50.    This might hurt a bit


As the year 2004 pushed towards the final quarter, I was sure that people were thinking that I was different. Did they really think I was the man the Christian world was waiting for and has been for hundreds of years? I tried to tell my family what I thought people were thinking. I usually didn’t get very far, without once again risking a trip to the Mental Hospital. No, I didn’t want a hat trick in that department. Had I been saying to them that I also thought that I was the ONE, it would have been a different matter. Deep down, however, this thought occurred to me a number of times and would not go away.


It was often after I uploaded chapters, where God had done some outstanding miracles, when I spotted certain messages of confirmation that people liked my writing.

A finance company’s vehicle crossed my path one morning. The registration I read as – BESURE 01. Later that day, right in our short street near my home, I spotted a vehicle of the same company – BESURE 07. I was so positive they were conveying a message. Later that evening I logged onto their website and enquired: “What are the repayments for a $ 153 000 loan over 17 years?”  If they played the game they would know who I was.


The length to which some of my supporters went to give me messages, without direct correspondence is quite incredible. I was conducting a driving lesson in Modbury in Adelaide’s North East. A van had stopped right in the middle of an intersection, causing a real hazard. I saw a man walk away from the van. Why he did was unclear, because the road was sloping and the vehicle could have rolled clear by itself.


Then I noticed my clue. A car was parked outside a nearby property, displaying huge letters on the side. It was the company’s name and was identical to that of a radio host I listened to. Only days earlier I had written him a letter, telling him a few of my yet unpublished miracles and asking for support in my fight against corruption. Now I knew where the message came from, but what was the message?


Unless it was co-incidence, a few days after noticing the broken down van, road works commenced very close to this corner. A small side street, which I never regarded as a traffic problem, was being blocked off. It was changed into a dead end!


I knew not to write any more letters asking for support to this radio host. Not that I was upset with anybody. Oh no, I was thankful for any response. The name of the blocked road, however, had me guessing in two ways. The first four letters were “Belt…” How was I to read this? Be L (on the) Cross? Or should I read it as one word, to belt. (It's slang and means ‘speed up, drive fast’). 



Now we all know what the Lord meant, when HE was teaching: "Blessed are the poor in spirit."


On the day of writing (late October 2004) Isobel and I argued for a short while, voices slightly raised, but nothing serious. In conclusion we made a deal. She will write to our Christian friends and relatives and tell them about me, asking them to read some of my work and give an opinion on my mental state.


“Will you take tablets then and see a psychiatrist?” my wife asked.


“OK”, I said, “what is the likely outcome? ‘What, if they don’t agree with you?”


“They will”, she answered.


“Tell them to read chapter 34 of my autobiography, Part 2. If they still say I should have tablets, I …”


I stopped speaking mid-sentence. Would I really ever deny what had happened, what God brought me through over this past five years? Were those daily miracles, insignificant as they may sound, all the outworking of a mental condition? No, no and no again! 

Nobody has experienced what I had, so nobody could pass judgement. I would never deny my Lord.


My wife clearly pointed out that I was not successful in my try for Parliament, because of all this (my mad writing). I said, I totally agreed with her. It was for the same reason also that I was not getting many clients.. The reason is simple – if people believed, after reading enough of my story, I had a higher calling from God than being a Member of Parliament, why would they have pre-selected me?


Or consider a learner driver’s position – their mum or dad booked a driving lesson with someone they think could be Jesus. Little wonder students found it hard to concentrate. I figured that people preferred to book with a down to earth instructor instead. I wasn’t able to make Isobel understand this direction of thinking. I believed, people increasingly read and believed my story. Could it be that many had figured out who I was and what it was  - before I did?


My heart was on fire to tell the world what God had done. They may have heard enough of it and now wanted to hear, who I was and what it was. But how to convey this message seemed an overwhelming task.


Writing came relatively easy, depending what I was writing about. Every time I steered in the direction of my identity my heart felt heavy. A large, red brochure, advertising a new credit card, was lying on the floor of my cluttered office. In large, white print it read: “This might hurt a bit”. I knew what they meant.


There was so much of what God had been doing, too much to record it all. The task of producing it all nicely, and wrapping it all up neatly, did not come easy. At times I was thinking, who was reading it anyway? What interest is there in a blog, and a weird one at that? I had learned what category writer I come into, one who writes his thoughts on the Internet, is called a blogger. There were millions of us engaged in this activity.  Still I believed I was not just one of those millions, but had a special calling to which I must be faithful and true. 


My observations everyday made me aware that a certain section of Adelaide’s community was following my movements, physically or otherwise. They tried to give me the message that they think I am the man, everyone expected to return. The following are three examples, small clues, which I interpreted to mean – you are the chosen one.


The first incident took place as far back as July 2003. I had made an appointment with a well-respected Christian man, a leader in our city, who knew me well. At the time I was desperate to find out, if I was suffering from an illness or, if what was happening to me, could indeed be from God. Sitting in his city office, I was trying to tell this gentleman, aged in his mid 60’s, about the incredible events surrounding this theophany. We talked for about 15 minutes in the gentleman’s office, not only about me, but also about the state of affairs in the churches, politics etc. The conversation did not reach the level of depth I would have liked to.


After a few minutes, quite unexpectedly, my friend told his secretary that he’d be out for a while. He took me downstairs into Adelaide’s busy shopping crowd and across the road, without telling me, where we were going. The direction we were heading towards, would take us past the Advertiser Newspaper building. ‘Surely, he is not going to take me to meet a journalist to tell my story?’ I thought. I wasn’t prepared for that. He didn’t.


Not far from his office we entered a small Café, and he asked me what I wanted to have. It took me a moment to think, I was still bewildered what was happening. “A chocolate milkshake, thanks”, was all I could think of on the spot. I can’t remember, why I didn’t order a coffee. It definitely was a milkshake, because only recently, in an email, I reminded him that I still owed him a milkshake.


For a moment I speculated that he thinks his office was bugged, and he brought me here to talk freely. But our conversation didn’t take on any further depth of dialogue in that Café. Somewhat disappointed, that my self doubt was neither confirmed nor denied, we walked back to his office after 20 minutes or so, and went our separate ways. At those times I questioned God, if I had done HIS will to even approach the gentleman.


Months later, I was walking past the Cafe, reminiscing about the surprise milkshake, when I looked up. For the first time I read the name of the place: ‘Royal Café’.  (It actually has a different name, but for privacy I will use this name, meaning exactly the same). Had this mature, Christian leader been giving me a message, which he dared not verbalize and I never saw at the time?


In a similar vein, sometime in early 2004, a seemingly insignificant action, again challenged my thinking. I was sitting in my Suzuki, in the car park of a mechanical workshop, waiting for my car to be looked at for a minor problem. It was on the premises of my regular mechanic. I knew the owner from a previous church. The business name was written on a large sign, looking right at me. As I sat there, listening to the radio, a junior mechanic walked over, opened the car door and appeared to be reading the service label on my car’s windscreen. Without a word, only seconds later, he shut the door and walked back into the workshop.  


I wondered, what was that all about? Then I looked at the label on my windscreen and saw the clue. In bold it read a company slogan: “Be sure to see the sign”. How could I have missed the sign and not got the message? The sign was looking right at me opposite where I was parked. It was the name of the business called: “Royal Mechanical Repairs”. (Not exactly, but same meaning).


It seemed a strange way, very creative just the same, to pass on the message. Was their fear of direct communication similar to mine – both reluctant to call a spade a spade? Was I living a spy movie, except in real life, not Hollywood?


The third example happened in September 2004. In this incident, I believed people were questioning, if I was on the ball (eyeball) and would be led by the ‘spirit’, as I had claimed so many times. If yes, I would fit the mould.


A client and I were on a driving lesson in the suburb of Holden Hill, in Adelaide’s North East. It was close to the area, where I had performed a ‘mystery walk’ (Chapter 31), and arrived in Lambert St. As we came around the bend, I saw two streetlights switched on in broad daylight. Exactly the same had occurred, for many weeks, right opposite our house - two streetlights had stayed on for weeks, one on each side of St. Clair Ave.


As we approached the lit up streetlights, I knew the street name was going to be significant. It was – Anders St. If you translate this into German (nothing to do with re:dna) it means: different. The street we were traveling on was called: Heysen Av, which I read as the German word heissen, meaning – named or to be called.  Once I translated both words, the message was easy to understand – be called differently!


As if organized specifically for the occasion, the same word ‘Anders’ appeared at exactly that time in my German Neukirchener Kalender. The headline read “Anders entscheiden", translating into: "Decide differently '’.


If God would allow me to see such linking and it was nothing, I would call HIM cruel. But I’ve never known HIM to be like that. I knew I had a decision to make when to fly the flag and how public. Ever since Anzac Day 2004 it was clear to me what people were thinking. But I was not playing a role simply to fulfill the expectancy of people. If I was to fulfill God’s will in my life, it was for no other reason than to obey HIM.

HIS will be done. There was little doubt in my mind what HIS will for my life is. God had shown me more links that pointed in my direction. To think about it hurts, just a bit.

Chapter 51