Lechtaler Alpen

  THE WINNER GAVE IT ALL   GIVEN YOUR ALL - NOW WHAT ?     HOME   Chapter 21   ISBN 0 9577426  73   Written/published  5/4/09 -16/4/09


21. O La La, Oui

If this sounds crazy – I agree. It does!

On March 24 I published the previous chapter. In the US it was still March 23. I had not read my Daily Bible Reading yet. I always seem to get behind. Chapter 20 was ready to be uploaded; all I had to do was find the title. Crosswords Crazy sounded OK, since Easter was just around the corner.

Finally getting around to my Daily Bread Bible reading I was slightly amused by the amazing idiosycrazy, if you allow me to spell it that way. After I titled the chapter Crossword Crazy I read the title for the March 23 Our Daily Bread bible reading: Crazy Horse.

Crazy Horse was the Sioux leader, who in 1876 was killed, trying to escape, after earlier surrendering to US troops.  

If you think that’s crazy, there's more. In Chapter 2 you will find a story of a previous incident, where I also linked two devotional writings in Our Daily Bread to my journey. The writer was Dennis Fisher. He also wrote above Crazy Horse story.

- - - - - - -

Before returning to the road, the January trip to Tasmania, I shall write the story of the ‘Daily French Phrase’ Calendar. It's O la la! Timing once again proved to be the magic ingredient.

How and why the following happened is a mystery. All I know is that I experienced IT, and it can’t all be meaningless.

For a Christmas gift my wife had bought me a small desk calendar. There is a page for each day of the year with a short phrase or sentence in French, and the English translation. My wife bought this perfect gift, because she knew my love for the language.

When I say perfect, I mean it in more ways than one. On four different days (up to the end of March 09) the phrase on the desk calendar described (almost) what was happening in my eventful life, just at that time. You decide if this is crazy:

(One) - This occurred on Jan. 7th - We had owed my mother-in-law a few hundred Dollars she had lent us to have our Suzuki repaired. The next day as we drove her home from the airport (she had visited her sons in Sydney) I remembered to tell her about the money we owed.

I had been waiting for a sum of money to arrive from Germany, which thankfully came just before Christmas. I was able to tell her on January 8th: “I now have the money, we can pay you back”.

 The French phrase for Jan 7th: “Je te rembourserai quand j’aurai de l’argent (I’ll pay you back,when I have got the money).

(Two) - In the afternoon of January 28 a young man came to my door. He returned the bicycle I had lend him for a few months to ride to his work. He told me: “Thanks for the bicycle, but I now have another one. (Someone else lend him a better one).

The French phrase on the Calendar for that same day - Jan 28: “Tu peux prendre mon ancient velo; j’en ai un autre.” (You can take my old bicycle; I have another one.)

(Three) – On February 12 it was not only the phrase in the calendar, but the precise timing, almost to the second, plus the code, which came with it. (Judge for yourself – if you believe I invented this, please call me a genius!)

I was watching an ad on TV for a pain relief tablet called ADVIL. What made me do it, I don’t know, but I converted it into AD – ISS0 (VIL = 5I50).

I liked the name so much, I googled the manufacturers and sent them an email, asking a trivial question about the medicine (Can you take it while fasting?)

After typing this email I walked back into the TV room and exactly at that moment remembered, I had not read my French phrase for that day – Feb 12. The French phrase-calendar was on the coffee table right beside me:

“C’est un medicament tres efficace”. (It’s a very effective medicine).

(Four) The French phrase on March 20 took the cake, so to speak. When I read it a few days later (I not only get behind in my Daily Bread reading, but also in the French phrases) I had to smile to myself, as you will in a moment.

As readers may have noticed my images in the last chapter are not visible. I bought my son’s computer, who assured me I could use KompoZer to make web pages. FrontPage, which I had been using for 284 Chapters, had served me well.

(The images eventually will appear. In the meantime: “Blessed are those who don’t see and still believe.”)

On March 20, a few days before I struggled with uploading Chapter 20 and the missing images, the French phrase was:

“Tu peux voir les images sur l’ecran.” (You can see the images on the screen).

I emailed my weird calendar findings to a media contact on March 26th. In the PS I included a little humour:

PS  The calendar was published by Mel, sorry Mc Meel Publishing, Kansas City! My wife gave it to me. She may have thought it helps me overcome the crush I have on Dawn, what's her surname - Dibley?


The recipient would have known who I meant by Dawn. Ever since our rendezvous at East Brunswick, Melbourne, almost a year ago (Chapter 6)  my mind keeps crossing paths (a crush ?) with Dawn, the Vicar of Dibley.

How considerate of my wife is this! Not only did she buy me a French calendar for Christmas. For my birthday, her gift to me was Dawn French’s book: “Dear Fatty”, her life story in letters. She ... sounds a really exciting person - and a great kisser! 

Perhaps my wife thought I needed a brush up in my French, as well as kissing?

The name with the initials DF reminds me of an incident, a little magic just before Christmas 08, where timing and location again came together perfectly. The catalyst, why I sent the story to our ABC, was a small mistake by a popular ABC journalist, Geraldine.

She had said: “It’s news time, 8 o’clock, no …” She tried to correct herself, but it never came out – the time was actually 9 o’clock that Saturday morning, 20/12/08.

In the PS, I mentioned the strange sensation, it is still happening, as I write my diary I hear the same word coming out of the radio or TV. I can’t help hearing or seeing it!

Subject: 8 AM GMT – Geraldine’s mean time

Hi all,

What was it that Geraldine needed to say, her last words on Saturday Extra for 08? Didn't she say 8, but meant to say 9?

Interesting program, nonetheless.

Just 24 hours earlier I had picked up my son Jon right opposite the ABC in Collinswood, Adelaide. On the way home, after a little argument, as you do travelling in a car with a teenager, I decided to turn up the radio. On RN was a most delightful interview with Dawn French.

Thinking to myself I wondered, if it would end after we get home or before? Then for a nano-second I had a wish/thought/prayer (there is little difference between these in my life): "What if the interview was to end, just when we arrive home?"

I drove home normal speed. I turned into our street (Goodall Road) and sensed that my (pointless, maybe?) dream may come true. As I turned into our driveway the last words I heard on RN were: "This is it for today and for me on ABC Summer for 2008. Good bye" (or similar).

This was exactly at the same moment I had to apply the handbrake and turn off the ignition.

I thought I share this with you, since the short trip started right *opposite the ABC and ended with a little RN timing-magic.

Dieter Fischer


PS  If this is not too much (pardon the pun), as I listened this morning to RN I was writing my diary. The word "much" was spoken the same second as I wrote it into my diary (at 8.31 AM by the female guest).


*(My son had his car for a service right across the road from the Collingwood ABC building).

                                               - - - - - - -

During a bike ride to Port Adelaide I was, almost literally, led to a real estate office (another story). Parking my bicycle outside I saw this; n is ONE:

n is ONE

IT happened only yesterday, Easter Sunday 09, at 4.45 am. On his regular program Leading the Way, Dr. Michael Youssef spoke the word ONE. Just as he did, I was writing it into my diary. (More ONE in Devonport /Tasmania shortly).

On March 11th 09 my wife and I had the privilege to hear Dr. Youssef speak at a packed meeting in Adelaide. The meeting at the Edwardstown Baptist Church was his only one in South Australia.

My wife Isobel had directed us to some vacant seats in the balcony. Without thinking, during the evening it dawned on me, where I was sitting - 3 seats from the isle in row 5. Thanks Is …!

I picked up another clue that night, the number 1693. Considering the original 1963 was born only a few hundred meters away, on South Road, it shouldn't surprise! The person introducing quoted the first verse in Hebrews 12. He had referred to it as Hebrews 12,4 – difference 3.

Next came the main text for the evening: Acts - Chapter 16, 9. To me it figured!

The amazing part of 1963 is that it holds the Gospel message twice: God so loved 316 … and (e)n in = 9. 

When placed at the centre of the cross, a N creates 4 1 4. Readers will immediately associate this with Angaston, South Australia, postcode 5353, the place I was led to exactly three years ago today, which happens to be 14.4.

- - - - - - -


In a brief mention in the previous chapter I had seen two unusual names. Two people had to appear before the court to face a murder charge. The names were Davidson and Irwin. The trial was still in progress on March 30, 09, when another man also was to appear in court - Peter Liddy.

All I knew initially was what I picked up on the radio: “The defendant (PL) will again appear in court at the end of March”.

On March 30 it came to me, in the shower, to check the court’s case lists, if Peter was indeed appearing that Monday. So it was. The time given was 10 am. The timing was perfect.

Isobel and I that day were to visit friends in the south of Adelaide. I insisted that on our way through the city, we’d stop for an hour. She could go shopping at the markets, while I would be paying a visit to the courts next door.

Peter’s name was listed among a list of other alleged offenders. The exact minute, when the accused would appear in the court room, was not fixed. It could be anytime between 10 am and midday. In such circumstances, which were out of my control, I left things up to God. That day, HIS timing again was perfect.

As I entered the courtroom, bowing to the judge (Judge David) the court assistant asked me to take of my red cap. I was wearing my NY hat on purpose. Of course, I obliged.  

There were mostly lawyers sitting in the small gallery, easily identified by their blond wigs. I was surprised how many young females there were, wearing the fake, blond wig. I couldn’t help being reminded that Peter’s case had been dealt with mainly by females.  

I waited less than 20 minutes, before Peter was led through a side door into the court room (by a female security guard). He was wearing a black T-shirt, identical to the one he had worn on September 7th 2001, the date of his original sentencing. It was the only other time I was in the same room as this gentleman.

Peter had a serious look on his face. What else can be expected. But in no way did I get the impression he was not mentally alert. 

His defence lawyer Chris McD. stated, as I understood it, that a Dr.Branson (this name pricked my ears) had not finalized psycho-neurological tests on his client. He asked Judge David to postpone the matter for another month.

Inside me something protested. Speaking to Peter’s mother regularly, I know that her son is not mentally unstable, neither is he drugged, as many other prisoners are.

Quite the opposite; the way this intelligent man has kept his sanity, despite what they did to him, is remarkable. The strength he displays, not saying a word, just standing in the dock, beside the security guard, reminded me of another, falsely accused prisoner. As I write it is Easter... all know who I mean!

The prosecutor, a young-looking male, asked that the charges at least be read, so the case could move forward. Judge David replied: “This would take at least an hour. The matter is moving, don’t worry.”

He refused the prosecutor’s request and set a date for a new hearing – April 27, 10 am. (Anybody free to support Peter?)

While this was going on, I noticed Peter had written a note and was trying to get the attention of his lawyer, standing only a few meters away. I felt like calling out: “Hey, Chris, Peter is trying to pass you a message?” Of course, I didn't. I would have been out of place, perhaps forever barred from the court rooms.

Finally, Peter caught the eye of the Sheriff, who walked across the room and passed Peter’s message to the lawyer. I would have loved to know, what the message was, and if the lawyer was or is acting upon Peter’s instructions.

Next to me in the gallery sat a journalist. Since he was reading ‘The Australian’ Newspaper’ I wondered, but failed to ask the young man, if he was from 'The Australian'.

Seven-and-a-half years ago, when Peter was originally sentenced, on September 7, 2001 I also had sat, unknowingly, beside a journalist from this Australia-wide publication. (Book 1, Chapter 18).

As Peter was led away again, I also left the court room. Momentarily he and I were only meters apart. I had in mind to call out: “Keep your head up high, Peter!” But at that moment the clerk was announcing the next case, so I would not have been heard. Plus, I may have risked being barred from attending future hearings.  

On leaving, I had almost forgotten that in the same building the Davidson / Irwin murder case was still in progress. I knew my wife could be waiting for me, but I felt compelled to spend a few minutes at the gallery of this court case.

The judge was Margaret Nyland, the same lady who had sentenced Peter to 25 years imprisonment; the same lady, who owns me a reply to my letter. (I requested to view transcripts of proceedings in her court of May 14, 2001. At the time of writing April 15, no answer).

My emotional temperature had reached a rather high level that morning. I couldn’t follow the proceedings in this court room. I just sat and prayed.

Emotions reached even a higher level, when for the first time I heard the name of the murder victim in this trial – McCloud, or Macleod. The son, who will return in the clouds, was murdered at the first Easter! 

But with the minus came a plus - he rose from the grave. The minus and plus together create the universally understood Christian symbol - the cross.

The negative aspect, the SON of DAVID

  (The irony of it all - the judge in the other court room was Judge David!)

 … murdered, comes on a cloud, proclaiming the plus of IT ALL – I WIN by giving my ALL. The winner gave IT all.

God still uses names ... and numbers.

At exactly 11.15 am I left the court room to meet my wife, who was waiting in the car. During her short visit to the Adelaide Markets nearby, she had met a close friend, who was a very close friend of the couple we were about to visit, south of Adelaide .

Her name was Jodie, a name with a good beginning, but a sad (Macleod) ending.

- - - - - - -

Stop Press: Friends, let me write it, as it is:

Two hours ago (Wed 15/4/09) I was cycling to a give a friend's son driving practice. At Red ... Road I noticed a dead white cat. I immediately checked the house numbers, number 5 made sense, but so may have No. 1, 7 or 9. I forgot about it. 

Cycling home afterwards, different colour, but still - dead cat. Black.

Again I looked around - then it clicked - right opposite David Street.

How  timely: Yesterday in the post came the magazine from the Animal Welfare League. Today, I haven't open the letter yet, I received mail from the World Society for the Protection of Animals. (I have recently donated to both organisations). 

- - - - - - -

Exactly one week later - the date was 6/4/09 - I again entered the court room, where Judge Nyland still presided over the McL / Davidson / Irwin murder trial. Out of habit, or whatever compulsion it was, as I entered Court 6 at the Samuel Way building, I looked at the clock. It read 10.55 am. (Note the number!)

A gentleman, robed in black and white, wearing the obligatory blond wig, was speaking, summing up the case for the prosecution. I was only in the room for five minutes, when Judge Nyland ordered a break at 11 AM. This gave me a chance to slip downstairs to the Court Registry. 

It was a spontaneous decision to simply enquire again about the court transcripts, I had unsuccessfully been trying to obtain. I knew it would be a rather futile attempt. How could an administration clerk override the decision by a judge? But the short visit in the basement was not in vain. My reward was a number; a magic, matching number!

Let me explain: Visitors to the court registry take a number, much as shoppers do at the supermarket delicatessen. There were not many customers waiting, but I took a green ticket anyway.

The number was 551. I kept it for my diary. Only as I glued it into my diary, almost 24 hours later, did the magic strike: 551, plus O = 1055, the time I had entered the courtroom a few minutes earlier. IT really ISSO.

More puzzling was the number displayed overhead in front of the registry’s counter. It read: “NOW SERVING 42”.



Green Ticket 551

Long wait ahead: No 551, but still serving 42?



That Monday, as we had done a week earlier, my wife and I were just passing through the city on our way south. We were meeting an overseas visitor, a friend’s daughter from Germany. It was a good opportunity to take a short break, a trip through the Hills and to Victor Harbor, which is arguably the most scenic and most popular holiday destination around Adelaide.

The young lady’s name was Mirjana. Even before she had arrived in Adelaide, her name linked, as if by divine planning - no it was divinely planned - to another name. Together they created a powerful message from none other than the forceful, divine voice, which emerges regularly among my pages.


It started early on Sunday 5/4/09. I had watched my regular religious programs on television. At the end, around 6.09 AM, I flicked to Channel Seven, just to check what was on, or whatever …

I was ready to get back to bed, so I only watched 30 seconds. During this short segment I picked up that a viewer’s comment regarding passive smoking. As always, the TV presenters talked rather fast, you wonder, if they get paid for words/per/minute.

However, even at their fast pace my brain received a signal, a lady's name starting with Mir... Since the name of our expected visitor from Germany , Mirjana, also started with Mir... I took note. The lady’s name was given as Miriam, from Cedarville, New Jersey

(Hey, I just saw it NJ – new J …ersey … (How about new robe and crown, sorry wig?) 

The message in these two names was very plain – Ja (yes) I M A N.

Later that morning it occurred to me look up the zipcode for Cedarville NJ . At first the incredible number did not sink in. It only came as I wrote it in my diary – 08311.

Many alert readers will notice it immediately – these digits are identical to the number, which crystallized in Chapter 20 – the zip-codes of Nantucket and Newton, which I also had picked up on US television, and added that of Para Hills, South Australia, total - 10318!

Friend’s I am not making this up. After I had finished this last sentence, the P/C’s clock turned to 8.31 – it still is there as I type! No I don’t plan such magic. IT just happens. I am totally dependent on … HIM.

(Those that sow in tears shall reap in joy.” Psalm 126, 5)


It just occurred to me, the surname of that young lady from Germany, Mirjana, starts with Web … as does the name Webb, the name I had alluded to in the previous chapter.

Webb originated in Port Broughton, when my wife and I visited there on January 12, 09. The lady’s first name, starting with J, fits in perfectly. Her name linked to a street name in Port Broughton, No. 102 L … Street.

At the end of that week, on Saturday 17/1/09, I was driving in my green machine, the Suzuki Wagon R+, to Melbourne. The plan was to stay there overnight and catch the ferry to Tasmania the next day.

During the long drive I couldn't help thinking: What a long journey had I behind me since that time, almost ten years ago, when I had been driving to Melbourne, also to catch the ferryboat to Tasmania? At the time my wheels did an abrupt U-Turn. I feared being thrown overboard or struck by a car by ‘accident’ as I cycled the lonely roads in Tasmania.

But God is good. HIS ways may lead through dark valleys, but HE promised to walk through with us. HE did. HE walked me through to where I am today, on the mountain top.

The reason for this journey to Tasmania was to visit the same friend I never saw ten years ago. Unfortunately, this time it was to attend his funeral. Doug N. had died, after losing his fight with leukaemia. 

A few days earlier, on the morning of January 15, I'd woken early. My friend had been in my prayer and on my mind. I decided that morning to visit him in Hobart. If my wife was willing, we’d combine visiting our sick friend, with a short holiday. The month of March would be good time weather-wise.

Before I could ask my wife about a Tasmania trip in March, she told me of a phone call she took from Hobart while I was out. That same morning our friend had passed away.

For my wife it was too short notice for such a major journey. So It was just the three of us driving East that Saturday morning in January – the Suzuki, the Giant (bicycle) and I.

At a place called Coonalpyn a small, white sedan overtook somewhat unnecessary. The vehicle needed to slow again to turn left, just ahead of me. I could clearly read the registration plate … LV 210.

Within seconds, practicably at the same time, a truck came from the opposite direction. In large letters I read WEBB, the company name. The registration plate was not exactly 210, but it still reminded me of 102 L Street, and the name Webb from Port Broughton.

The next day, on the boat, over the loudspeaker (on two occasions) a voice was calling: "Would Mr. …Webb …please go to the ... (purser’s office?" I even noted the times in my diary (with a question mark) 4.35 pm and 5.15 pm.

Driving through the western Victorian town of Dimboola memories came flooding back (Book 3, Chapter 44). I purposely drove through the town, instead of taking the by-pass road. By the large roundabout I noticed a huge truck by GOODWIN. The truck’s registration plate only needed +4 to arrive at 486. A 4 is always good for a win!

That Saturday afternoon a historic occasion took place in Australia. Historic, if you are a fan of the W-League, Australia’s Women’s Football (Soccer) League. The very first ever grand-final was played between the Queensland Roar and Canberra United. 

The broadcast of this match was virtually all there was to listen to radio on radio that afternoon. Maybe I took special interest, because I had cycled from Queensland to Canberra only weeks earlier?

Queensland scored twice to win the match. The first goal came early, in the 6th minute; the other in the 23rd. Queensland Roar became the inaugural Australian Women’s League Champion in 09.

At one point during the broadcast I heard the radio announcer say the words Canberra United. That same second I was driving past a United Petrol Station in a Victorian country town (Beaufort or Great Western?)

Still tuned into the ABC during the 6 pm News I distinctly heard the announcer say in his final comment about the match: “Both goals were scored in the second half”.

Both goals had been scored in the first half of the first half; probably exactly, since the 23 minute is half-way through the first half. Such a blunder by a major radio station made me wonder, how many other mistakes come out of the radio, are printed in the newspapers, or are shown on television, which are plain misreporting?


Above mistake, the 2 instead of 1 mix-up, is trivial and harmless, of course. However, my argument with the Advertiser Newspaper, if Peter Liddy paid bribe money on 2 occasions, not 1, is rather vital to the story. It can turn the case from bribe money into a blackmail attempt. (Readers know what I mean).

As if the whole script had been written beforehand, just after the 6 PM News, still motoring toward Melbourne, I was listening to a program on ABC (Radio National?) by West Australian journalist Susan M.

Her subject of discussion: “News reporting.” Susan M, who also writes a regular column in the Weekend Australian, invited her listeners to email her, what they think of news, and the way it is reported today. (After arriving home from my journey 9 days later, I obliged Susan M. and mentioned the above).


In Australia  the month of January is peak season. The caravan park where I arrived at around 8 pm was crowded. However, the place was cheap and reasonably close to the ‘Spirit of Tasmania’ ferry terminal. Until this trip I had not known that this park existed in Hobson’s Bay (Williamstown). It was a pleasant surprise, as was the postcode 3016.

During most of the year the ‘Spirit of Tasmania’ operates an overnight passage from Melbourne to Tasmania. In summer extra trips were scheduled during daylight hours to meet demand. I was booked to travel, leaving Melbourne at 9am for the 9 hour crossing of Bass Straight, on Sunday 18/01/09.

The huge ferry boat was filled, possibly to capacity. Holidaymakers from all over, no doubt, were walking around, sitting, reading, sipping coffee or watching TV. Many were catching up on sleep on the deckchairs provided (and everywhere else).

I filled in my time writing my diary, reading or walking from one end of the boat to the other.

In the small theatre various film were screened. I chose the one titled Gracie, but not because it sounded a bit like crazy. However, an observation I made, just prior to entering the theatre to watch Gracie, may sound crazy, but it was fact:

A lady sat close to the narrow passageway leading to the theatre. She was reading a book. The way she held it, I could not help taking a glance as I walked by. In bold letters I saw she was up to Chapter 107.

My thinking/linking brain took over like gracie, sorry crazy. I recalled how I had on 1/07/07 visited a church and listened to a sermon on Grace. At home later I had discovered the word grace on a calendar with Ephesians, Chapter 1, 7 as text.  

In the theatre of the Spirit of Tasmania I sat in the third row, to see better. The seat number in the seat right in front of me read 210. I sat in 310.

Gracie was a touching film with a powerful message. An ambitious girl (Gracie) lost her brother (Johnny Bowen) in a car crash. She made it her dream goal to fill the vacant spot in the soccer team.

Naturally, being a girl, there was strong opposition. Much came from her own father, who did not believe his daughter would be tough enough to stand up to the challenge. But Gracie surprised everyone. With sheer persistence and sacrifice she succeeded to break into the team. In the end she scored the winning goal and … lived happily ever after, as Hollywood scriptwriters have us believe.

Writing about this film reminded me of a letter to the Editor of Readers Digest Magazine, March 09, Page 9/10. It was written not by a young person, but a mature-aged, still fit female, who displayed a degree of woman can-do-it-all boasting.

No male doubts that this isso; woman can do most things blokes do. But as I read her short letter I sensed something was not right, which was hard to pinpoint. (Aha …maybe, we’re going down that lin…? 

The lady’s name was Jennie Mack. (A Federal Minister in Canberra has a very similar name). Jennie in her letter bragged about all the medals she had won in Surf Life Saving, and how she helped women to break into the male surfing arena.

Jenny Mack, ironically from Mackay, Queensland, closed her slightly f.c. (female chauvinistic) letter with this sentence: “The men have now come of age and it is gratifying to see women as part of the [surf life saving] movement”. Her letter won ‘Letter of the Month’ for March 09; her prize - a Readers Digest book of Brain Stretchers.

Old Jennie’s piece of f.c. writing, plus the drop-letters I noticed on the pages, was sufficient material to stir my creative brain to write a poem, the first in a few months. I emailed it to Readers Digest Magazine on April 2nd 09:


The sin of Jennie Mack (by Dieter Fischer)

At the mature, young age of seventy-three

Jennie Mack called herself ‘old lady of the sea’.

Her life-time passion was surf-rescues on the shore.

She won medal after medal, not a few, but by the score!


To other women Jen was a real inspiration,

she fought and won their right to integration.

Whatever men achieve, women do better.

She wrote to Readers Digest a winning letter.


The editor promptly awarded first prize,

Letter of the months, Jen thought – how nice!

But it wasn’t what Jen had dreamed of - trip to Spain -

but a bloody book – How to stretch out your brain!


What Jennie needs is a book, so she won’t stumble,

Title: How to be a woman, a champion and still humble.

Women may be good, even A1, in all they’re in,

But remember, Jen - pride is stil lsin.


The misspelled stil lsin in the last line was intentional. My de-coding brain re-arranged the drop-letters on page 10/11 of the Magazine into – L IS & AI 551 (*551 = V V A).

(*See song at the end of chapter)

If society were to realize that ALL, males and females, are equal and under God’s care and control, much pain and heart-ache would be avoided. A war between the genders is as futile as a war between a parent and a teenager.

In the short term the real winner may appear to have lost. But the end is what matters. The apparent loser may turn out to be the REAL winner: The stone, which the builders rejected became the cornerstone.   

Films like Gracie may have inspired girls into becoming great achievers, breaking into one male arena after another, often at the expense of a ruined male. At the end of life, however, many career women (and men), not all, find themselves at the top of the corporate ladder, only to realize, the ladder they climbed so desperately, sacrificing family and friends, was leaning against the wrong wall.

(Back in the Spirit o T.)

Not long before our destination, Devonport, as mentioned I heard the name Webb called twice over the ships loudspeaker. About two hours later, after disembarking and driving across the Mersey River into Devonport, I sat in a fast food restaurant, eating fried chicken and mashed potato.

From where I was sitting I could see through the glass windows. It was uncanny, but all of a sudden, in large letters just across the street, I read the name WEBB, part of a business name. The other letters visible spooked me somewhat – A L E S.  

The place was not a liqueur store, but a car sales yard. It was located right opposite a church of the same denomination I was attending in Adelaide – a Church of Christ.

Exiting the car park, as if my numbers had followed me, a 4 WD-vehicle drove out ahead of me, rego ...  L 1010. Was A L really IT?


Webb ALES Sign


Just noticed on scanning – the O is a different colour to NE. ‘One’ had drawn attention to HIMself on Easter Sunday morning – on Leading the Way.


After taking above photo I drove to Ulverstone. I found and booked into the BIG4 Caravan Park, right by the beach. Only after I had paid my fee and read it on the invoice, did I see the address: 57 Water Street, Ulverstone; nice postcode too – 7315.

Amazing how this happened – at this point in my writing I searched out some photos of the journey to include here. This photo came up! What a perfect spot for a magic road sign at the Denmans Rd junction:


Denmans Rd junction – 3 km from Beaconsfield on the C 715.

3 kilometers to Beaconsfield on C 715

Within a few kilometers two other names, side roads on theway to Beaconsfield, made me take photos: Prophets Rd and Finan St .


There was plenty of daylight left for a little shopping and a ride around this well situated town on the Leven River. (See sunset photo Chapter 18).

That evening I found a 5 cent coin, as I cycled around the town. Nothing unusual, except the next evening - Tasmanians must have holes in their pockets - I picked up three 5-cent coins, plus a ten cent coin.

Is there a purpose, why they do this, spread small coins around? If so, perhaps it is to help pay for the showers in the caravan park. They are coin-operated. Twenty cents for 3minutes. Every coin helps!

In the BIG4 park I noticed the numbers on the power-supply post, the tent site I had been allocated and pitched my tent on – T 40 / 41.

(I see today’s date there somewhere – more so I am reminded of the most dramatic events of Easter 06, where on 14/4 I arrived at the number O – long story … words fail …!

While I think of it – Australia ’s AFL football season started very successfully for the two Adelaide teams in the competition. The Crows won by 4 points, Port Adelaide ’s Port Power by 41 points!


The North West Coast of Tasmania is one of the prettiest landscapes you ever see. The soil is rich volcanic, deep brown in colour. The district grows tulips, lavender and all kinds of vegetables.

I decided to stay two days at Ulverstone and take a ride to Sheffield, the town overshadowed by the awesome Mount Roland. It had been 23 years since I cycled this region. Experiencing this coast line, once again on two wheels, filled me with pleasure and a thankful heart toward God, who gives health to enjoy his creation to the full.

My ride took me through the pretty town of Forth at the lower end of the river with the same name. It was a little early to stop for a shandy at the Hotel, so after a brief stop on the bridge, taking in the scene, I moved on.

Slowly cycling up the steep climb out of Forth, my oxygen-flooded brain took in three impulses, in quick succession. The first was right outside a place, whose business sign included two hands; a discarded can, brand name Bundaberg. Secondly, only metres away, also on the road, lay a dead bird. O la la.

It could have been a no-drink-driving message: Drink too much Bundaberg, drive a car and you could end up like this bird! 

The third observation, again only metres away, fitted perfectly, if you apply the o/a code, a street name - Grove Street. 

The road I was climbing took me to Melrose, one of many lovely places; lovely to be cycling through, and a nice name to ponder on. Opposite a farm, which was actually a vegetable research station, I saw a piece of cloth hanging on the fence beside the road.  

For a few moments my mind went into reverse to Wallaroo, the weekend before. What I saw made me think: This looks like ... identical ... to the piece of cloth, blue and white striped,  I had unearthed and taken a sample for my diary.

I turned back. It really was the same kind of material as I had stuck in my diary, why not another? So I took again a piece of black and white cloth for the diary later.

Moving on pedalling my Giant I read the interesting number of country roads, C 132, C 144 and C 150. This last one leads through the little hamlet of Nook. (Nook is one of those places, which is basically only a postcode, after the phone-box had been removed).

But isn't this weird. NO OK - the No is OK.

Hey, look at this C.I5.0 (OC !!!) – I just saw it – even the word IS in between no ok fits perfectly! 

(There is a postcode in Tasmania 7330. Our phone number ends in 7303. The place is called Mella - reminds me of Mel, who lives in LA. He is on the front page of the newspapers, on the day I am writing this 16/4/09 - marriage trouble).


In the main street of Sheffield, the rocky face of Mount Roland majestically towering in the background, I saw a bearded man talking to visitors. In his hand he held the reigns, leading a pet animal along with him. It was a four-legged pet, but this is where any similarity to a dog ends.

The animal was an Alpaca (nice word, this chapter will end in L and P, God willing). The beast was well groomed and well behaved, so I shouldn't call it that.  The Alpaca man’s name was Ludo, his furry-haired friend’s name - Manuel. This name immediately made me think, how I had started and ended chapter 16, days earlier, with the name Emmanuel. 

We shared a coffee outside the Cafe, as the animal stood beside us. Ludo, a talkative, well-known Dutch immigrant, and I chatted about this and that and even religion.

Less than a week later I was to meet two alpacas, outside Melbourne – by surprise. I have already written about it in Chapter 17.

From the diary January 19th 09  

(I forgot to carry my camera on this ride).

                                Sheffield's Alpaca man and Manuel

Left: Part of the Alpaca Man’s business card.

Right, the route I cycled: Ulverstone (Highway 1) – Forth – Melrose – Lower Barrington – Sheffield - Nook (C 150)- Spreyton – Ulverstone.

Please note, I didn’t cycle to Nowhere Else or Turner’s Beach.



Had I carried my camera on this ride, silly me left it in the car, I would have taken Ludo and Manuel, no doubt. On the way back to the coast (via Nook) I would have been tempted to take a photo of a house and letterbox at Spreyton. 

Why I look I don't know, but as I cycled past I saw the matching Da Ninci name, plus a magic number to go with it: The house was called Anheim, the number was 138.

Back at the BIG4 I cooked myself some noodles for dinner. What came next, during the simple, everyday act eating dinner, is impossible to proof to anyone. But I know it happened, a moment of karma and adventure came and was over in seconds.

I was eating my noodles with a fork, but they kept falling off, so I changed to a spoon. While eating I flicked through the newspaper, the Advertiser, which I had carried along. It was the Saturday edition of 17/1/09. Seconds after the above I turned the page and saw this:


                    Cartoon in the diary - The Far Side (Advertiser 17/1/09):

                     Cartoon Advertiser That's all forks
Text: And so the bartender says: “That’s not a soup spoon! ...But seriously, forks …”

I was pleased with myself in another way. Unscrambling the word Adventure took only seconds.

 After scanning the above nearly 3 months later, which proves I am not searching out codes, I suddenly saw the similarity in Advertiser and Adventure.
I played my word game, deducting the letters one from the other. Interesting result!
- - - - - - -

The weather was beautiful as I drove east toward the Tamar Valley. Just outside Devonport, on the way to Exeter, I received a little cookie, if a song could be called a cookie. I passed a property, which looked like a camp site. A large tent, or two, had been erected, the car park was filled with cars and small buses.

The camp was a Seventh Day Adventist camp. A meeting was just in progress. I parked my Suzuki to take a look. For the few minutes I was there the choir sang the old hymn: “Out of my bondage, Jesus I come …” Loved it!

Tasmania is rather compact. The landscape flying by was very pretty. More often than not I thought, how pretty it would be cycling these roads on my bicycle as I had done the day before. Compared to Adelaide even in midsummer the meadows were green in colour. I took a few photos.

It didn’t seem long and I was approaching Beaconsfield, a lively town, which has a gold mine literally in the centre of town. The street names just outside Beaconsfield made me stop and take more photos, as mentioned above.


Historic Beaconsfield Tasmania

Top: Beaconsfield ’s original school, in the historic mine precinct.  

Bottom: Beautiful Tasmania, on the road to Beaconsfield. Doesn’t the number on the fence make it picture perfect?

It was really an afterthought to visit Beaconsfield. But I'm glad I did. The small mining town was put on the world map after a mine collapse and ‘miracle’ rescue in 2006. The two survivors even appeared on US television.

(Full story - Book 5, Chapters 6 and 23)



I parked right beside the mine, which was the centre of world attention three years ago. A miner, Larry Knight, was killed in an underground blast. Two of his fellow workers survived, allegedly. To this day I have not found the answer to the question: Why was one of the men, after nearly 2 weeks in a hellhole, raising his hands strongly and vigorously in front of the waiting TV cameras?

In the main street of Beaconsfield I saw tomatoes advertised cheap. I bought 5 of them at the little roadside stall. I crossed the road to walk in the shade. It was right outside number 158, my tomato number from years ago. (Story in Summary to Oct.05). 

A Mercedes was parked right outside. A gentlemen exited from No. 158 and drove off.

My ‘souvenir’ from Beaconsfield is worth mentioning. Walking through the large park at the centre of the historic Beaconsfield precinct I nearly walked into a huge rusty nail. It was not merely lying flat, it was sticking upward, still fastened to a piece of timber.

Anybody would have been badly hurt, had they trodden on this bit of debris. I was going to dump it into a bin, but why not a rusty nail as a free souvenir?

Stop Press: This is remarkable. Hours before editing this, I was driving past a church on Fosters Road, Oakden I read the roadside pulpit, the message from Easter


Reading a poster earlier I had picked up that a Music Festival was held at Georgetown, at the northern end of the Tamar River. That day was meant to be the final day of the event, so why not pay a visit?

I drove past the huge Bell Bay Aluminium Smelters, parked my Suzuki under a tree in the public square and ate my lunch. No sound of music anywhere. I was at the right place, the date was correct, January 20, but there was only a slight error – wrong year! The festival had been held the year before.

Driving back via the impressive Batman Bridge opened up fantastic views up and down the Tamar River valley … Oops …(WATCH THE ROAD, while you’re driving …!) But I made it to Exeter OK.

It was mid afternoon when I drove into Launceston, the second largest city in Tasmania. I would have loveD to spend more time, but only got to do a little shopping, a present for my hosts in Hobart, and a new pair of sunglasses.
A store by the name of ALLGOODS had nice ones, for a reasonable price - Fifteen Dollars. As I exited the store, looking where to walk next, I smiled at the name of the Cafe right next door – “Let them eat cake”.


                           Cafe in Launceston

Top: Launceston, outside ALLGOODS and the 'Let them eat cake' Café.

Bottom: The George Town Watch House, run by the Historical Society is well worth a visit. You always learn something of interest. (Trouble is you forget it all again so quickly!)


Launceston features a quaint shopping mall, called the Quadrant. Because it curves in a quarter circle (hence the name) it could easily be located in Amsterdam, Stuttgart or around the corner from London’s Carnaby Street, except price-tags in the shop windows may vary.

That evening I pitched my tent on the banks of the Esk River, at Longford. The caravan park was called Riverside Park. When tenting there is one universal rule: In good weather you have a good holiday - in bad weather it’s horrid.

I was fortunate. The weather was perfect for the outdoors. There was time that evening for the obligatory bike ride around the district. Sunset is the best part of the day, when the colours are highlighted by the fading sun.

For most of the ride I could see in the south Ben Lomond National Park, where skiing is possible in winter. The second highest peak in Tasmania, which is one of the most mountainous regions on earth, is Legges Tor, elevation 1572 meters.

Since my day’s destination, Hobart, was only two hours away, the next morning I afforded another bike ride, before leaving this pretty region of Australia. Historic Hadspen, only 10 or so kilometres away, was my choice.

Having been brought up in, even lived in an ancient tower, old stone buildings take me back into my childhood. Perhaps this is why I enjoyed just spending a few minutes outside the Red Feather Inn and historic Entally House, built in 1820, 16 years before South Australia was even founded.


My Giant with Entally House, Hadspen as backdrop. The property included both a chapel and coach house.


The showers in the caravan park cost 20 cents. The people of Longford, however, didn’t chip in by leaving a few 5 or 10 cent coins around. Matter of fact, after the Ulverstone coins, I can't recall finding any more coins on the island. 

All ready packed for the drive south, I first attended the Wednesday Mass at the old stone church in the centre of Longford. I had seen a sign. Since my only church on Sunday was 'Songs of Praise' on TV on the ferry boat, I felt I owed HIM one (just kidding).

The church was called Christ Church. The priest's message was based on John 2, 1-10, Jesus turning water into wine, his first miracle. Of course, I saw the date 21/1 in this, but there was an even bigger surprise.

The lady sitting right in front of me wore a dress, blue and white striped, just like the cloth I had picked up and glued into my diary the day before. (The stripes were a little wider, according to my diary). Her name was Mel … Hey, I just saw it … Melva!

(How amazing, only an hour ago, I wrote the bit about LA's Mel, the one who has women trouble; Strange, did HE make that movie about .. the man ... at Easter?

After the mass our small flock sat and chatted over a cup of coffee and fruit cake (almond icing, yummy). The local priest, who had conducted the mass, had previously been the local doctor for many years. 

He had a few stories to tell, as you would, knowing your flock intimately, their body and soul and all the sins they had committed. Longford must be the town with Tasmania's healthiest people.

Between Longford and Hobart I took one major stop at Ross, cooking lunch in the back of my little van. I had parked near another old stone church. I could not help noticing that the clock on the church tower had stopped. It was stuck at 1.26.


The evening before editing this I went to a meeting with Mr. T. I had parked right behind a vehicle rego 621. I never thought of it again, until I came across - long story for later, maybe - a magazine, where Isaiah 62, Verse 1 featured at the end.

Next, outside on the noticeboard I saw a dice showing No. 6 and 2 with lots of 1's behind, leaving only 316 and (I think 2). Numbers shall never seize ...
I emailed the magazine's editor in the UK later. His name was King Charles ... (It's all true and may make sense to somebody?)  

Ross is gem of a place, almost every building oozes with history. I walked past the interestingly named Man O’Ross Hotel up to another little church in a slightly elevated position above the town. It was a Uniting Church.

Inside on a wall was a poster. It had the words 'Welcome Jesus Christ' in all kinds of languages. As one who is bi-lingual does, I looked for the German words. I looked again, but surely, they would not omit a major language?

But they had overlooked or forgotten (or on purpose) not included the welcome message in German. (Germans were the enemy once upon a time). 

Here was my revenge for their neglect. I signed the visitor’s book and wrote as remark: Christus is willkommen (Christ is welcome).

Later that night my host, who is the pastor of a church, was leading a song at the church meeting we attended. Why I always find a link is a mystery, but one came. The first song we sang that evening was: “Holy Spirit you are welcome ..." 

(I wished my links on my web pages would come as easily).


Glenorchy was the first stop before driving into Hobart; time for a little walk down memory lane. I parked at the local library, which was built around the time when we lived just around the corner at No. 49 Bowden Street for 8 years. (Nice word - Bow.den). 

It felt strange walking the streets I had known so well all those years ago. I was astounded to see the change. Not one, but two huge shopping centres. plus many smaller businesses, had transformed Glenorchy into a real modern suburb.  

As I approached the spot, where our old house was supposed to stand, I realized it had been demolished. Together with No. 51 a larger house had been erected.

Just as I arrived another surprise; a white haired lady was slowly pushing her walker down the cul-de-sac. Mount Wellington, almost visible from everywhere around Hobart, in the background.

The slightly bent-over lady was pushing a walker and had just reached Bowden Street, when I got there.

“Hello Margaret”, I called out, amazed that I remembered her name instantly. Margaret T. had been, like myself, an inaugural member of Five CG, a social centre brought together by 5 Churches in the City of Glenorchy. She had seen our children grow up and had been a good friend and neighbour.

As we were chatting, she thought I was the man next door. This is how we came to talk about her address. She lived at No. 15. Suddenly I became aware that the name of her street (in code) together with her house number, created 1115. Why I see these things, and not just brush them off as co-incident, touches on the core of my whole life-story!

                                                                Beautiful, but windy - Hobart, Tasmania

Top: High winds on the Derwent River created ocean-size waves. The Tasman Bridge features in Chapter 4.

Bottom: The author, dressed in white shirt for the funeral. Behind is the ex-Henry Jones IXL factory/warehouse on Hobart’s waterfront.

I worked in this building for 2 years in the mid 1970’s.

Henry Jones was a real talent in turning letters into words. IXL (I excel) is good - so is his JAM.


On the day of the funeral, the day after I arrived, Hobart experienced the strongest winds the capital suffered in years. Here is how the ABC website described it:


“Communities in southern Tasmania are counting the cost after strong winds caused widespread damage. The winds of up to 125 kilometres an hour have brought down powerlines, blown trees onto buildings and taken off roofs.”


I had just visited the pastor friend, under whom I had served as musician, youth leader and church treasurer over an eight-year period. The hour or so we talked was barely enough to catch up on nearly 30 years of family life etc. Our families had been good friends at the time. One name was prominent in that church, I recall. It was Williams. (Read on, it will pop up again in a moment).  

This suburb Lutana, where I visited and we had lived for a short time also, was exposed to the wind. Saying goodbye at the door, I noticed my bike had blown over. Cycling in the strong wind became a nightmare.

The wind was of such force I had to get off my bike and shelter behind a fence. I feared being hit by debris flying through the air. On the road I picked up a few pieces of steel, possibly from a trampoline and deposited it away from the roadway..

I had planned a short ride, a ride down memory lane, to the little church where the pastor I had just visited was their shepherd for over 30 years. I had been actively involved between 1974 and 1982.

Likewise, I had to abandon the idea of riding to the nearby Electrolytic Zinc Works, Risdon, which is now called Pasminco. I had worked there for two years in the late 70’s.

The wind was blowing in the right direction toward Hobart. With a few minutes to spare only, I was walking into the vestry of the Scot’s Church in Hobart ’s Bathurst Street. When I was handed the  funeral service sheet I discovered that the family of my deceased friend printed his photo on it, one I had emailed to them. It felt good to having been of assistance in that way.

As one does at the funeral, you find out things about the person, which you didn’t know. My friend, Doug, with whom I used to work and spend many weekends bushwalking, had been praying for us and phoning my family regularly over the years. He had made it his Christian calling to pray for people. 

He also was a great giver of finances to all kinds of charities and organisations.
At one time, I recall, I expressed the need in our church, for a piece of equipment needed. He simply asked how much it would cost and supplied to funds to purchase it without wanting anyone to know.

Eternity will reveal what foundation each person on earth has based his or her life on. There will be surprises!

One of the highlights of the funeral Service was the hymn: 'Guide me, O thou great Jehovah'. As on many occasions, the lyrics "...when I tread the verge of Jordan, bid my anxious fears subside ..." brought up deep emotions. God guides, but isn't it scary to not know, where it will end? 

The keyword is trust. Total surrender to HIS guidance, staying close to HIM.

'Guide me O Thou great Jehovah' is hymn No. 201 in my Mission Praise. 

The hymn was written by William Williams and translated (according to the funeral service sheet) by Peter Williams. 

When I read this I immediately linked it to gentleman I had met at the church meeting the night before. His name was also Peter Williams. (He son prays).

Since this name William I came across another - long story. To cut it short, watching early morning US TV on 14.4.09 (US) I happened to come across a Mr. William. This Mr. William allegedly had once had an abusive affair with a famous actress -
Marlee Matlin, interesting ...lin name!

What made my antenna go up - the alleged abuser was named William... Hurt! I suspected a late April fool's joke, unless William really did it. .


At the Hobart funeral service I noticed a number 2 mix-up. (Nothing to do with soccer or the ABC, but there is a female connection). The text of the bible reading was from the famous passage of the Lord’s fare-well speech in John’s Gospel, Chapter 14. I am sure the lady announced it as John 16!

(Six weeks earlier at an Anglican Church at Nambucca Heads, NSW, a lady minister had mixed up her numbers – 220, not 222. This must be a hallmark of female ministers presiding. Maybe these ladies were testing, if the men were listening!)

My friend, the pastor who kindly put me up for two nights at their home on the Eastern Shore , gave excellent hospitality. His wife was recuperating from a fall, her ankle swollen, she could barely walk.

Therefore, on the second night I volunteered to provide the evening meal. We all liked Chinese. After enquiring as to the nearest Chinese Restaurant, I went to the place to order our food. I came home with ‘junk food’.

Let me explain. Only the next day, during a short walk around the pretty boat harbour, Bellerive, did I note the name of the Chinese Restaurant. It was called Golden Junk, at Number 9 … The food was excellent, nothing like what we generally call junk food. (Yes, we also ate fried rice).

During this Friday morning walk I admired an old Rover for sale. It was almost the same vintage as my 1954 Wolseley, who I sometimes regret selling. The Rover was priced at $ 5000 no offers, available only after Jan 30 …?

Hey, now I get it – code 135? Makes me think – did they really want someone to take over the Rover?

Friends, what do you see in this picture? I took it, on the morning of my departure in the room I was kingly provided with, at our friend’s place?


23 reflections on 1 miirror on Jan 23

The early morning sun shone into my room. The vertical blinds provided 23 vertical reflections. The shape of the mirror – if it were a number, it would have to be a 1.  

Now you see the date – January 23! That day I drove back up north, ready to catch the ferry the next morning.

  To one brain such thinking comes natural, while 23 other minds think: How crazy! – But God is the judge of all 24.

- - - - - - -


Those 23 minds may as well not bother reading, unless they are movie-buffs. I am not one of them, neither one of the 23 doubters, nor a movie-buff. But watching TV late on Wednesday, April 8, made me sit up for a moment. I rarely watch the ABC's movie show, but the names of the films discussed took me in. 

The result was a poem, which I composed the next morning. There were 4 movies discussed on the show, Mary and Max, was one of them. Would you have guessed the other 3?


Mary, Max and Tax (by Dieter Fischer)

Old Mary and Max a couple from Perth
had worked all their life, now a million worth,
decided to sail the great oceans blue
But there was one little thing they forgot to do.

On a bright new morning they said their good-by
To friends and family, not without a little cry.
Prepared for adventure they had packed all they could
T’was perfect blue sky, calm seas, life was all-good.

But as things happen, there’s a twist in any tale,
what one day was good turned into a gale.
The wind, the rain, the weather turned shocking.
Poor Mary and Max, their boat was rocking.

The distressed mariners thought they surely would die,
What have we done to deserve this, the end is nigh!
Suddenly, this must be a dream, can’t be true,
a creature walked toward them: “Peace unto you!

I’m JCVD, sent from by the Office of Tax,”
The beareded man was looking straight at Max.
Both Mary and Max froze silent with fear:
What a nightare! Not only death, but paying taxes was near!

Without hesitation, Max did what he should have done!
Got out his Visa, paid the missing Ten thousand and one.
The storm, how amazing, took only moments to clear,
JCVD, our tax man, didn’t even stay for a beer.

The moral of the story – as you saw with Mary and Max
Live life to be honest, in work, play or paying tax!
You may not believe it, but there is ONE who sees,

all we do – good or bad – on earth, in the sky or on storm seas.

(The movies: Max and Mary, Good, The boat that rocked, JCVD).  


On Monday evening April 13th, 09 (Easter Monday) I posted a message into an online guestbook, again it was with ABC TV. My wife and I had watched Australian Story, about ex-criminal turned preacher, Terry Walker.

Where previously his days were filled with crime, alcohol and drugs, this mean looking, motorcycling giant, now runs the Tribe of Judah. He still dresses in leather jacket / black boots etc, but preaches God's love and power, instead of committing crimes. His huge organisation also feeds the poor.

But there was more. The second part of the story was about another ex-criminal. This white-haired, mature looking gentleman had known Terry in the past as a criminal. Seeing his life story on TV, this ex-policeman turned criminal also turned his life over to God.  

According to the TV program, this ex drug dealer became the only prisoner in Australia, who became an ordained minister, while serving a prison term. He now is a pastor of a church.

I could not believe my ears, holding back tears, when in a moment of magic, the camera showed this gentleman, standing in his church, head (and hands?) raised, singing: “Amazing love, how can it be …” 

Friends, men whose life has changed so dramatically, sing those lyrics with passion. They don't just sing words, they express their sincere, intimate love to another man. HIM. Yes men, it's OK to love another man!

Watching this program was a breath of fresh air to my soul. Those atheists, who argue there is no God find it hard to explain, why a hardened criminal says the power and love of God changed his life!. What else caused it?

The following hymn may not be the style of music ex-bikie members play. But the lyrics sum up the change in the life of Terry and his friend: (Amazing - the hymn is No. 551 in my Mission Praise, Verses 1 and 2:


Out of my bondage  (Words by Terry Sleeper)

Out of my bondage, sorrow, and night,
  Jesus, I come! Jesus, I come!
Into Thy freedom, gladness, and light,
    Jesus, I come to Thee!
Out of my sickness into Thy health,
Out of my want and into Thy wealth,
Out of my sin and into Thyself,
    Jesus, I come to Thee!

Out of my shameful failure and loss,
  Jesus, I come! Jesus, I come!
Into the glorious gain of Thy cross,
    Jesus, I come to Thee!
Out of earth's sorrows into Thy balm,
Out of life's storm and into Thy calm,
Out of distress to jubilant psalm,
    Jesus, I come to Thee!



Here is what I posted on Easter Monday into the ABC Australian Story Guestbook: (I called myself Winston, very appropriate, I thought afterwards). 


Hi all,
What amazing turnaround - Terry's change from bank robber to bible preacher! Congratulation to Australian Story (and/or *Caroline's 4 Corners) for presenting such a positive story.

I wonder, has there ever been a criminal, who converted to atheism, cleaned up his life of alcohol and drugs, re-united with his wife and inspired other criminals to also try atheism as a solution to their messed up life?

The proof is in the pudding - Mr. Dawkins! There are thousands of Terry's in Australia , whose lives turned around after discovering the reality of God's Love and Power!
(179/4 months).

*For years Caroline Jones has been introducing 4 Corners on ABC. On April 13 she also introduced Australian Story, a completely separate program. 

The code at the end is the result of an observation. As the camera zoomed into a building number 179 (from memory a court building?) Terry’s wife in the background spoke the words – 4 months.

I did the maths, it all works out. Perhaps this phrase 4 months rekindled a deep thought in my subconscious. I came very early on the day of writing – 14.4.09.

Two years ago …

… actually... how amazing, when I thought of this, it may have been exactly two years ago, in the US it was still 13/4  …

… leaving Hollywood , California I had heard the phrase ‘4 more months’. Soon after found a plastic card – Power for more. (Book 6, Chapter 1).

The thought this morning centered around the word more – which appeared in both phrases. 

Since the incident took place in the US , lets apply the code, which originated in the US - EA. Changing more to mora creates the letters for amor – love - in many languages. 

Ever noticed - amor is Roma backwards?

Don’t we all need more power; more power to love our fellow man - and to love that man on the cross – even more?


Chapter 22