Finding God in Unexpected Ways and Places

Finding God in Unexpected Ways and Places.

Finding God in Unexpected Ways and Places

Finding God in Unexpected Ways and Places.

Finding God in Unexpected Ways and Places

I was born in Rhodesia, while I’ve lived in Zimbabwe for the most part of my life.  Zimbabwe is not only the place I call home, it’s the land where my roots receive vital nutrients and where my branches are given ample opportunities to be pruned.

I can’t recall a time when my country has ever experienced true peace.  By the time I arrived in this world, a raging war was sweeping across the land.  Fathers, husbands, sons and brothers vanished into the dense bush and “gomos.”  –  While some made their way back home, they would be changed forever.  Sadly, many never had that opportunity.

Independence came in 1980, triggering panic.  Ultimately this resulted in a mass exodus…  Folks fled in droves, settling on foreign branches scattered across the globe.  While, for reasons of their own, there were those who chose to stay.  I cannot speak on behalf of those who did not flee, however, I can speak on behalf of my precious late father.  Not only a 3^rd generation Rhodesian/Zimbawean, also a cattle rancher, lover of wild life, quiet life and family life.  A man who thought things through, usually while riding his horse across vast distances of land, while checking his fences and beloved Brahman cattle, canopied beneath Mopani trees.  It was after one of these “thinking rides” that he returned home, and with the weight clearly lifted off his broad shoulders, announced,  “We’re not leaving our land.”

His beloved cattle ranch in Sanyati soon became completely surrounded by Tribal Trust Land.  Poachers had free reign and he found himself back in the saddle.  Thinking.

In 1989 his precious herd of cattle were sent off to CSC.  I vividly remember seeing his tired eyes glaze over with tears as he stood in the dusty manure of his kraal, watching them being loaded.  That was the first time I had ever witnessed my hero in obvious agony.  I would not see it again until much later on in life.

Following in the clouds of dust behind the cattle trucks, along the narrow and windy farm road, were the rest of us.  With a mixture of snot, tears and the beloved dust of home smudged across our faces.  No one uttered a word.  We were all deeply entrenched in our own thoughts while etching memories.

We arrived at our new home, a few kilometers out of Kadoma town.  Comprising of a derelict dairy farm in dire need of immense TLC.  In hindsight this was the best thing, as it kept my dad’s mind off his ranch.  Within 10 years he’d built up his herd, built a mechanized dairy, feeding lots, silage pits and was growing enough feed to sustain his cows for most of the year.

It was during this semi-peaceful phase of life in Zimbabwe, that I had met an intriguing geologist, with a strange accent from New Zealand.  Mike had been out on an 18 month contract with the company he was working for, BHP.  While they thought he was working on his exploration project at Hartley Platinum, he was actually exploring in a completely different area, and it was not for platinum, it was for a “Sheila” – Anyway, we married within a year of meeting and by then his contract had concluded.  Having never been off the African continent by the age of 22, compounded by the scenic NZ calendars and post cards that my mum-in-law had been sending over, I could think of no better place to settle than NZ.  Surely this was as close to heaven as I’d ever manage to get here on earth!  Unlike my dad, I did not mount a horse prior to making this decision, it was made and that was the end of story.

Our day for departure arrived.  Mike and I drove down to the farm-house, to bid our farewells.  Upon arrival I found my mum in complete distress.  Her heart was broken.  We also realized that my dad was not at home, my mum informed us that he’d gone to the dairy.  We found him there amongst his black and white cows, which by now he’d grown to love as he did his Brahmans (although he’d never have admitted that). Walking up to him, I saw the same tears I had seen many years before; standing in the kraal loading his cattle.  The scene of us huddled together in the kraal resembled that of elephants, paying their final respects to a family member.  Silent tears, gentle touches and finally the turning of backs.

We arrived in Auckland in June 1993 after visiting the UK, Thailand, Hong Kong and Australia.  Exhaustion had set in, yet the excitement of my new life was keeping me going.  Neat green fields dotted with sheep and cattle.  Farm gates decorated with fresh produce and an ‘honesty box’ was enough to calm any doubts about this move which I may have had.  The drive from Auckland airport to my in-laws dairy farm (yes, another one) was filled with much laughter, as I attempted reading out loud the Maori names of road signs and other…  eventually Mike explained that I was not reading Shona.

After a couple of weeks the green fields started looking less green, the mountains not quite so spectacular and with the prospect of Mike finding a job in his field highly unlikely, depression set in.  To help lift my spirits he decided to take me on a trip to the South Island.  On the ferry, midway across Cooks Strait, a wave of nausea hit me.  Leaving me almost too weak to get off at Picton.  We settled in a lovely hotel for the night and after a warm bath I was feeling well enough to think about travelling the next day.  We spent 2 weeks in the South Island and my companion “Little Black Cloud” seemed to have lifted enough for me to appreciate the beauty surrounding me.  Although my family back home, were creeping into my thoughts more often than I would have liked.

The horrendous nausea returned as we crossed Cooks Strait on our way home to Auckland, vowing to myself that I will NEVER get back on any floating vessel on an ocean again!   By the time we arrived back to the folk’s farm, I was feeling like death warmed up.  If anything, the nausea was getting worse.  It finally relented after 9 months!

Within those 9 months, although I did not find myself a horse, I did find space to think.   I had known by then that Mike was not convinced either that NZ was the right place for us to be.   I phoned home and told my parents about our decision.   My mum’s screeches echoed around the whole room, my dad asked to speak to Mike.  They spoke for ages and all he really said was, “You kids must come home!”

Evidence of the new member of family was plain for all to see, as we arrived back at Harare International Airport.  I don’t remember anything of our journey back home; in fact, I don’t even know how we got back home.  My mind must have shut down allowing rest to finally take over.

Our son Michael was born in February 1994 while we were still living with my parents.  The next 2 years were spent fighting court cases, to keep Mike in Zimbabwe.  He was classified an “alien” – with no regard to the fact that he was married to a Zimbabwean. On many occasions he was given 24 hours notice to get out of Zimbabwe.  During this time, despite all the chaos and confusion, my dad decided that he’d help to set Mike up with a mine.   Being always the optimist and believer of ‘living in the moment’ that is what happened.  We eventually won our legal battle, making Mike the first “alien” to become a permanent resident of Zimbabwe, under the new law, which incidentally, was lifted a few months after he won the case.

Life calmed for a while, we were able to breath and as a result, in 1997 our daughter Talitha, crowned with a golden halo, made her appearance.  We finally moved into our own home that we had managed to build in town.

In early 2000 the wind of change blew in from several direction.s   Not only did a severe drought strike our area but once again, the sound of thunder, in the form of wielding machetes and bullets echoed across the farmlands.   Again people became fearful and enraged, again thousands left.  Again, my dad, although concerned about the safety of his family, did not spend much energy dwelling on this situation, instead, he and his other dairy farmer mates, including Clive O’Riley, Charles Campher, (who was tragically killed in a light aircraft accident at Buffalo Downs, later that year) Jan Hart (whose wife was brutally murdered 3 years ago, while he was enjoying a game of rubgy on TV, over at his mates house) and Danie Van Niekerk, (who, sadly passed away last week, probably as a result of a heart attack – induced by still trying to keep his dairy farm alive, under present farming conditions) spent many hours in my mums tranquil garden, drinking coffee and finding solutions to help one another out to keep their dairy “mombies” alive till the next drop of rain arrived   These men were there for one another and worked together.   Not only did they do it, they triumph anted!

In August of that year, Britney our youngest little “golden haloed” daughter was born. If I had any doubts creeping back about where I should be, it was probably then.  “How could I raise children in a country where people were being murdered?  Where fuel shortages were so chronic, making it near impossible to travel to Harare in case of a medical emergency?   Where basic foods stuffs were only to be found across the country’s boarders?   Where money was vanishing away into thin air by the second…?”   As though that was not enough to deal with, the nagging possibility of me being an alcoholic had become to surface more and more…

In 2004 my precious dad had become quite ill.  He’d been suffering from IBS for about 15 years and this was now eating away at him.  He was sent for scans on a Friday morning, learning later that afternoon that he has a “mass” in his colon.  Although he was admitted into St Ann’s hospital that evening, the surgeon decided that the chances are it’s a tumor and being almost weekend, it can wait till Monday morning.  Which is when he scheduled my dad for surgery.  Unfortunately, the “tumor” was a cyst and it erupted early Sunday morning.  He was raced over to the Avenues Clinic for what now became emergency surgery.  Tragically, the infection had already set in and 6 weeks later he passed away from gangrene.   During his time in hospital he was fixed to a respirator, making it impossible for him to talk, he would, however, write down his thoughts and communicate to us in this way.  One of these “conversations” we had was about the farm invasions.  His note to us, “Don’t be angry or bitter when the time comes that the farm is “reclaimed” – I am leaving them a roll of barbed wire to pull through their asses!”  Well, the time did come in 2010 and they have done exactly as my dad had predicted!

His funeral was held on the farm.  The day of his funeral, as the cars were making their way to the burial site, it was difficult to ignore the behavior of the cows.  They went absolutely berserk!  To this day, people who attended his funeral remember how the “mombies” ran in all directions, some in circles, while mooing incessantly.   They knew and I’ll, never forget.

In 2005 I could no longer ignore my suspicions, it was confirmed, “My name is Riana and I am an alcoholic.”  More frightening than that, I was about to loose not only my husband, but also my children.  Mike could no longer watch me destroy my life and very calmly explained that he’s making plans to leave and he’ll take the children with him.  While everyone’s ‘rock bottom’ is different, that was mine.  Again my mind shut down and my body went numb.  Suicide seemed like quite a good option, however, fear of botching the job was too great.  After all, I’d already messed up so many things in my life, I’d probably mess that up too!  Tablets?  No! (while I liked being drunk, I hated feeling drowsy) Slitting wrists?  No! (Too messy) – actually, in hindsight, I don’t think I really wanted to die; all I wanted was an end to my problem.  A problem I had no idea on how to fix.

I’d been raised in a Christian home, where the mention of God was never far away and where I’d seen my parents on many occasions praying together, I had come to believe in God’s existence from a young age and even after a session with my bottle, would climb into bed and not be able to sleep until I’d said my prayers.   (Goodness knows how God understood those ramblings).   I decided that if there was ever a time I needed God to prove that He is who He says He is, it was now.   Instead of dust, snot and tears, my face was now covered in mascara, booze vomit, snot and tears.  Curled up in a fetal position, rocking from side to side, barely audible, I asked Him to pull me out of the hellhole I had created for myself.  I lay there waiting for something spectacular, perhaps a bolt of lightening, to strike down and make it all vanish.  Instead, I felt a sense of calm.

I can’t help now, but to smile at the irony of this setting, as I remember going to the N.G Kerk (Dutch Reformed Church) in my childhood years.   Church going families set Sundays aside for the Mercedes Benz to be taken on a church outing.  Upon arrival the occupants would present themselves immaculately.  The men wore suits, complete with tie and jacket.  Their shoes shone to the point of becoming a clever tool to capture their Cheshire smiles, while their heads were bowed in prayer.  The ladies wore wide rimmed hats, usually with a bouquet of flowers, more suited for a wedding table, precariously balanced on the side of the rim.  Taylor-made Crimpoline dresses; flaunting brooches of pink pearls and precious stones glinted in the morning sun as they walked gaily up the highly polished steps of the church, legs clad in nylon stockings and expensive beige court shoes.   The children were smaller reflections of their parents.  Any disheveled hair, resulting from fighting with a sibling on the backseat of the car, was combed flat minutes before arriving at church.  Pretty hair clips of butterflies and fairies we neatly arranged in the girls freshly washed hair.  Finally, as the well-oiled Mercedes came to a purring halt under one of the many sprawling trees in the church car park, dads would pull out their hankies from their pocket, drearily handing it over their shoulder to the back.  The kids knew instinctively to give their faces a good wipe; just in case.  The hanky would be handed back over the chair.  Meticulously he’d fold it into a perfect envelope shape before inserting it into his well pressed pocket, giving himself a small pat as he was doing so.

A far cry from the way I presented myself to the Lord on that dark day!  Yet, I felt His presence more intently than at any other time in my life while perched upright, with my frilly crocheted long socks, dangling neatly down towards the floor; surrounded by ladies and gentlemen singing Psalms and Hymns in perfect unison.

Ultimately, I was led to a Christian Counselling Therapist, where I was completely delivered from alcoholism, although my physical obsession had been taken care of, I was still left to do the work in order to recover from the choices I had made.   I thank God that Mike never got as far as leaving.  I became a Counsellor 4 years later;  working mainly in the field of Alcohol/Substance Abuse and Systemic Counselling.

I have now been sober for 8 years and remain a ‘work in progress.’

While coming to grips with my new status of being an alcoholic and working to get out of the mess I’d created for myself, my sister rang me up in tears.  Initially all I heard were sobs.  Finally she managed to slowly get her words out, “I’ve got ‘that’ disease!”  My heart sank, she was in the Lowveld and I was in Kadoma.  All I wanted was to be there with her.  To hold her and cry with her.  Carin was referred to see a surgeon and oncologist in Harare a day later, where I finally was able to meet up with her and hold her trembling body.   From that moment I knew that neither of us would ever be the same again.  There she was fighting for her life to beat breast cancer, while I was holding onto my own tattered strings, trying to be strong for her.  Yet, even through the lenses of our own diseased bodies we managed to see the funny side to it all.  We laughed more than we cried.  (It was during this time that Mike began referring to us as, “The hyena sisters!”)  The chemo days, in particular, were filled with laughter and the nurses soon became intrigued as to what we were laughing about.  Friends popped in, announcing, “We can’t stay long!”  Only to end up leaving with the two of us 5 hours later, once every drop of red and green chemo poison had coursed into her veins.

Not long after her first chemo treatment Carin’s hair started falling out.  She came over to my house late one afternoon with the biggest pair of scissors I’d ever seen, and called my then 6 year old daughter, with a cheeky grin Carin said, “Brit, take these scissors and cut your aunties hair, but you must cut it into a great style, O.K!”  Knowing full well that Mike, with his sheep shearers, was standing next in line.  As a result we rolled around in laughter for the duration of her head being transformed into that of a Bandicoot!

Carin has now been in remission for 8 years and her hair’s been styled beautifully!

A month ago she phoned me again.  “Hey sister, we’ve been kicked off the farm.  He brought us our letter this morning and we’ve got 3 months to move our belongings.   Don’t ask me, where to?”  She continued, “Also, can you believe this?  He wants to move into the house with us, while we get organized, so that he can keep an eye on ‘his’ farm!”  As I write this, they are packing and looking for a place to live.  The “mombies” have already been slaughtered.  The sheep are being relocated to a friend’s plot in Marondera.   He obviously saw something in Carin’s eyes that has deterred him from taking the “lodging” matter any further.

I’ve learning to make peace with areas in life I’ve got no control over.  I’ve learnt that my relationship with God, family and friends are all that truly matter here on earth.  I’ve learnt that it’s the very things which we strive so hard in life to obtain, believing that they will fulfill our ‘broken vessels’, that end up being, “Just another roll of barbed wire, waiting to be pulled through our ass!”

No matter where in the world we are, nothing will be any different so long as our attitude remains the same.  No!  Zimbabwe is not perfect, but it’s home for my family, friends and I.  Together we’ve helped one another cross bridges, swim flowing rivers, climb mountains and together we’ve rested in the shade of Msasa trees and cooled off in the summer rain.

My focus has changed over the years, some people may call it ‘Head in the Sand Syndrome’ I believe it’s called, ‘Finding God in Unexpected Ways and Places.’

May each one of you make peace with your unique journey.  It’s only then that we are able to see the beauty along the way.

Much love, Riana  xxx

Changing Beliefs, Changes Emotions

Changing Beliefs, Changes Emotions.

Changing Beliefs, Changes Emotions

Dual groups embarked on a treacherous hike,

Attaining an extraordinary summit remained in sight.

Weary bodies pushed on ahead,

Legs and limbs, gave way to lead.

One group remained joyful, strong in mind,

Excited at the magnificent vista they’d find.

The promise of splendor spurred them on,

Anticipating glory, kept them strong.

 

Group two, could scarcely move,

Paralysed in bone and groove.

Their spirits sank lower, anticipating defeat,

Believing the fate they were certain to meet.

So why you ask, “Such a difference in attitude?

For some elation, others a sober mood.

How is it possible for some to find such valor?

While other’s succumb to repugnant pallor.”

The group consumed with joy and delight,

Had their minds focused on an extraordinary site.

For they were bird watcher, believing to find,

An astonishing creature; one of a kind.

The group consumed with intolerable fear,

Had their mind focused on what lay near.

For they were building gallows, complete with noose,

From this they would never come loose.

The answer lies not in the journey undertook,

A concept often misunderstood.

Emotions are dependent on what we believe,

Changing a thought, changes what we perceive.

The road we’re on is not our nemesis,

What we believe, think, say, determines our precipice.

Changing our thoughts, changes our belief,

In turn, changes our world and what we perceive.

Searching For Answers

Searching For Answers.

Searching For Answers

SEARCHING FOR ANSWERS

 

When God painted Africa, His pallet was loaded,

With one gallant brush stroke, the colours exploded.

Deep golden yellows, accentuated fire red hues,

Swirling through splashes of crimsons, violets and blues.

With His hard bristled brush, He softened and blended,

The landscape He created was perfectly rendered.

 

An exquisite creation, designed by His loving hands,

Snow capped mountains, ravines and deep desert sands.

Giant baobab trees, with roots searching deep,

Remarkably oblivious, to the sweltering heat.

Storm lilies protruding, in petals of gossamer pink,

Their beauty shines briefly; alas they fade in a blink.

 

Hulking elephants, devotedly follow ancestral ways,

Respecting their elders, from bygone days.

Imperious golden clad cats, guide mother and cubs,

In directions of safety and prime gorging hubs.

Honey bees, active in their search of sweet bouquets,

Ensuring they would be nourished on cold winter days.

 

Fresh morning dew, glinting on blades of emerald green,

Beckoning a new day, untarnished, clear and pristine.

Blistering heat, beats down on dry thirsty land,

Buried beneath, rest giant seeds preserved in sand.

The sun finally sets; spangling stars illuminate the darkened sky,

Study God’s creation, when your mind is consumed with “WHY?”

 

 

African Village

African Village.

African Village

An African village, birthed from water and soil,

Patterned earthenware vessels, bubble and boil.

Flaming logs flicker high,

Crackling forth into the midnight sky.

Somber men, taut in face and sinew,

Gather in a circle, dim in view.

Discussions are held in deep low tones,

Occasionally interrupted by the throwing of bones.

They speak of their day, the hunt and kill,

Out doing one another in power and skill.

They speak of the woman, the young and old,

Placing them in ranks – frail, naïve and bold.

They speak of the young ones, knowing each’s name,

Making those accountable, who’re to blame.

They seek sage men for counsel, when they’re not clear,

What path to follow?  Which direction to steer?

This village birthed from water and soil,

Held together by hands of men, woman and children, who toil.

Reveals many clues to where we’ve gone wrong,

Losing sense of our purpose and where we belong.

FEAR

FEAR

 

Do you sense a nagging tug within your belly indicating change in your life is required, yet you’re feeling “stuck”?   Are frustrations and anxieties sweeping you away into whirlpools of despair?   If so, FEAR has latched on to your psyche, imbibing away at your physical, emotional and mental reservoirs of energy.

 

Fear is not only responsible for keeping you paralyzed within a hostile vacuum, it’s also connected to every irrational, antisocial and dysfunctional behavior known to mankind. From the psychotic skinhead murderer, to the myopic controlling spouse, and everything in between and on either side, a common thread connects them all.  FEAR .  

 

 The most destructive, and indeed prevalent fear, dictating decisions today, is the fear of insignificance.   This fear, wrapped in a neat parcel of stealth and power, unequivocally is the biggest destroyer of lives, not only our own but those we share it with.

 

“Unceasingly running back and forth with a broken vessel, in an attempt to fill a leaking tank with water from a marred source”, is NO different to chasing after superficial “things”, with a broken spirit in order to fill a deprived soul.  No amount of buying, bullying, rushing, fretting, shouting, screaming… is ever going to fill the void, in fact, those very behaviors, whether designed consciously or unconsciously, to feed the gapping wound, ultimately, will be responsible for setting up the most spectacular falls of all falls!  In effect, they insure we receive the very thing we’ve been fighting against the longest and hardest.

 

There is only one source where we can find the truth about “Who we are?  Why we are? and How we are”?  That truth is found through God.  He Created us, therefore not only does He know and understand the minutest details hidden deep within, He is the only One who knows how to heal, restore and maintain what He created.  He is our constant spring of Living Water.  With Him there is no chasing, no thirst and never, an emptiness.  Staying focused on God, takes our focus off the deceptive distractions of the world, thus enabling the freedom to make decisions based on His Will, with His Peace, Joy and Grace.   

 

“Perfect LOVE drives away FEAR”, and there is no greater LOVE than that of God, after all, “Who are you ready to sacrifice your child for?”-  In that you have your answer to how much YOU ARE WORTH!