Chapter four.
Moving on.
I was praying a lot about getting a job, but my wife was thinking about changing hers. One day, she spotted an advertisement in the Plymouth newspaper. It basically said, “Director wanted for the YWCA”. After prayer, we decided she should go for it, although she had no experience as a director. She was called up to London for an interview.
I knew something was going on as soon as she returned. Apparently, the job was only advertised in Plymouth due to a clerical error, and they gave her the job without even taking up references. But she had even more news: the position was based in Germany, a small detail which had somehow been omitted from the advert. It was an attachment to the British Army over there, and came with officer’s quarters. Of course, the Army do background checks, and will not permit convicted criminals on their property. But as we saw this opportunity as God ‘moving in mysterious ways’, we rather expected he would take care of that, too. And so I got myself a passport, and we moved to Germany.
Paula settled into her new job very quickly. I, on the other hand, didn’t have the first idea what I was supposed to do over there. My daily prayer became, “Come on God, give us a clue!”
One day, a Baptist minister of my acquaintance phoned me from Plymouth. To be frank, I wasn’t that keen on him. Anyone who got that upset about losing a game of ‘Risk’ shouldn’t be in ministry, or so I thought. Anyhow, he started prattling on about a trip he’d made to Romania, which was still in a mess after their revolution. He was going on about the plight of the orphans, how they were dying, and how they desperately needed help. I sat there and thought, “Yes, but why are you telling me all this?” As soon as I thought that, he said, “I’ll tell you why I’m telling you all this. God wants you to know. And he wants to know what you are going to do about it!”
Well, I took immediate action. I hung up on him. Then I spent some time explaining to God why I shouldn’t be involved, just to make sure he knew why it couldn’t possibly be his will for me to do anything about it. It was a tour-de-force of self-justification and sloping shoulders, which would make Moses look like a mere enthusiastic amateur by comparison. I started off with the fact that I didn’t even know where Romania was. I couldn’t speak Romanian, or even German. I had no sense of direction, no car, no driving license and no resources. And even if I could communicate with these people, I had all the diplomatic skills of Attila the Hun. I finished my prayer with a flourish:” All things considered, I am the least suitable person – on your entire planet – to work in Romania!”
I worked in Romania for nine years. More about that later, but I want to touch on something which happened while I was in Europe. One morning I woke up, and it was as if God had dumped me. The intimacy had disappeared, the sense of his presence had gone. This was more than a feeling that “Elvis has left the auditorium”, more than a sense of abandonment. It was even more than a feeling of rejection. If I had to compare it with something, it would be bereavement.
It wasn’t just like my prayers weren’t being answered, either. It felt more like they weren’t even being heard – wilfully ignored. I was devastated.
This went on for more than two years. At first, I was shell-shocked, but after a while a thought occurred to me. Even if I never hear from him again, he’s still God. He’s already blessed me so much, I will continue to worship, continue to serve – and try my best….even if I never hear from him again. It was a time during which I came to understand the meaning of “a sacrifice of praise”. It was a desert experience made all the more painful by what I had previously enjoyed. There is an equilibrium in relationships: the more joy you have from them, the more painful they are when you lose them. I felt I’d lost God.
But I learned a lesson from this period. Facts are more important than feelings. God is still God, whether or not I experience his presence.
Later on, I understood that this had been a necessary stage in my spiritual development. It’s a bit like when dad teaches you to ride a bike. He trots along behind you, holding the saddle. You know that, because you keep checking. But there comes a time when you glance over your shoulder, and he’s 20 yards back, watching you. Dad wants you to learn to ride the bike yourself, and he knows the only way you’ll do that is if he lets go, and you keep pedalling.
My first trip to Romania was harrowing. I borrowed a van, a driver who worked for my wife, and I spent about a thousand pounds of her money on supplies. We went to an orphanage where many of the children were tied into cots. Some of them kept screaming, others just incessantly head-butted the bars. The only words the driver said on the way back, were – “I’m never going back there again”. He was so upset, he wouldn’t talk to me. Two weeks later I went back – with the same driver.
Then I started getting the Army involved. Fuel, manpower, vehicles – they were very generous. One time, I went to a depot to scrounge some rations, or “compo” as they call it. The guy in charge looked me up and down, smiled and said, “You can have as much as you can take out of here”….and went on his way. Taking him at his word, I went to the car-park and told my driver to back in and start loading. The transit was sinking by the stern as we left!
I procured all kinds of goodies from the Army. Some of it was directly useful, other things I sold to raise money for the kids. One such consignment was two pallets of high-class toiletries, which had been destined for use by officers. I had no idea why it was surplus to their requirements, and frankly – I didn’t care. I had just the market for that.
There was an English speaking church directly opposite the gates of the Army barracks in Sennelager. It was sandwiched between a bar and a brothel – a little cluster of buildings designed to cater for the needs of soldiers. But the church also doubled as a hotel – it was very large – and the pastor readily agreed to pay 2,000 German Marks for the toiletries.
I had them delivered. Did he pay me? No. Did he pay when I reminded him of his agreement? Not as such. Did he pay when I told him he was effectively stealing from helpless orphans? Even that didn’t move him.
I really can’t tell you how angry I became – and if I could, it wouldn’t be fit to print. I was incandescent with rage. I couldn’t talk to him for fear of what I’d say, and I certainly couldn’t see him, for fear of what I’d do. I was so incensed, I couldn’t even sleep. That’s when I finally heard from God again. He said, “Pray for him”. What!!?? I remember exactly what I said, when God dropped that into my head. I said, “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you strike him dead? Or better still, why not give me five minutes off being a Christian, and I‘ll do the job for you?”
But still, this thought persisted….”pray for him”. In the end, I did. Just a very short prayer, in the hope that God would miss it. I couldn’t bear the thought that God would do something nice for this man. I got a couple of hours sleep that night. The next day, I thought I better repeat the process, and pretty soon it had become a habit. Then I thought I should really include his wife and kids, and then his church and ministry. About this time I got a mystery donation from someone in Berlin – 4,000 Marks. It really was a mystery – I didn’t know anyone in Berlin.
Some months passed, and I was still praying for this pastor. My friend “the bouncer” from Plymouth gave me a call. He said he was meeting a minister at his church in London, and would I like to pop over because he’d have a few hours when he was done with this guy. I agreed, and a couple of days later I’d located the church, which was in the East End. My guy was yet to show, so I sat chatting with the minister. He asked me where I was from, and I told him I was currently living in Germany. I was mildly surprised when he asked me where in Germany, because he didn’t strike me as the sort of bloke who would know anything about geography out of earshot of Bow Bells. Anyhow, I told him. Then he said this: “I ask, because my brother-in-law is out that way. He runs a church opposite a barracks. It’s got a bar on one side and a brothel on the other. Of course, he shouldn’t be doing it – he’s not called, and he’s a bit of a rogue.” I heard a voice say, “He most certainly is called, and we all make mistakes”. It was my voice.
Unbelievable! I spend one day in England, and I meet the brother-in-law of the pastor who robbed me! You’d get shorter odds on winning the marathon with a piano strapped to your back. Even more shocking was my response – I defended him. I had prayed for this man, and I had God’s love for him. I had forgiven him.
As a post-script, I only ever saw that pastor from Germany once more. Ten years later, I had to go to my home town for a couple of days. Inexplicably, my first three choices of hotel were fully booked – despite it being mid-week in winter. I arrived at my fourth choice, to see that pastor on reception. I dropped my bags and hugged him. He had given me so much – he had given me an understanding of forgiveness. Forgiveness is so important that it was the only topic of the Lord’s prayer Jesus expanded upon. It is so important that we have the parable of the unmerciful servant, where the servant has his own debt reinstated for refusing to forgive a debtor. “So will my heavenly father treat each of you, unless you forgive your brother from the heart”.
Forgiveness is about freedom. When we forgive, we are not just meeting a condition of our own forgiveness. We are taking back control of our emotions from someone who has already hurt us. We may still have wounds, but they will be wounds which aren’t poisoned by hatred. What I learned from this experience, is that forgiveness is so beneficial to the one forgiving, it could almost be seen as a selfish act.
Chapter five.
The Hostel
After five years working with orphans, the elderly and churches in Romania, an opportunity presented itself. A large building on a college campus became available. On the plus side, it had four storeys, fifty large rooms and many smaller ones. On the minus side, the roof was falling in, there were significant infestations of small beasties – and the college wanted a lot of money for it – about £125,000. But having prayed about it, I thought I should enter into negotiations. Perhaps a tifle optimistic, as I had no money.
The negotiations lasted three days – I enjoy a good haggle, but even I was getting worn out by this. We eventually came to a settlement. I would get the building, and they would get my Ford Transit. I’d been looking to ditch that anyway, as it kept breaking down.
I got work-parties from the Army to fix the electrics and the plumbing, but there was the matter of the roof. Basically, I needed 27 tons of wood and tiles, and somebody to do the construction. All sourced locally, I estimated I would need £15,000 to get the job done.
What do you do, when you need £15,000 that you don’t have? Obviously, the first thing is to look down the back of the sofa. I came up with 2 German Marks and a pen. Then I thought I’d try prayer. That was more successful.
We used to run a house-group, frequented by soldiers and a few English-speaking Christians. One late night, the doorbell rang. My wife was in bed, and I was just about to go upstairs. “Who is it?”, I asked, not opening the door. “It’s Andy”. (Andy came to the house-group). “What do you want, Andy?” “I’ve been praying”. “That’s what you’re supposed to do, Andy”, I replied, but the door remained firmly shut. “No, you don’t understand. God says I should give you all the money in my bank account”. “Come on in”, I said, as I turned the key.
Andy had a bank statement with him, and wrote a check for the exact amount he had – more than £2,000.
I told my friend Phil about the building needing a roof. Phil was a warrant officer, and he had been my right-hand man for years. He’d come to faith on one of trips to Romania, soon after volunteering. I remember back then, how our car would get swamped by young ladies, every time we stopped for fuel in Hungary. We were always puzzled by the appearance of these smiling, chattering females – they seemed to materialize from nowhere. Then I worked out what was going on: Phil looked the sort of guy who would gladly pay for feminine company, and I looked the sort of guy who would have to pay. But my friend had been posted back to the UK. A couple of days after Andy’s visit, Phil rang: “Have you got the money for the roof, yet?” “No, but I’m on the way”. There was a pause, then Phil said, “I’ll get a loan ahead of my severance pay, and I’ll lend you £10,000. I’ll call you when it’s been wired over”.
A couple of hours later, he was back in touch. “ The money has gone through. But a thought occurs to me”. “What’s the thought, Phil?” And Phil says, “You’ll never be able to pay it back”. To which I replied, “No problem – I never said I would pay it back, only that I’d borrow it.” “In that case”, Phil said, laughing “we’ll call it a gift and you can claim the tax back”.
The roof went on, and the youngster started coming in. There was a group of ten, who had been thrown out of an orphanage in the mountains, because they had turned eighteen. They only had the clothes they stood up in, and they were sent to us by a lady who was determined to keep them out of the hands of pimps and traffickers. One was pregnant, but had no idea of the connection between sex and pregnancy. None of them could do so much as boil an egg. We decided we must do more than just put a roof over their heads. We began looking at options for further schooling, training and work.
In the early days of our hostel, something happened of which I am deeply ashamed. I had two locals working for me there. One was fine, the other was a lapsed Christian, who had taken to stealing from me, and the orphans. I phoned this guy from Germany, to let him know I would be there the following night. Only the first line of the conversation was normal. “Hi John, just to let you know I’ll be there around 11 tomorrow night”. For whatever reason, John launched into an aggressive and abusive tirade. And it just kept on getting worse. I put up with this for 45 minutes before hanging up. Clearly, he had to go – and I would tell him that tomorrow night.
As soon as my car arrived at the hostel, a young man ran over and said, “John is dying!” “What?” “He’s dying. He was shouting at someone on the phone yesterday, and when the call finished he collapsed – there was blood everywhere! He’s had some sort of massive haemorrhage, and the doctors are saying he’ll be dead by dawn”.
I didn’t reply. I got my stuff out of the car, and went straight to bed. It had been a long day. I simply didn’t care. I just thought he was a nasty piece of work, and I for one wouldn’t miss him. I wince as I write these words. It seems to me now that I was the more despicable of the two of us – at least he wasn’t claiming to follow Christ.
But I went to bed, and swiftly off to sleep. Around 2a.m. I was suddenly very much awake. There was a storm raging, but that wasn’t what had woken me up. God had woken me up, and he was telling me to go and pray. I quickly fell to my knees, but just as quickly realised that this was not what was required. I had to go and pray. I had to go the hospital.
Now I didn’t know where the hospital was, and probably wouldn’t find it even with a map. There were no street-lights. But I know when I’ve heard from God, and I was walking in the driving rain within minutes.
As I walked, I found myself worshipping God in a way I never have before. Despite the circumstances, I was overwhelmed with joy – and bellowed his praises at the top of my voice…not that there was anyone around to hear me. I didn’t forget about John – but I had an undeniable certainty that God was going to heal him, and I praised God for that, as well.
I eventually reached the hospital, though I had no idea how I found it. I walked into his room. His brother was there, mopping up blood with a sheet. John sat up, and the bleeding stopped immediately.
I can’t imagine of anyone less deserving than me, to witness such an act of God’s grace. And yet it has been my privilege to witness a small number of other medically-attested healings from terminal conditions, since that one. But I’m not just puzzled by God allowing me to see such things, I am also perplexed by the recipients of this kindness, which have included two elderly men, a thief and a drug addict. I am forced to conclude that God doesn’t administer healing on the basis of worthiness – any more than those he chooses to involve in the process are somehow worthy.
I only saw John once more. A month later, I returned to the hostel – to be greeted by the news that John was back in hospital. He’d been moonlighting on my time with my equipment, and had lost three fingers to a circular saw. I thought I’d pay him a visit. I only had one question for him – “Are you ready to repent?” He said yes, and I knew he was lying….and told him so. He didn’t deny it, and my last words to him were, “You’ll get used to writing with your left hand – I do it all the time”.
My friend Phil left the Army, and moved to Romania to run the hostel. While the hostel was a fantastic resource for the orphans, it did not meet with the approval of the various authorities in that country. It antagonized them, because it was seen as a direct criticism of how they were treating their own youngsters. At different times, national and local government bodies – even the fire brigade and the Romanian Army – had said they would close it down. But it was a door that no man could shut. I used to travel down there to meet with the representatives of these organisations. I’d listen patiently to how they proposed to close us down, in the full and certain knowledge that it wasn’t going to happen. But I felt obliged to at least pretend to be interested in their plans.
About this time, I took a dozen or so soldiers on a reconnaissance trip, to find a route to Albania for an aid expedition. The C.O. of my local regiment was a Christian, and he’d managed to get hold of some Army surplus medical supplies and equipment (from memory, enough to kit out half a medium-size hospital). But he wanted us to keep him up to speed, and we made a detour to Thessaloniki to phone him from the consulate.
While the Lieutenant spoke with him, I was looking at another visitor in the office. Agitated, obviously miserable – he seemed just the sort of guy who would benefit from the gospel message. So I engaged him in conversation. He said, “I am a Christian – that’s the problem”. “How so?” I enquired. He continued, “God told me to get a bus, fill it with aid, and take it to Eastern Europe. So I obeyed. I have had endless mechanical breakdowns. In Yugoslavia, my bus was machine-gunned by whatever side controlled that area – and to top it all, when we got here my bus was impounded by the Greek customs, because they think I’m going to sell this stuff – not give it – to the Albanians. They want me to pay £2,000 duty. I’ve come to the consulate for help”.
I considered this for a moment. Then I said, “Are you really sure God told you to load up this bus and drive it to Albania?” There was a pause. “Well, actually – he told me to take it to Romania, but I thought they needed it more here”.
Unbelievable! This man’s God is just so out of touch with what’s going on. He’s sitting somewhere in heaven- in his flared trousers and kipper tie – listening to the Osmonds on his eight-track stereo, and he hasn’t a clue about what’s happening, or who needs what. And this out of touch, out of date God needs this guy to bring him up to speed, and correct his misunderstandings. So I reminded him about the breakdowns, and the target practice and the tax-bill. “Aren’t you getting the message, pal?”
I asked him when he would have got to the Romanian border, if he’d done as he was instructed. He told me, and I said “If you’d got there then, I was at the border myself. And I could have given you this”- I took a piece of paper from my top pocket. “It’s the address of the people who need your gear, and you could have had it that day. But you had to come all the way down here to see me, didn’t you?” Finally, I had met another Christian capable of stupidity comparable to my own. It felt good.