Life in the Son

Here comes the sun (tum ti tum ti)

Here comes the sun

And I say

Its all right

(tum ti tum ti ..)

The feeling of Spring in the air always makes me sing.

The truth is.....

I love the sun

I love the Son

(a happy English coincidence)

In England I suffered from S.A.D. That's sun affected disorder. My African brain could not function properly without light. Up in the frozen north I saw very little light. The days were short, the nights very long. I felt like I was wading through a thick soupy fog.

I needed the sun

I needed the Son.

Without the sun I get sad.

I started making handmade patchwork quilts because of it. I sat under a daylight bulb and stitched away at patches of bright colour. The doctor told me that colour and light would kick start the serotonin in my brain, and make me happy again. It worked.

I need light to be happy.
I need the Light to be happy.

I made a point of using cotton fabric cut from friends' old clothes for my quilts. Now they serve as friendly reminders. They are also reminders to me at the moment of the importance to cut out the best bits from everyone and everything in life and stitch them all together. To toss away, as it were, the stained, torn, frayed and faded sections that bring with them no joy, no beauty.

I saw some wool recently, here in Joubertina. The balls of bright colour sat tightly together in a box behind the counter in the second hand clothing store.

I wanted some so badly, especially the bloeisel pink, the spring green, the summer sky blue...

Like a butterfly, spring was beating away inside me.

When money came I bought a bagful of balls. I am crocheting them out in stripes - making a startling blanket to keep me warm when winter comes again.

And anyway, God has been showing me rainbows lately. They seem to be everywhere. A combination of rain and sun. Thats a rainbow.

So I've been thinking that maybe...

Christ is the Rainbow.
The Promise, the Hope - the prism through which all colour breaks forth.

My blanket is a rainbow in the making. I am compulsively, obsessively addicted to it. As it grows under my hands I am excited by all the different colour combinations. Blue next to yellow, pink against green, purple beside orange.

Rain and Sunlight
Tears and Laughter
Winter and Spring
Death and Resurrection Life.

Black Beauty

Black like night.
Black velvet pierced with stars.
Black like jet.
Patent leather shoes with lacy white bobby socks!

Top hats and tails .
A little black dress on Oscar night.
Onyx rings

Black tyres with white walls.
Sleek limousines with black tinted windows.

My favourite wine-gum.
Liquorice
Caviar

I have always told my children they are beautiful. They are blessed because it is true.
Black is, of cause a political term. No one is really a colour.

In England a group of National Front skinheads once pelted me and my ex husband with snowballs, whilst snarling the word 'Nigger.' I was pregnant and slipping on the black ice on the sidewalk. I remember the white snow against their Doc Martens. White against Black.

On the street in Port Elizabeth in 1990 a man nearly shot my then husband because he assumed he was assaulting me. (His hand was on my arm.) He called him 'Kaffir' and ordered him to move away from me. I remember that his gun was large and his finger was on the trigger. A white finger against black steel.

I thought there were laws in place and these and other names would not be heard again. At least not in public life. I thought people would keep their mouths shut and let these words seethe inside their heads, only.

Not so. In hidden places, like here, there is a freedom I have found to allow inner venom to spill out. To allow hatred to curl from lips and teeth and tongues, to curl into the air. To spiral into my ears, my mind, my heart.

They hurt, these uncaring, unfeeling, cold, stone, dismissive, sword-like, dagger stabbing words.
And White Tiger like, being a mother also, my teeth and claws are showing.

White snow
White lace at weddings
And smooth icing on cakes
White linen on washing lines
Arum lilies growing in glades
Warm white bread
Milk frothing from cows

Oh God
Creator of All

Piano keys play harmony

Black print on a White page
Charlie Chaplin
Black and White movies
Black ties and frilly White shirts...

Having a ball in Joubertina

I think there is a lot of evidence to show that it is very likely that God is very fond of balls.

We all live on one, for a start - this pale blue dot spinning through space, surrounded by a whole lot of other balls. I remember that wonderful Giglio show all about space. It made me feel really small and God is, of cause, very big.

I have a lot of balls around me right now in the koshuis. Pool balls, ping pong balls, volleyballs and soccer balls. Never mind the rugby ball. I'm fed up with rugby right now, and anyway it's not a true ball...

Years ago I worked in Arcadia, in the days of Apartheid. I was young, with so much passion and vision. I wanted to reach the 'lost' and the 'poor' and the gangsters on the corners, smoking boom. I remember praying fervently for them as they sat there, under their gloomy cloud.
So I went out walking with a ball. I was pretty fearless then, armed with my ball. Those boys were covered in tattoos, not body art, you understand, but 'tjuppies' - the prison variety.

I sat with them there, under the vandalized street signs, and talked balls. That was the beginning of the football team. They, like God, also liked balls.

Balls!
I am 48 this years and too tired for it all anymore. I try not to regret things but today I do. I regret the walking out I've just done again, with balls. I regret the pool, table tennis and volleyball me and my family started for children here. I regret the fact that someone closed it down after only a couple of weeks because of some childrens' petty misdemeanour. I regret the fact that it seems as though no one really cares...

I regret the regret.

I took on a job to work with food and finances. The only balls in sight were supposed to be a meatball, brussels sprout,onion, beetroot, baby potato or tomato.

Some things should be left well alone, and either I've lost my touch (dropped the ball) or doing work with balls is not what it used to be.

In a place like Joubertina I'm an English, liberal misfit (strangely enough a bit like a rugby ball once was I guess).
I stood up here and shot my mouth off about a whole lot of things. Well, there are more cannonballs and gunshot still out there than I realized. Man made balls, the lot of them. More than my mouth has been shot off.

Balls are fun, except when they come at you. Hard.
I now know how those Goalies felt.
Devastated.

It's not Gods fault. I take most of the blame.
I don't think He ever intended me to do more right now than cook up a storm.

At the moment its all a right balls' up!

A New Term

I have just taken a stroll through the early morning streets of Joubertina. I went to do the banking. Money was on my mind. After a few steps the icy air had turned my thoughts to the new term, what awaited us and what we might be dreaming of.

The walk also reminded me of England. I never owned a car there and my years at College in Berwick Upon Tweed on the border of England and Scotland were walking years. We used to step out of our stone cottage and take to the high road, winding up and away from the old Roman walled town, to the college.

Down below us wound the River Tweed, strung with its three bridges. The high old Roman aquaduct, now topped with the railway, the trains clattering over it as it strides over the river with big high arches. The trees I remember as mostly bare, the delicate branches of bushes iced over with lacy frost.

It was a schoolroom of cold, and I learnt lessons there about the joys of walking. And here in Joubertina I experience it again in a way, because the mountains around us are topped with snow, and up the road at Avontuur I am told, the snow lies fifteen centimeters deep.

And then I find I am dreaming of surfing, because I often dream of water, and Kelly Slater is down the road in Jeffreys Bay. The sky is wide and that washed out winter blue where the sun is only lemony, and I am still thinking of a still, calm sea as I take the turn across the churchyard and head down the hill towards town.

At the church offices I encounter the Dominee and so come out of my reverie to talk of things, Joubertina things, school things, Koshuis things.
I become aware again of the jingle jangle of the bank packet in my bag. The Koshuis has money worries and I dodge the thought that I have to feed a child three meals a day for R10, or even less. There are so many needs amongst the Koshuis children. We have twenty five children, and they are all poor really, just about all subsidized by the state. Our building is down at heel, with a leaking roof and sagging ceilings, where the water pours through. The girls and boys share a building, upstairs and downstairs where they are sort of supervised and so...

My job description is kitchen and finances only, but I felt for them as they lived there, with nothing to do, no recreation, only study time and a fuzzy, snowy TV crackling away in the corner of the dining room. Ai, things seemed depressing to me, so I wrote a letter and the kind Dominee printed it in the 'kerk' bulletin and sent it out, to those out there, them who have, for those who do not.

I smile now here, on the icy street, when recounting how the children are loving the recreation time we have introduced , made possible by generous gifts from towns folk , where before there was only boredom. I remember the night before, the energy of the table tennis games, the skill around the wonderful pool table. The giggles of the little ones playing with pink ping pong balls as they joyously bounce around the room, getting under foot...
The domino games, played with gestures and expressions surely learned in some other place from adults in another world.

We have pictures up now (the big five) and a carpet, and books to line the walls. We have noise and expectation and energy and life..

And yet - its Friday and I am tired, already.

The truth is when I dream of water, somewhere in there is a sailboat, to sail away on. And thats where I am today, all thoughts of England, and the sea and surfing and sailboats.

World Cup Blues

We limped into the end of term like wounded soldiers, the survivors of a long hard battle. Our children were battle scarred too, after having written the first proper exams of their lives. We awaited their results with some trepidation, and the reports were a true reflection of their efforts. Where they had studied they did exceedingly well, where they had not the results were mediocre.

They have always been home schooled, and we never did exams, we hardly did tests. I don't personally think exams are a true test of knowledge, but there they are, in this reality. Sooner or later they confront us, to get that end of school certificate, to get that degree, to drive that car...

Our children opted out now and then over the three week exam period, seeming to want to ignore the whole thing, lazing on their beds reading Tintin, the afternoon before Biology, or playing touch rugby (Georgia) the afternoon before Social Science!

L and I freaked out - well, me mostly - the thought of failure appalls me, even making a phone call to the ex, to put extra pressure on. I wonder now what all the fuss was about - putting it all down to Joubertina cabin fever. My word, this town makes me lose perspective!

So, yes, off and out we went again, as soon as we could. Another day trip to PE. How I love taking that long road, between the two ranges of mountains. The children came with us this time, a little under duress, but I insisted that they needed to leave town. Signs of Langkloof Rust were beginning to show.

We found PE all abuzz with World Cup Fevah! Oh what joy. I perked up immediately, embarrassing my family by insisting on buying a South African Flag, to set it fluttering gaily from our car window.
In the Langkloof one has to search very hard for the faintest sign of anything to do with the World Cup. Some folk are downright anti the whole thing, refusing to show the slightest interest. Others seem to be of the opinion that football is only for one particular race group - of which they are not part! And then there are those who adore only rugby, and its as if by showing any enthusiasm for football they are being traitors - or worse.

Ho hum. It saddens my heart. We were so excited in PE that day, glimpsing something of the excitement still to come. We hung out at the beachfront, like we always do, eating those burgers from our childhood, and of cause, those choc dip ice creams that bring back so many memories.
We returned to Joubertina with a heavy heart, like a bunch of folk who knew that there was going to be a helluva party and they hadn't been invited.

The morning of the 11th dawned, to find me very glum. L had done his very best to get us hooked up to SABC 1 just for the games - with no success. I hung up my washing that morning with a heavy heart. Dumping the laundry basket and lamenting loudly that it seems to be my destiny to miss all the SA biggies. Overseas and just having given birth on the date of the first democratic elections. We travelled to Glasgow (it was my ex's first time to vote - ever!). It was cold, bleak and the polling station was empty. How we longed to travel to London - but it was too far, with a week old baby and a Cesarean scar. And then there was that great rugby world cup and we were still overseas - and now this!
Joubertina is worse - I wailed - worse that being in Great Britain.

But along came the Dominee - to the rescue - as he so often has done, during our life here. He was throwing a World Cup party at his house - hurrah!

Granted I probably knew the most about Footie than anyone there. But all were enthusiastic, engrossed , and yes, we even got to blow our vuvuzela and wave our flag! I felt tipsy on a couple of shandys, crisps and chicken pie, but we stayed late and went home happy, walking alone through the silent misty streets of Joubertina.

Over the next few days a few more flags came out, one or two vuvuzelas sounded in the distance. A platteland dorp might be the place to be for a couple of occasions, but a Football World Cup is not one of them.

Kermis

The school Kermis happened last weekend. We were very busy and a trifle stressed - and to top it all I had flu. Looking back I think my flu added something to the Kermis experience. I have always been one who suffers from fevers. Rudolph Steiner is very positive about all that - saying something along the lines of fevers helping on to move from one milestone to the next. I think I believe him.

I had been asked to do decorate Grade 10's stall - the Teetuin - probably because I bailed when it came to having any talent in baking - peppermint tert, melk tert, souttert or any other tert. I went at it with a will, basically packing up my kitchen, and raiding others' farmyards - stating that the theme was going to be 'Shabby Chic' or 'Oumas Kombuis' or something along those lines.

L and I arrived to set it all up at 6 in the morning. It was still dark and I was coughing, but we both felt a strange excitement, which we realized, watching the pink and orange sun rise, was because we felt like we were on a shoot. With the car piled high with decor bits and pieces, we could have been rushing ahead of the actors, cameramen and crew - memories of another life lived, not so long ago. Still, a teacher arrived with a huge abundance of lavender hacked from her farm garden - which provided the final finishing touches to a rather quaint tea garden setting - even if I do say so myself. Feverishly working took on a whole new meaning, and it was only 7 o clock!

I worked at that stall until about half past one, dimly aware that I was surely doling out my virus with just about every cup of coffee, tea and slice of lemon meringue I served. I doubt if I have ever spoken Afrikaans so well, it peeled effortlessly off my tongue, together with some English for the visiting few.

L slaved away over a hot braai all day at Grades 7's stall. I wandered over at some point seeking anything that was not sweet and we shared a sosatie amongst the smoke. By 2 I was feeling pretty grim. We had sold out every slice of every tart or cake, and I had been released to teeter to the side lines to watch the match of the day - the first rugby team playing some school from PE. I don't, as a rule do rugby, but somehow a casual glance turned into total involvement, and I found myself joining THAT mother (every school has one) who paced the line cheering like a banshee. Only I was hoarse to begin with, but I joined my croak where I could. Probably it was because of 'my' koshuis boys who were playing and I care about, suddenly. It all ended in fisticuffs and a yound lad being carried of on a kermis table with his neck in a brace in the true spirit of the game. He is okay now, thank God.

I heard from someone before I left, to go and climb into bed, that our stall had won, being the best in terms of decoration. My head was spinning, but I felt absurdly happy about that as I sank down into the pillows.

This Saturday morning saw us rising up to attend yet another Fees - this time in Misgund. Autumn is busy being particularly fine and we drove the half hour, with orchards turning yellow and red on either side of the road. All these fairs are Harvest Festivals really, held by the NG Kerk in the small dorpies, and the Misgund Fair was no different. We bought pockets of oranges very cheaply, homebaked bread and the obligatory roosterbrood, pancakes and bakkie of curry and rice. We sat with friends and drank coffee out of styrofoam cups, while Georgia cheered on the first netball team which all her friends play in. The music was loud , and is the one thing I struggle with. Platteland dorpies have a certain taste in music which takes me back to those 'Springbok Hits' records of the 70's - something I had pleasantly forgotten - until now. L and I had enough pretty quickly, but we left Georgia to hang around and hitch a ride home with a friend. Looking back I saw her with her new gang, demonstrating her skill in throwing up popcorn and catching it in her mouth!
There is little sophistication in the Langkloof, I thought, regretting not having had a portion of 'Bazaar Pudding'. Never mind, there might be another Fees next weekend, and we will be there.

Home and away

Things are hotting up here in Joubs. Life, in a small town can get claustrophobic, especially when you, your husband and your children all 'work' at the same place. The school and the koshuis (the foodhouse - how appropriate!) are consuming us all at the moment.
A month to go until it all closes down, but till then we have to get through
- teething problems at the koshuis (I am being euphemistic here - you understand!)
- writing exams (the children)
- setting exams (L)
- practical drama exams (yours truelly)
- marking tests, tasks and exams (my darling L)

So, last weekend we headed out, L and I. For weeks I had been muttering about needing to be in a city, be amongst people I don't know....
And whining on about seeing the sea, like some landlocked sailor, or wind blown seagull tossed way off course.
A solution presented itself - a meander to Port Elizabeth. We left the children, they had no desire for shops, or even for sea breezes. I am very fond of PE, having grown up there. It is, as someone said, a ten minute city, although many also say that they lose direction there, get lost. I could never get lost, feeling it is only those Capetonian types who are used to steering their vehicles by the rudder of that huge mountain that get disorientated.
Port Elizabeth has only a blue sky horizon, but I love its hills and kloofs gashing their overgrown, green way through its centre, under bridges and cutting relentlessly through suburbs.
I am not a shopper, and I was no sooner in a mall than I wanted out. Out, out to the sea again....the wonderful sea and the sky.

L and I ate fish and calamari and drank wine in a sort of swanky restaurant with a glorious view of the sea, so close we could smell it! And towards the end, with my head light from wine and sea air ,I too leant on the balcony railing as a pod of over 50 dolphins blessed us with their presence. I watched them, as others ran down to the waters edge, and stopped there, unable to get closer. Wonderful, untouchable they were, arching over the waves, unconscious perhaps, but everyone thought they had come just for them, probably, before they headed out to the deep sea.

Anyway Port Elizabeth was never going to be big enough for me right now. I think I have a longing for a place like London, Paris, maybe even New York!

But nothing like that is possible right now, so we returned, having found a Twee Rivieren friend parked in the carpark next to us. Home was definitely not far away.

This weekend was the Krakeel Bazaar. The dominee told us it is not to be missed. That morning we took too long, arriving at 11 when it had started at 10. Just about everything was sold out. But Krakeel is a pretty place, apart from its entrance through the poverty area, but the houses are quainter that Joubertina, the church hall all old stone, with a huge shady tree. We bought braaivleis and roosterbrood, all other tables were stripped bare, everything having miraculously vanished. Still, the company was good (Krakeel attracts, it seems, some 'kunstig' folk ), and we settled down on kitchen chairs outside - like so many people in Provence, and waited for the auction to begin. It was an amusing one, obviously providing an event whereby the locals can make largish donations to the church by paying R700 for a very ordinary tart, or R250 for a bottle of outlandish green witblitz.
A friend of ours bought one of those bottles, and we all sniffed it, before the daring amongst us sipped some from the bottle lid ( the sun was only just over the yardarm...) They declared themselves disappointed, the sip not having delivered the expected kick of a mule. They muttered that they expected that only peppermint flavour had been used - the dominee was particularly down at the mouth!

We had to leave early, exam papers awaited us.
It might not be New York, I thought to myself, but in terms of a cultural experience this life rates quite highly.
Tucking into my cold chop and roosterbrood at home I felt quite satisfied, and determined to have some of that green poison next time I visit!

Joubertina

We now officially live in Joubertina - or Joub Joubs as we affectionately call it. Thats a surprise - for us ,I mean. We never intended this to happen. We came to the Langkloof to live in Twee Rivieren. We left Cape Town for Twee Rivieren. Our dream, our road led there. Our path, we believed, led there. Joubertina was just the nearest dorp, a mere 5km away, a place we would buy supplies. Nothing more. It just goes to show...

Joubertina is not a pretty place really. It is flanked by wonderful mountains on either side, the Tsitsikamma and the Kouga, and deeper in, the Baviaanskloof. The main street is forsaken, litter strewn. There are no tree lined sidewalks, like other dorps, no quaint shops. The signs are mostly those red ones, sponsored by Coca cola. The shop fronts are uninspired. No broad stoeps here, no broekie lace, no shady tables under trees.

We have lived in Greyton. Picture postcard perfect as it is, one wanders down the oak lined lanes, browses in the many interesting shops, sips real capuccinos at a variety of restaurants and coffee shops. Not so Joubertina.
In search of koeksusters the other day, I went and stood in the queue at the take out chip and burger place where they are available, freshly made from a stainless steel bowl next to greasy frankfurters. I was surrounded by people from Africa, maybe Zimbabwe, Malawi or South Africa. I loved it, paper strewn, jostling, loud. Many, I suppose, would not.

Joubertina is that kind of place. A koeksuster kind of place - bought at the greasy spoon on the main road.
Actually you really have to know the locals in order to know where to buy things.
I have compiled some examples to clarify:
- the most beautiful bunch of exquisitely fragrant roses (VERY cheap - I believe) bought for me by L from the local hairdresser.
- homemade rusks, aniseed or buttermilk - we buy weekly from the shop that also does hair (a different hairdresser), sells coffins , milktart, bully beef and organises my contact lenses!
- the cheapest and best cheese is to be had from the local haberdashery store, who does clothing alterations, serves tea and satisfies all our stationery and small gift requirements.
- one of the best caterers in town takes orders from her place of employment - the bank!
- the cheapest and freshest milk - straight from the cow is available from the hardware store, who also sells second hand furniture. Fresh spinach is also often on offer!
- all laundry requirements are met by a take out shop, advertising pies and chips on a blackboard outside.
- I have found some great second hand clothing from a shop in town, and if there is nothing for me that day I can always buy some homemade jam, wool or fresh herbs in pots!
- immediate medical emergencies are normally diagnosed and prescribed for by the local pharmacist
- all clothing requirements are met by the three shops owned by neither Afrikaans or English speaking Chinese - ofcause they also sell radios, TVs and bicycles
- a courier service is run from the car repair shop who also meets all glass requirements and
- there is a great little deli at the liquor store

We know that there are many other services still to be discovered, but as all is not immediately obvious it is by word of mouth, and that word is definitely an Afrikaans one.
Anyway, we now live in the prettiest street in town - a long one that includes the school, the church, the dominees house, doctors surgery, the clinic and the sport field at the end. The people are pretty real. What you see is what you get. Mostly they are 5th or 6th generation, with hardly a transplanted city person in sight. We know all the English folk. And they, the towns folk, farmers, shop owners and everyone else it seems, knows us.

The people are friendly to us, allowing me to speak my very poor Afrikaans, rather than speak English. They just don't, speak English I mean. Everyone can understand it very well though.
Twee Rivieren, the home of all the English inkomers is often visited by us and our children. They all remain our closest friends. We miss them all, but with much to do, and much to keep us entertained, we are doing nicely here in Joubs!

A moving experience

We are moving. Moving is something we do. Often. The mere thought of the labour involved makes me feel nauseous and dizzy, but I know that it too will pass, and we have already packed ten boxes. Those who know us well will not be surprised. The great thing is, we are only moving five kilometers, up the road to Joubertina.

I have moved so often that it does not take long for a house to become a home to us. We have stayed in such an assortment of dwellings, and I loved them all, in different ways. The incredible thing is, they were all beautiful, and we were blessed to have lived in them, for different reasons.

My parents lived in the same house for thirty years, and I lived with them for my whole life, until I moved out. But, in my adult life I have moved about 50 times! Sometimes across continents, sometimes cities, towns, around the corner, next door. I don't know why it has been like that - it just has.
So, we are doing it again...

Looking back I am so grateful for all the homes. There were the seaside homes, with the waves lapping at the bottom of our road, a mere 2 minutes walk away. There was the country home, with a wide verandah with a mountain view spread out before us. A favourite was the lagoon house, with a panhandle down to the lagoons edge, visited by pink flamingoes, and me, quite alone, swimming out silently amongst the ducks.

Long ago there were the England houses, double glazed, cosy with coal fires, snow on the road outside the cold stone walls. There was the semi in Observatory which God chose for me to be in when my first husband left, an unlikely haven, but a shelter it was, at the time. I remember a suburban house with fondness, my children little, L and I and them becoming a family there.

A swimming pool, or some watering hole, featured in most of the recent homes, because I love water. There has been no water here in the Langkloof. A drought stricken place lately. Nevertheless, there has been living water here, in a very real way for us. And, of cause there is always the Kouga, and the rock pools, and the big blue dam up in the Hoek.

But now we are moving to town. This time there is definitely only one reason why. It is because we really believe that God wants us to go. There is work waiting there that needs to be done. Children that need to know that He loves them. And more than that - we want to go.

So, goodbye, goodbye dear outside room, beneath the beloved Syringa Tree. Goodbye the open view out from our bedroom window, down the orchard valley of Twee Riviere, and up the steep mountains of the Tsitsikamma. Goodbye Louis sheep strolling through our land, morning and evening, the shepherd cries, the little bleating lambs. Good bye the vegetable garden, so overgrown now - thank you for an abundant crop - we ate well. Goodbye the dirt road, the drunken wanderings and voices passing by. We said we would live in this house for a year , and wait, and see what God wanted us to do, here in the Langkloof. It will be exactly a year.I will miss all we leave behind, like always.

But this life, it seems,is not just to be lived out here, on this platform of grass, with the large trees behind us, the open valley stretched out before us. We, L and I, have accumulated many different skills in our great and motley careers. If God can use them, then we are so excited.

So we go to a ground floor flat in the school hostel. At this point it is not all clear. Does God ever reveal all His plans at once? Of cause not. We are sad, but happy too. The friends will remain. We are not going far.

The First Week

08/05/2009
Originally uploaded by lex.faure

This has been a week of transition, of trauma, of ecstasy, of tears, of mercy and grace!

We arrived at Twee Riviere on the 1st of May - with Tazz and Cruiser loaded with all the possessions we could not fit into the truck - plus three dogs and the family. It was a long and slow journey - punctuated by the enormous realization that we were actually on our way to a new home and Cape Town was no longer our home.... fear gripped me - mixed with ecstasy - a very strange combination which surely must characterise us all as a bunch of nutters! But then we take on the mantle of "fools for God" with enthusiasm!

The house we moved to had no water or electricity - so we have endured a week of fetching and carrying water for such menial tasks as washing, cooking and even filling the toilet cistern.
Candle lit nights were at first quaint and a novelty - but became a little frustrating at times! However the house was rather romantic in the flickering light.

Today - we finally managed to get both water and electricity sorted - after 1 week of living here! The Lord answered our prayers in the form of a local Eskom official, called Werner, who lived in our street an achieved in 1/2 an hour what had eluded me for 2 weeks (I started trying to get ourselves connected 2 weeks ago).

The locals have been wonderful. Within hours of arriving a neighbour arrived at our door with a home-made fruit tart. Another arrived with home-made bread and home-made apricot jam. We were fed by Karen an Julian amongst their 6 children, when making food was a remote possibility for us.

But the beauty! The serenity! The mists in the morning - the extreme chill in the evening and early morning... the sheep and cows that are giving our city dogs nightmares... the tractors that pass our house on their way to pick fruit.. the children out all day on their bicycles (making friends and declaring this is the best place they have ever lived in!)... These are the moments that are changing our lives and are blessing us with the miracle of God's plans for each one of us.

It is not an easy road. Money is almost non-existent - and we are probably going to have to sell our Tazz to finance building our house - but it is all about redefining what is important in life.

I went to a prayer meeting this morning with some locals - and it took from 10AM to nearly 2PM - but we were treated with scones and cakes and much coffee in an atmosphere of brotherhood which I had not experienced since I lived in Greyton.

We still have a long way to go - and the walk will be interesting - but God is good and we are excited by the prospects that lie ahead!

The road ahead will be full of many challenges, and one of the locals pessimistically informed me that "The Langkloof is not for sissies!" - but we have the conviction that we were called here for a purpose and that we look to God, and not to man for our help, our provision and our strength. With faith we WILL conquer the obstacles - and we are looking forward to much joy and laughter in our new home town!

A time of waiting. Learning to "abide".

A month has gone past since we thought we would have started our new life in Twee Riviere in the Langkloof. It has been a month of waiting and learning to trust God in every aspect of our lives.

We are still struggling to be released from our lease in Fish Hoek - and we feel like the Jews must have felt when Pharaoh would not release them from Egypt! I keep wanting to cry - Pharaoh - let your people go!

We have been waiting for God's provision to make the move - the quotes we received to move us to the Langkloof were ridiculous! So one day we just went out and hired a 3.5m trailer, loaded it with all our boxes and slowly headed to the farm in our 22 year old Land Cruiser!

We are now back in Cape Town - waiting to move the rest of our furniture to the Langkloof. It is a time of prayer and trusting in the Lord to provide in every possible way. We are in his hands and his plans for us our our plans.

During this time we have been reading a lot - and the book L'Abri, by Edith Schaeffer has been a wonderful and anointed inspiration.The writings of Francis Schaeffer are extraordinary - and their work in Switzerland is a wonderful testimony of God at work.

We believe that God is directing us to create a place of rest and restoration for anyone who needs God's love and caring. We would like to build a place where anyone can find healing and recovery, through the outpouring of Christ's love and the power of the Word.

We believe that God is making his purposes known to us -and we are starting to understand why God wants us in the Langkloof. Our only desire being to do His will - and to ensure that His will is also ours.