Massacre. I remember how he cheerfully greeted his mother on that fatefull day before he got massacred with his other mobster friends in a garage on the 14th of February. Although George Segal is known as a comedy actor as well, it is that serious face, that wry smile and the frowning and questioning eyes that seem to be imprinted indelibly on my mind. But more than my memory of his spy role in Quiller Memorandum, I wonder about the beauty of that tune...it calms the soul and stirs the spirit and carries one away to another world of beauty and peace and joy...there must be a heaven after all if there is such heavenly music!
Beethoven confessed that he heard music from another realm, from the centre of the Universe somewhere...perhaps we can hear it too... if we listen!
Funny thing, strange and eerie just as the John Barry score of The Quiller Memorandum, he sadly passed away in January on the 30th at the age of 77. Hans Zimmer who won an Oscar for the score for Inception (De Capprio starred and Ridley Scott directed)wrote an article for Time's Milestones on p.13 of the February 14 issue, 2011 in which he describes how he too remembers The Quiller Memorandum score. 'Sometimes the reason we have such deep and lasting emotional connections to movies is the music and everything that made the mood of those movies...' He was a Yorkshire man and even in his brightest work, you could always see the moors and the fog, even his cheeky stuff had an underlying darkness.
John Barry also wrote the scores for Zulu (which launched a young Michael Caine), Born Free, Out of Africa, Dances with Wolves, On Her Majesty's Secret Service (Bond), and Hammet. What he had learned from Barry is that mood is good, according to Zimmer.
Amazing that the Quiller tune drifted passed me at that time, so strongly that I could not ignore it, I had to write about it and remember it. And like Zimmer I cannot recall all the details of the Quiller Story, but the tune stayed in my memory bank. And it was in the same month that the composer passed away. Are we all in touch with the Infinite? Do we feel what is to come before it does? When will we wake up to this reality?
Astonishing...but true.
Friday, 31 December 2010
Sadness and Laughter
The first time my grandmother took me to a circus was in Leeuwdoringstad, a small country town in the Western Transvaal, near Klerksdorp and Makwassie. She told me how much I would enjoy it.
The two of us went into the tent, and the smell of the animals and the dust made me wonder if I should be there at all. I was only 4 years old.
Then the circus master announced the first event and the band played out loud with trumpets and drum rolls and smashing cymbals as the lions came into the cage. The whip cracked and it frightened me.
The people woed and aahd and applauded and I sat rivetted next to my grandma. Then it was the horses with plumes on their heads like ladies in the Pentecostal church choirs that I was used to on Sundays.
And then they sent in the clowns to keep our attention as they changed the scenery and the set.
They had painted faces that looked sad. Their mouths were too large and sagging and their eyes drooped downwards. Their hats were too small and their trousers and boots were too big. Both of them had large red leather gloves on. Inside the gloves were crackers. When they slapped each other through the face the crackers went off. It shocked me and scared me and I started crying. It was too much for a little boy.
'Let's go home Ouma,' I pleaded, 'I don't like all this fighting!'
Ouma oblidged. It was the last time she ever asked me to go to the circus.
I thought about this moment and thought about watching Cirque du Soleil in Disneyland with my friend Brian and his wife.
The absolute artistry and agility of the performers astounded me and the timing of every moment to the music was mind boggling. The trampoline act took my breath away. I hurt my back on a trampoline when I was 14 and suffered back trouble for many years until the Lord healed me completely. I tried to do a backward somersault without any coaching. Dangerous.
But today I thought of that first visit to the circus and today is the last day of the year. Tomorrow will be the start of another year, a new year, a brand new year.
And I thought of the sad looking clowns.
Clowns make people laught, don't they? Why are their faces always sad?
Charlie Chaplin,Peter Sellers and all the other comedy stars, Gene Wilder, they all have a note of sadness to their lives. It is almost an integral part of a clown's armoury: his own sadness.
There is sadness in most lives, but the antedote is comedy and laughter. Thank God for someone who can make you laugh. Laughter is like good medicine. A merry heart has a continual feast.
Patch Adams made the terminally ill patients laugh in the hospital and got banned as a medical practitioner, but he did more good than the medical profession realised.
I once prayed for a lady called Priscilla who suffered from asthma attacks since she was a little girl. When I finished blowing into her mouth she was at first upset and then realised that she normally pumps air into her mouth with the asthma pump and then she started laughing until we all laughed with her. Dr. Sachs, a doctor in our church in Milnerton, came forward and explained how laughter is used for chronic asthmatic patients to bring relief.
So at the end of the year, let us lay aside the weight of sadness we might have experienced and let us remember the moments of sunshine and laughter. Let our spirits be revived and perked up again, because the Joy of the Lord is our strength, after all.
The two of us went into the tent, and the smell of the animals and the dust made me wonder if I should be there at all. I was only 4 years old.
Then the circus master announced the first event and the band played out loud with trumpets and drum rolls and smashing cymbals as the lions came into the cage. The whip cracked and it frightened me.
The people woed and aahd and applauded and I sat rivetted next to my grandma. Then it was the horses with plumes on their heads like ladies in the Pentecostal church choirs that I was used to on Sundays.
And then they sent in the clowns to keep our attention as they changed the scenery and the set.
They had painted faces that looked sad. Their mouths were too large and sagging and their eyes drooped downwards. Their hats were too small and their trousers and boots were too big. Both of them had large red leather gloves on. Inside the gloves were crackers. When they slapped each other through the face the crackers went off. It shocked me and scared me and I started crying. It was too much for a little boy.
'Let's go home Ouma,' I pleaded, 'I don't like all this fighting!'
Ouma oblidged. It was the last time she ever asked me to go to the circus.
I thought about this moment and thought about watching Cirque du Soleil in Disneyland with my friend Brian and his wife.
The absolute artistry and agility of the performers astounded me and the timing of every moment to the music was mind boggling. The trampoline act took my breath away. I hurt my back on a trampoline when I was 14 and suffered back trouble for many years until the Lord healed me completely. I tried to do a backward somersault without any coaching. Dangerous.
But today I thought of that first visit to the circus and today is the last day of the year. Tomorrow will be the start of another year, a new year, a brand new year.
And I thought of the sad looking clowns.
Clowns make people laught, don't they? Why are their faces always sad?
Charlie Chaplin,Peter Sellers and all the other comedy stars, Gene Wilder, they all have a note of sadness to their lives. It is almost an integral part of a clown's armoury: his own sadness.
There is sadness in most lives, but the antedote is comedy and laughter. Thank God for someone who can make you laugh. Laughter is like good medicine. A merry heart has a continual feast.
Patch Adams made the terminally ill patients laugh in the hospital and got banned as a medical practitioner, but he did more good than the medical profession realised.
I once prayed for a lady called Priscilla who suffered from asthma attacks since she was a little girl. When I finished blowing into her mouth she was at first upset and then realised that she normally pumps air into her mouth with the asthma pump and then she started laughing until we all laughed with her. Dr. Sachs, a doctor in our church in Milnerton, came forward and explained how laughter is used for chronic asthmatic patients to bring relief.
So at the end of the year, let us lay aside the weight of sadness we might have experienced and let us remember the moments of sunshine and laughter. Let our spirits be revived and perked up again, because the Joy of the Lord is our strength, after all.
Friday, 24 December 2010
Walking on Water
While Jesus was busy praying in the fourth watch, early in the morning He saw the disciples in the storm and went to them walking on water. It is not humanly possible to walk on water. I once met a man on a plane who was an engineer that designed film stunts for his son who was a Hollywood stunt man. He was drawing a picture of a car bursting through the glass of a third storey in a building. The car travelled at a certain speed and carried on going horizontally to the ground for a while before nose diving. When I showed interest he explained to me that the speed of the vehicle breaks the force of gravity just like an aeroplane takes off, but when the car looses speed it begins to go down. So he positioned the cushions to catch the falling car quite a distance from the edge of the building. Then I realised that Jesus must have walked very fast to get to the disciples in the storm. The lake is 12 miles long and they were in the middle, which means they were about 6 miles from Jesus. He came to them suddenly. They thought it was a ghost and did not recognise Him. The solutions to our problems often come in a form we do not recognise because we are so full of fear. When we break our fears, we can believe! Then the very things that want to swallow us up and destroy us, have to serve us to get to the other side to reach our destination!
When the disciples willingly received Him into the boat they were at the other side of the lake, immediately! This miracle of transportation is often overlooked when we read the Bible. It was a supernatural event. The same speed and force with which Jesus approached them in the boat transported them to the other side.
Isaiah 1:19: if you are willing and obedient you will eat the good of the land. How long does it take to become willing? It only takes a moment. How long does it take to become obedient? It only takes another moment. Our stubbornness and disobedience is like idolatry and witchcraft that prevents us from ‘eating the good of the land’. Why don’t we repent of it and become willing and obedient to do the will of the Father in Heaven?
When the disciples willingly received Him into the boat they were at the other side of the lake, immediately! This miracle of transportation is often overlooked when we read the Bible. It was a supernatural event. The same speed and force with which Jesus approached them in the boat transported them to the other side.
Isaiah 1:19: if you are willing and obedient you will eat the good of the land. How long does it take to become willing? It only takes a moment. How long does it take to become obedient? It only takes another moment. Our stubbornness and disobedience is like idolatry and witchcraft that prevents us from ‘eating the good of the land’. Why don’t we repent of it and become willing and obedient to do the will of the Father in Heaven?
Friday, 10 December 2010
It is December
It is December. December in Cape Town is quite unlike December in any other place. It is summer and sometimes you have hot, sultry summer days, but mostly you have the Cape Doctor, the South Easter, sandblasting your legs and face with the coarse sea sand making it quite uncomfortable to stay on the beach for too long. Even the dainty little shelter canvasses they sell at all the out-and-about stores cannot withstand one gust of the South Easter. Beach umbrellas are the first to go rolling like tumble weed in the desert of Arizona.
But kitewurfers and windsurfers from Italy and France love the wind, of course. They cavort effortlessly above the waves and do stints in the air above the wreck at Dolphin Beach. When they hit a surfer or body boarder they refer to it as a blimp in the road. I've been hit by a windsurfer, once, on my back. The fin gaffed into my back and left a painful afterglow which lasted for weeks.
But today is one of those other kind of days...yesterday too, it started off with mist rolling in from the icy Atlantic on shore and it covers Milnerton first. The mist sneaks into the house like an old house friend and you smell the sea in your lounge. That is one reason why I live here: I love that smell, and I love the mists. Normally it turns out to be a warm day, a windless day if there is early morning mist. But you never can tell with Cape weather: like Sting sings: four seasons in a day!
And then of course one hears the blast of the fog horns from the ships lingering in the bay. Their souns is particularly eerie at night, of course. Like a foreign language being spoken by some prehistoric monsters calling out to each other without knowning where the other one is located.
A fog horn says so many things: hey, I'm over here! Hey, where are you? Mind you don't bump into me unnecessarily! Give me a wide berth! Let's play! Do you like my sound? Is anyone else out there?
Imagine a mist horn symphony!
But it also says, I'm alone out here...it has an attractive, lonesome, scary sound to it, and yet it is merely a mechanical device used to warn other ships of one's whereabouts.
But I love the sound of the fog horn...I lay awake at night to listen to it. It is so different from the hooter of a train or a car. It has depth to it. It is deep calling unto deep. Somewhere deep inside we respond to it without words and reply, i am here, it is ok.
The voice of God deep inside us is often like the old fog horn. It is comforting yet alarming; unexpected and yet desired; vitally necessary and still surprising; deep and yet so clear. It speaks to us when we most need it. It warns when temptation comes. It encourages when energy is low. It heals when there is hurt. It inspires when life overwhelms us.
Ah, the voice of God in the mists of the spirit realm! How we need it! How we long for it! How we ache without it.
May this December not merely be a time to remember, but may we hear the fog horn of the voice of God speaking to us in so many ways that we will enter the New Year with renewed energy, faith and hope. And the greatest of all is love...agape divine love, unconditional love, love so great that pen and poet cannot describe it. For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that whoever believes in him should not perish but have ever lasting life. Hear that fog horn sound in your own spirit and pass it on to someone else in the mists of time.
It is December...
But kitewurfers and windsurfers from Italy and France love the wind, of course. They cavort effortlessly above the waves and do stints in the air above the wreck at Dolphin Beach. When they hit a surfer or body boarder they refer to it as a blimp in the road. I've been hit by a windsurfer, once, on my back. The fin gaffed into my back and left a painful afterglow which lasted for weeks.
But today is one of those other kind of days...yesterday too, it started off with mist rolling in from the icy Atlantic on shore and it covers Milnerton first. The mist sneaks into the house like an old house friend and you smell the sea in your lounge. That is one reason why I live here: I love that smell, and I love the mists. Normally it turns out to be a warm day, a windless day if there is early morning mist. But you never can tell with Cape weather: like Sting sings: four seasons in a day!
And then of course one hears the blast of the fog horns from the ships lingering in the bay. Their souns is particularly eerie at night, of course. Like a foreign language being spoken by some prehistoric monsters calling out to each other without knowning where the other one is located.
A fog horn says so many things: hey, I'm over here! Hey, where are you? Mind you don't bump into me unnecessarily! Give me a wide berth! Let's play! Do you like my sound? Is anyone else out there?
Imagine a mist horn symphony!
But it also says, I'm alone out here...it has an attractive, lonesome, scary sound to it, and yet it is merely a mechanical device used to warn other ships of one's whereabouts.
But I love the sound of the fog horn...I lay awake at night to listen to it. It is so different from the hooter of a train or a car. It has depth to it. It is deep calling unto deep. Somewhere deep inside we respond to it without words and reply, i am here, it is ok.
The voice of God deep inside us is often like the old fog horn. It is comforting yet alarming; unexpected and yet desired; vitally necessary and still surprising; deep and yet so clear. It speaks to us when we most need it. It warns when temptation comes. It encourages when energy is low. It heals when there is hurt. It inspires when life overwhelms us.
Ah, the voice of God in the mists of the spirit realm! How we need it! How we long for it! How we ache without it.
May this December not merely be a time to remember, but may we hear the fog horn of the voice of God speaking to us in so many ways that we will enter the New Year with renewed energy, faith and hope. And the greatest of all is love...agape divine love, unconditional love, love so great that pen and poet cannot describe it. For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that whoever believes in him should not perish but have ever lasting life. Hear that fog horn sound in your own spirit and pass it on to someone else in the mists of time.
It is December...
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