TO GOD ALONE BE THE GLORY!

A story of three Jameses
("But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us." 2 Corinthians 4:7 King James Bible)

As a slightly different version of this story has previously appeared in Sharing – the Order of Saint Luke magazine – I was reluctant to comply with requests for its re-publication. However, upon reflecting on the many things that have gladdened my heart, I am happy to submit this once more — for the encouragement of anyone who is sick and may not believe! But first, for the benefit of anyone who is not familiar with the OSL, I must explain that The International Order of St. Luke the Physician is an ecumenical organization dedicated to the Christian healing ministry.

Before leaving on a mission trip to South Africa some years ago, I had been given permission to translate the St. Luke Order of Service into Afrikaans, as I was heading to the Diamond fields of Kimberley in the Province of North Cape, where about 70 percent of the people are Afrikaans-speaking. Although I had begun to make quite encouraging progress before I left, I needed to know that I was not simply producing an accurate translation but was, at the same time, preserving both the spirit and the beautiful language which are the essence of the service.

Shortly before setting out on my journey – Vancouver to London/Heathrow (stand-by), Heathrow to Johannesburg (firm-booking), and then Johannesburg to Kimberley (again stand-by) – I left the door of my dishwasher open one day as I dashed to answer the phone, and, having forgotten about it, ran full-tilt into the corner of the door as I re-entered the kitchen. The deep hole this left in my shin seemed to have healed with remarkable rapidity until, only two days before I was due to leave, my leg began to swell.

Cellulitis

(Not my leg!' For illustration only. Never leave the door of the dishwasher open!)

Initially antibiotics appeared to be working, but on the day of my departure the infection flared up so alarmingly that my doctor friend, who looked in on her way to her office early that morning, tried to dissuade me from undertaking the trip until I was better. However, when she realized that I was absolutely determined, she said I could only travel if I used a wheelchair, did not stand AT ALL, and promised to stay over in Johannesburg with my foot elevated for some days before attempting the last leg of the journey - the ‘standby’ for Kimberley.

She then kindly made a few phone calls, and arranged for me to be met at the Johannesburg airport by members of her family, and so I ended up staying from Thursday to Monday in the home of a Dutch Reformed pastor (her brother-in-law) who became so intrigued with the idea of an Anglican from Canada wanting to undertake such a translation into the language of his denomination, that both he and a fellow pastor - a recently returned missionary, who also happened to be a language and liturgical expert – became my advisers/proof readers.

The Reverend James

Fine men of God, they seemed eager to help me, but the pastor – whom I shall call James, (the English translation of his name, prefixing it with ‘the Reverend’ to distinguish him from our Lord’s brother – made no secret of the fact that he did not believe in the laying on of hands and “all that stuff”. He clearly found it hard to understand that I could accept that James 5:14-16 should be taken literally, and was honestly of the opinion that what had been written 2,000 years ago was meant to apply ‘then - but not now!’ Nonetheless, he and his hospitable family were very graciously prepared to indulge me in my convictions and, despite my odd beliefs, invited me to stay with them again on my way home.

My leg healed, I then went off to my mission in Kimberley, and when that had been completed, gratefully accepted the invitation to return to Johannesburg, to rest up again for a week or two in that delightful home, basking in the warmth of the Highveld sunshine and the friendship of a loving and closely-knit Christian family: the Rev. James, his beautiful wife, and equally gorgeous 21 year-old daughter, Chris -- a university student in her final year, who had been running a bit wild of late. Sadly for his family, their engineer son, another James, was working in a place far away from home and was greatly missed; but, as it happened, he would be drawn home sooner than any of us knew.

The phone rang and our lives would never again quite the same!

I returned from Kimberley on a Saturday, and on the Wednesday evening, which was unexpectedly cold with heavy rain, just as everyone except Chris – who had not yet come home from her part-time job – sat down to one of the sumptuous dinners for which South Africa is famous, the phone rang. None of our lives would ever be quite the same again. Chris had been involved in a dreadful accident. Another car, traveling at high speed in less than favourable visibility, had struck the one she was driving, with the full force of the collision on the driver’s door.

I doubt if I shall ever be able to forget the screams of pain as we arrived at the trauma centre. Her pelvis had been broken in several places but, worst of all, the ball in her hip joint had been jolted to the extent that it had not only shattered the socket but had been forced right through it to touch her spine. Her body was bent over to the right, almost in an arc. Blood in her urine raised the suspicion that her bladder could have been injured and, because she was having trouble breathing, her aunt – my Canadian physician friend – when telephoned, feared an embolus.

Since I am not a doctor I can only proceed to describe in layman’s terms what followed. On the Friday, the first of two operations was performed; this one to try and draw the hip bone out of the damaged socket. This was accomplished but, when it kept slipping back again, the leg was put in traction. After that, results of further X-Rays and a scan were emailed to experts in Canada, the USA and elsewhere, only to have them confirm what the South African surgeons already believed. – The cartilage had been destroyed. Once the broken sections of the pelvis had been surgically repaired (this procedure would, as it turned out, take six-and-a-half hours) there would be the long months of waiting before anything further could be done and even then Chris would not be able to walk without a hip replacement, for the destruction of the cartilage meant that bone would rub on bone.

A hip replacement at 21! And meanwhile Chris was now too sick even to panic about missing her final examinations. The family and their friends were shattered. I kept trying to talk about how good God was and how nothing was too difficult for Him, but no one seemed to be able to derive too much comfort from my words (which, rang hollow even to me) until the Rev. James was provoked to retort with some bitterness and a tinge sarcasm: “But of course Marie believes in miracles!”

Because that stung, I was goaded to respond vehemently. “I do,” I said, and suddenly knew that I meant it. “And, what’s more, I am going to pray for one!”

Early on the Tuesday morning, the mother and I went to see Chris in the ICU. Wearing an oxygen mask and hardly conscious, she had a fever, and her eyes were ringed with yellowish bruises. On the wall above her head, monitors reflected, among other disquieting things, low blood pressure and an irregular heartbeat. I felt awkward, and self-consciously waited to be invited to pray, while wondering what on earth had possessed me to voice my faith in miracles in such a boastful manner… secretly hoping I wouldn’t be asked because that would let both Jesus and me off the hook. All at once I wasn’t too sure how I would go about it anyway. How should I pray, in English or in Afrikaans? What words should I use? Not even a vestige of the St. Luke’s Order of Service with which I had been occupied for so long remained in my head.

Too soon it was time to go, but I couldn’t leave without doing something!. The child looked so awful that my heart turned over, and I knew that Jesus trusted me because I had said, back in Canada, “Here I am, Lord, send me. Even if it’s only for one!” Feeling completely inadequate, I got up, laid my hands on her, and silently began to pray in the Spirit. Chris opened her eyes and looked into mine (she says she felt that I was praying for her). Somewhere near me the mother exclaimed, “Just look at the monitors! Everything’s normal!”

When I left, it was temporarily without a clear recollection of what had transpired - and I did not want to talk about it!

For when the surgeons repairing her pelvis were able to see inside of Chris, they found that the cartilage had been restored. Eleven days later, having just arrived home in Canada, I went straight to the telephone and called Johannesburg, to be informed by Samson, the gardener: “They are at the hospital, 'Miss Marie. Miss Chris walked as far as the door today!' ”

Two weeks later, having learned that Chris was home, I called and was able to speak to her. She told me that the experience had brought her close to Jesus once more. A few months later, seated on many pillows on a chair to be taken especially to the university for by her adoring father, she planned to be writing her finals.
Isn’t Jesus wonderful? … Come to think of it, wasn’t there a time when His brother, James, didn’t believe either?

This has indeed brought me great joy !
Since then, Chris has established two very successful optometric clinics, has supervised the building of her own home, married the sweetheart who visited her so faithfully in the hospital, and despite having been told that — because her pelvis was virtually held together with pins — she would never be able to have children, has an enchanting three-year-old daughter. The family home became a ‘Bed and Breakfast’ and, over the years, numerous urgent prayer requests from visitors from all over the world, have been passed on from there to the prayer team at my home church … St. David’s. There have been many miracles.

Personally, Pastor James did not fare as well, however. He was prayed for on many occasions, throughout his battle with Prostate cancer, and then for many of its unfortunate involvements – every one of them healed, until, at the end of 2004, tumours in his lungs were found in places where they were considered to be inoperable. His condition had been exacerbated by frequent exposure to asbestos at one stage. Even his sister-in-law, the physician told us it was hopeless; nevertheless the St. D’s team was once again asked to pray. And there would come a happy day when I would receive a note in which the Reverend James informed me that he was writing a book on “Miraculous Healings!”

Footnote
A tribute to Ruth Fazal
What joy her music has brought me, ever since I first heard it in Toronto some years ago. I am indebted to her for permitting me to take to it to South Africa with me and, furthermore, the “license” to translate the songs into Afrikaans. Kimberley, like many other places in the country, was hardly a safe place at the time I went on the mission, but I was unafraid as I set off on my ‘prayer walk’ before 5am every morning, singing at the top of my voice: “Come Holy Spirit, come to this place!”

Back home in Canada, as I got out of my car to enter the hospital where I was a lay chaplain in those days, the song I unfailingly sang was “Send me out in the power of your Spirit, Lord”. I have already chosen which one I want at my funeral some day. — “Here I stand before your throne!”

Oh, Dear, Such is Life!...A Story about an Airport, and about My Mother and the "Air Ace"

The joy invoked by this reminiscence it not unmitigated, but some of it is precious enough to be included...

* * * *

Once upon a time, when South African Airways was considered to be one of the finest in the world, I lived in South Africa, near to a brand new airport. I was very proud of that airport — not only because my dashing young genius of a husband was involved in setting up the state-of-the-art Instrument Department, but also because the airport was very appropriately to be named for a very important man, none other than Field Marshall Smuts, the venerated South African hero, and two other world-famous men were to be permanently associated with it.


"Monty"

The airport was dedicated by an illustrious British military commander, Bernard Law Montgomery, who was the Allied hero during World War II who beat Germany's Erwin Rommel in the battle for North Africa, and by the end of the war had been made First Viscount Montgomery of Alamein (1946). I could not yet have been in secondary school when I first heard the name of Field Marshall Bernard Montgomery, the hero of El Alamein and North Africa, and I had to grow up a little more in order to appreciate why it was said that “Monty” had proved to be one of the most inspirational military commanders of World War Two. He was also the senior British military commander at D-Day, and retained that position within the west European sphere of the war until the war ended.

Born in 1887, he gained an early commission in the Royal Warwickshire Regiment, and during World War One served on the Western Front. A highly efficient young officer, he was given a succession of command posts both in Britain and in India, and by 1938, he had been promoted to the rank of major-general. In 1939, at the outbreak of World War Two, Montgomery was part of the British Expeditionary Force that had to withstand the might of the Wehrmacht’s "Blitzkrieg" and in due course he would be given the command of the Third Division (BEF), which had to be evacuated at Dunkirk.

I was not too young to be swept up in the anxiety our entire county endured at the time of El Alamein. In addition to students in my class at school who had been evacuated from Britain to South Africa, and who could too often called to the principal’s office to be told the bad news about a father or a brother, my sister, ten years older than I, had friends who were maimed, killed, or “went into the bag” (taken prisoner), and no one in South Africa would deny that Monty’s victory at El Alamein turned the tide of the war. After their defeat at El Alamein, the first the Germans had experienced, they could only retreat, and they left North Africa in May 1943.

The Statues in the Foyer – Sir Pierre van Rynevld and Sir Quentin Brand

Upon entering our fine new airport, travelers were met by statues of the country’s two most distinguished flyers, Sir Pierre van Rynevld DSO, MC, and Sir Quintin Brand DSO. Hesperus Andrias Van Ryneveld (better known by his friends as “Pierre” and, by my parents, as “Pierrie") and his brother before him had both, successively, been connected with the Royal Air Force from the day it was born on 1 April 1918, and in time Pierre was to become one of the two pioneer aviators who made the first flight from Britain to South Africa. After the war, he was called back to South Africa by Prime Minister Smuts in order to set up a South African Air Force.

He flew back home, across Africa, in a Vickers Vimy — a pioneering feat for which he and his co-pilot Quintin Brand were both knighted. On 14 May 1920, the then Lieutenant-Colonel Van Ryneveld, late Royal Air Force, was appointed a Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire in recognition of the valuable services rendered to aviation by the successful flight from England to Cape Town.

It was Smuts who had wanted South African aviators to be the first to complete the trip from London to South Africa, and who had authorized the purchase of a Vickers Vimy at a cost of £4,500. It was named the Silver Queen, and commanded by Lt Col van Ryneveld with First Lt Quentin Brand, later Sir Christopher Quintin Brand, as the co-pilot. The latter had served with distinction in the Royal Flying Corps and the Royal Air Force in World War One, and destroyed a German Gotha bomber in the last air raid carried out on the United Kingdom in that war.

My Mother and the "Air Ace" — A Cherished Memory

My father and Pierre van Ryneveld — who was to establish the South African Air Force in 1920 and direct it until 1933, when he was promoted to Chief of the General Staff (CGS) in command of the Union Defense Forces — had remained close friends throughout their school days at Grey College in Bloemfontein, after which Van Ryneveld had taken to the sky and my father to the pursuit of law and accounting.

By the time Pierre had become a legend, my father had married my mother and become the Mayor of Theunissen, a small town in the Orange Free State. Because I was not yet born, I can't be precise about whether it was to please my father or the citizens of the town, but I would often hear the story of how, not long after arriving back in South Africa after the epic flight, the great man flew his famous plane to Theunissen, where my mother was to have the honor of greeting him and hanging a laurel wreath about his neck. 

I can just picture the excitement and the preparations... Choosing the right hat and gloves (essential in those days), getting the hair "just right," etc. etc., and then managing to retain a vestige of poise as she clambered (with as much dignity as she could muster) into the Mayoral limousine (probably a Model T) to go and join my father at the airfield. When, after some delay, the car finally arrived, the driver turned  the ignition key in the lock, only to find –- to everyone's dismay — that the engine just would not start! No amount of tinkering would do the trick, so finally, as a last resort, a policeman who rode a motorcycle was summoned to convey my mother in his side-car.

Across bumpy, recently ploughed fields, and finally across the rough terrain of  the open "veld" they went, my mother holding on for dear life and sending up fervent prayers of gratitude for the fact that it was the custom, when 'ladies' went for a drive, for them to wear a face veil.

In the end it all turned out better than expected. The guest of honor was charming and surprisingly modest, and everyone went home well-satisfied after watching Sir Pierre's plane disappear into the clouds once more. But the story does not end there.

A School Named Sir Pierre van Ryneveld

Many years later, in the late 1970's if memory serves me correctly, when my mother was already in her 70s, a new High School was established in the city of Kempton Park (which is actually where the Johannesburg Airport is situated). It had been decided that this school should bear the name of Sir Pierre van Ryneveld, and my mother, who was invited to be present at the landing, had the thrill of seeing her old friend descend from the sky once more — this time in a helicopter!

There was a to be a banquet in his honor that night, to which mayors and other dignitaries from along the Wiwatersrand had been invited, and when my mother also received an invitation to attend, she seemed at first to be delighted, but, to our concern, also appeared to become increasingly agitated.
"Of course I can't go," she wailed, when questioned... "Everyone else will be arriving in chauffeur-driven limousines, and  how on earth am I supposed to keep up with them?"

Well, you would have to know about the unique “in-law” bond that existed between my mother and her son-in-law. In fact, I think she often wished that he could rather have been the real offspring, for she adored him, was inordinately proud of him, always sided with him, and openly commiserated with him for getting such a raw deal in marrying me! Be that as it may, he could never bear to see her disappointed or dejected; so, as he had just acquired a brand-new Jaguar XJ6, he put on his tux, seated her in the back of it, and drove her to the banquet in style. He dined with the official "chauffeurs" down in the basement, and later declared the meal to have been one of the best he had even eaten.

Long Gone Are Those Days of Glory, and No One Seems to Care!
 
Returning to South Africa recently, to do research for a book set in the Kalahari, I was surprised to find that that airport was no longer named after Jan Smuts, and I was disappointed when I was unable to find the famous statues which I had looked forward to seeing again. When I inquired, no one at the airport seemed to know what I was talking about.

Ever since my return to Canada, I have tried, even via Facebook,seeking the assistance of some of my former students who have since become flight attendants, but none could recall seeing the statues, either. Determined not to give up, I finally wrote to South African Airways, asking where the statues of Sir Pierre and Sir Quentin Brand could be seen — only to receive the most unexpected response. They could not be reached, I was informed, unless I could specify the departments "in which they are employed!"

Meditation - Wishing Is Such a Futile Exercise

It's like trying to phone somebody who doesn't have a telephone. Now praying is another thing altogether. It works! “Seek and ye shall find ... ask and ye shall receive..." That, indeed, is another thing.

In my time spent as a lay chaplain in a hospital, I learned the truth of that. No amount of wishing could have helped to save the legs of the bitter woman who was brought in to have both of hers amputated. She went home with them still intact.

I also wonder why people waste time consulting horoscopes. In fact, many years ago — and I cringe at the very memory! — I was actually paid to write the ones that, together with a "lucky stone," were included in cans of coffee as a sales promotion.

Rather than “lucky,” I prefer to say "blessed." In my vocabulary there are no such words as ‘luck’ or ‘coincidence’. I have lived long enough now not to believe in either. Nor do I believe in ‘ships passing in the night’, either. I think that makes God too small. I believe that God is larger than mere chance and I believe that we meet, and things happen, by Divine Intervention. I agree that sometimes people one meets only briefly, inexplicably come along again some day, and become part of our lives. But what about brief encounters?

Each one of us, as we come into con­tact with one another, has a responsibility towards the other, whether we know it or not. Have you ever held a butterfly and noticed how some of its colour comes off in your hands? I’m sure you have. But you don’t even have to hold it; if it were just to fly too close to you, only brush your sleeve in passing, some of its ‘butterfly dust’ would have been left behind on you. In the same way, something of you would already have rubbed off on me, and you’ll go away carrying with you something of me. It may be a minuscule part, so small that you won’t know that it is there, but it will be. We may possibly forget that we ever met, but none of us will ever be quite the same again.