tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22088075576870063682024-02-07T13:18:36.239-08:00At Home with DebbieDebbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-63199034882027193032020-05-21T02:30:00.000-07:002020-05-21T02:35:32.598-07:00Dear God, Let’s Talk about Covid-19<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1">Dear God, </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I know you’re always there, always listening. Do you mind if I run some things past you? Things have changed dramatically in the last while and it’s been an uncomfortable journey.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">How can it be, that a microscopic virus can bring the entire world to its knees? Killing hundreds of thousands, infecting millions, closing borders and crashing businesses and economies. This little germ has jumped from country to country, hitched rides on aircraft and spread through handshakes and hugs. I suppose other small things also have destructive power. The can’t do attitude, the I’m important attitude, the fearful attitude. But physically, the world has never experienced anything quite like this.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We think we’re so intelligent, Lord, but the truth is that Covid-19 has outsmarted the best of the best minds. Thousands are working on a cure, trialling vaccines, experimenting with existing drugs but the best we have so far is good old hand washing with soap and water, social distancing, and self isolation. Actually, that wisdom goes back to Old Testament times.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Leviticus 13:46 <i>As long as they have the disease they remain unclean. They must live alone; they must live outside the camp.</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Is this how it’s going to be forever?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">In New Zealand we spent five weeks on level four lock down. My bubble was my husband who was an essential worker, our puppy and two cats. Although I’m a self-confessed introvert, I found it very hard. Days dragged, boredom set in and I walked miles around our neighbourhood. However, there were benefits as our Pastor, Phil, pointed out in his online sermon this Sunday. He suggested lockdown had been like a Sabbath rest.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I can see that, Lord. Our busy lives hit the wall and we had to stop, change routines, re-evaluate what was important and make adjustments. As days passed, the physical smog dissipated and my mind also became clearer. It was like the world was taking time out. Lines of aircraft were parked up at the airport, road traffic was minimal and malls, cafes and businesses were closed. We’re supposed to rest one day a week but in our normal routines, do we really do this?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I also noticed a change in our neighbourhood. “Where have all these people come from?” I asked myself as a steady procession passed my front window. We live on a busy road and suddenly there was a stream of people drifting by. The old and the young, parents with children of all ages, dog walkers and joggers, cyclists and a guy with a boombox. Some were regulars but about 80% were new to me. What has happened to our world that we have forgotten how to take walks with our families and do things together in our local communities?</span></div>
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During lockdown in level four, I missed my family immensely. I missed coffee with them on the weekends, hugs and sticky kisses from my grandchildren, and the freedom to meet in each other’s homes. I missed physical church meetings, and Zoom became a way to catch up with friends and play games with family. It was better than nothing but You reminded me that many families have suffered far worse. Thousands have passed away without being able to hug their loved ones goodbye, without being offered the dignity of a funeral. How shallow my complaints seem in light of this. <span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">While in Auckland today, Lord, I spotted a seed pod lying on the street. In past years, I would have ignored it. Today it took on new significance as it looked like the corona virus images that continually bombard our eyes. I realised that it’s not the only change in my mindset. I see family differently, friends differently, even people who generally irritate me, differently. Differently in a positive way. We need each other, we need to show compassion, extend mercy, offer assistance and stop thinking only of ourselves. I picked the pod up and put it in my bag. I’ll keep it for a while, Place it where I can see it to remind me of the above.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The world we live in has changed dramatically. You have not changed, God. You are still the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End. You are still the Light of the World, the Prince of Peace and the one who will never let us down. Be with us I pray, as we adjust to our new normal. Replace our fear with your courage, our weakness with your strength and our lack of understanding with your wisdom. And let your perfect will, whatever that may be, unfold in each of our lives.</span></div>
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Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-81571074443936539222020-04-01T12:55:00.003-07:002020-04-01T13:38:24.764-07:00Unexpected Events<div class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 17px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
The police roadblock caught me by surprise. It was on SH69 leading out of Reefton towards Murchison. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the officer said, looking through my vehicle’s window. “There’s been a fatal crash on this side of Murchison and the road will be closed for hours.”</div>
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<span class="s1">That was very sad news. I paused for a moment before questioning the policeman. “Is there an alternate route? If I drive to Westport can I get through from there?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The answer was no, that route was also closed due to the accident. “I need to drop this vehicle in Nelson this evening,” I told him, “and I’m booked to fly home at 7:30pm. Is there any other way of getting up there?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The officer stepped back and looked at the vehicle I was in, a Toyota Land Cruiser Prado. It belonged to a rental car company and I was relocating it north for them. “That a four wheel drive?” he questioned.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“It sure is,” I replied.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“In that case there’s a mountain pass you can use. It’s just a dirt track but will bring you out the other side of Murchison.” He gave me details of where to find the road and I turned the vehicle around.</span><br />
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<span class="s1">I followed his instructions and a half hour later arrived at the Maruia Saddle Road. His description was accurate. It was indeed a dirt track, single lane in many places and full of twists and turns. What he hadn’t told me was how beautiful it was. Sunlight filtered through trees and ferns, and clear streams ran directly over the track, dropping away into small waterfalls.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I soon discovered that many people were coming through from the Nelson side of the pass, More so than the Reefton side. It was amazing how courteous everyone was. I think we were all mindful that someone had lost their life that day and that our problems were minor inconveniences in comparison.</span><br />
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<span class="s1">People pulled onto shoulders to let others pass and a gentleman stopped and got out of his car to guide me around a treacherous corner. Everyone waved as they passed and there was no aggression or tailgating. <i>This is amazing</i>, I thought. <i>If we’d all been on the highway, we’d probably have been jockeying for position, racing the clock and wrapped up in our own little worlds. </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I stopped here and there to take photos and inhale the gentle scent of nature. I dipped my fingers in cool streams and listened to insects buzzing and sweet birdsong. I wished I could stay there all day but had to move on, aware that the detour had cost me time wise. I ended up cancelling the audits I had scheduled in Nelson, but made it to the airport, 20 minutes before my flight departed.</span><br />
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<span class="s1">As the reality of COVID-19 sinks into our daily lives, my drive through the mountain pass came to mind. People are suddenly caring about each other again. Most of us are locked down at home, not allowed to work and confined to our neighbourhood. I’m one of these, and alone during the day as my husband is an essential worker. We’re allowed to go for walks and twice a day, I take our puppy out.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I’m amazed at the number of other people out on the streets. Mums with babies in prams, children with dads, retired couples strolling along, and individuals of all ages. Most of these people I’ve never seen before! We all keep at least two metres between us, but hardly anyone fails to make eye contact and offer a friendly greeting. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Why do we need a tragic event to pull us together as people and communities? I think the lock down has made us all aware of how much we need each other, even hardcore introverts like myself. My prayer is that once this has passed, that our connections with those around us will continue to strengthen and grow. That we will remember how it feels to be isolated - and that we’ll actively work on being inclusive and caring to those in our lives.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHNW_NBuz3QZp47Ba7AAPlqnINaPuvNExqdU7tliOzOHRzm_WC9QVbAGtVDK7E8i83H5nrwNONlmaaPTENJUTdjc0EBXFZhLlgVJMKxg8H8Fa1LABRCjA7j68jjOVQLBCHJt0vGTunR0/s1600/IMG_1157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHNW_NBuz3QZp47Ba7AAPlqnINaPuvNExqdU7tliOzOHRzm_WC9QVbAGtVDK7E8i83H5nrwNONlmaaPTENJUTdjc0EBXFZhLlgVJMKxg8H8Fa1LABRCjA7j68jjOVQLBCHJt0vGTunR0/s640/IMG_1157.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1">For now, stay safe, stay strong, and greet those you encounter on the streets with enthusiasm!</span></div>
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<span class="s1">1 Peter 3:8-9 Amplified Bible</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Finally, all of you be like-minded [united in spirit], sympathetic, brotherly, kindhearted [courteous and compassionate toward each other as members of one household], and humble in spirit; and never return evil for evil or insult for insult [avoid scolding, berating, and any kind of abuse], but on the contrary, give a blessing [pray for one another’s well-being, contentment, and protection]; for you have been called for this very purpose, that you might inherit a blessing [from God that brings well-being, happiness, and protection]. </span></div>
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Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-19818322776961720542020-03-24T20:10:00.001-07:002020-03-24T20:10:36.781-07:00A Country in Lock Down - COVID-19<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">I
was supposed to fly to Melbourne last week. Next week we were booked to fly to
Vietnam on a family holiday. COVID-19 has put an end to both of these. On Monday
23</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">rd</sup><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"> March I had a trip to Auckland planned and decided to continue with
it as I sensed that a lock down of the country was imminent. I didn’t know that the
announcement would be made that day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Christchurch
Airport was quiet and subdued when I walked into the terminal. There were small
groups of people here and there, some wearing face masks. I headed upstairs, no
queue at x-ray and security and the Koru Lounge was almost empty. No groups
laughing and chatting, no one milling around the coffee counter. Just signs
instructing us to keep a 1.5 metre distance between ourselves and other people.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1kPLK5oWqdMbFcwXDYmfndVQxoEsIxAnVHRcdmmUJGFodisQnlhOkFX-WRKetBEfW8HfgsTa-nq3p5dk5uFJHw2avICSUYaWM9j6C7ugzzysuDMpZWhF88Uw45Tws75ezUgW2366J-Q/s1600/7E5C931A-660F-4913-ABD8-0F99009F5AB1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1kPLK5oWqdMbFcwXDYmfndVQxoEsIxAnVHRcdmmUJGFodisQnlhOkFX-WRKetBEfW8HfgsTa-nq3p5dk5uFJHw2avICSUYaWM9j6C7ugzzysuDMpZWhF88Uw45Tws75ezUgW2366J-Q/s640/7E5C931A-660F-4913-ABD8-0F99009F5AB1.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
already knew that things on the plane would be different. Air New Zealand had rearranged
the seating so that all the middle seats would be empty. The front row facing
the flight attendants was not in use and staff wore gloves and some wore face masks.
In normal times, I’m sure all of us would have loved the extra space and elbow
room, but it was more of a reminder of what we were dealing with as a nation
and beyond.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH1MQ938hzWn5j08VreIXLFdXoPftZSW0jJfLH9Il_9Yu6C2XozWP7YwC7yKyM2OMdd-jA9dzG9l1WW_ynLArz4JKGVbCg3CicSzCUo8D64qOuKrMTEPAR5ZY3MbiwXTsjHAZ4CbSooLg/s1600/Tray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH1MQ938hzWn5j08VreIXLFdXoPftZSW0jJfLH9Il_9Yu6C2XozWP7YwC7yKyM2OMdd-jA9dzG9l1WW_ynLArz4JKGVbCg3CicSzCUo8D64qOuKrMTEPAR5ZY3MbiwXTsjHAZ4CbSooLg/s640/Tray.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
opened my tray table when the snacks and drinks were brought around, and
discovered it was splashed with lurid orange speckles. “Don’t worry,” the
flight attendant said, seeing my expression. “It’s the new cleaning liquid we’re
using to keep the planes safe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
arrived at the car rental office just before midday and instead of the bustling
hub I’m used to, it was tomb-like. I was told I was the first customer of the
day to hire a car. The exit was blocked with all the vehicles that had been
returned. Although I knew COVID-19 was impacting the country, I hadn’t realised
to what extent.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It
was mid-afternoon when I heard the announcement on the radio. “New Zealand will
be going into shut down at midnight on Wednesday.” This was followed by a text
from the airline saying my flight home was cancelled and there were no more
seats available until the next day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
was very unhappy to hear this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Fortunately,
all my work was done so I headed back to the airport. Overhead signs along the
way instructed motorists that the airport was only open to those who were
flying. Once inside the terminal, I headed to Counter One as it’s called. This
is where you go to re-book cancelled flights and get information about your
options. Thankfully, because of my Elite status with Air New Zealand, I was
given priority in the wait queue and 20 minutes later they presented me with a
boarding pass for the 6pm flight home. I’m guessing many of the other
passengers would have spent the night in Auckland.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2AeAW_f8mbEC2Zn4JylYh8XNwqVdd9GY27Xr9s8vz7ZnHvA6pNRg6tAZGdsu1K1QV2wXaNyYKaT0wzZHJ_TGUzYY-5KdcNYKuJRoyq0gr0YNZHHIAuWzwlLBka2ufh6TJWeWoHPqALRg/s1600/5C517115-BB9C-4C67-8721-253B3AD9B6A0.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2AeAW_f8mbEC2Zn4JylYh8XNwqVdd9GY27Xr9s8vz7ZnHvA6pNRg6tAZGdsu1K1QV2wXaNyYKaT0wzZHJ_TGUzYY-5KdcNYKuJRoyq0gr0YNZHHIAuWzwlLBka2ufh6TJWeWoHPqALRg/s640/5C517115-BB9C-4C67-8721-253B3AD9B6A0.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Overall
it was a stressful day, but also one full of God’s peace and grace. At time I
felt like I was on the set of a horror movie, with all the masked, wary people
and the deserted streets of suburban Auckland. People I interacted with were
nervous, keeping their distance and voicing their fears. It was hard work
emotionally.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbBKvRgY5WD0IlKxx-oSDG1dQqgWwwkRd_xQKmIVmx6iRgpDGiCJhDd7CIXAYXUfycuklEdb7RuLqQT9rOFVrMUN1N-9MFF7yPaQybsG8f2YGZTjPB8qf3noO47X8K1u0xqiXVJUJ14P8/s1600/6A717D23-DC5C-4517-BEBE-9BA3353AE071.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbBKvRgY5WD0IlKxx-oSDG1dQqgWwwkRd_xQKmIVmx6iRgpDGiCJhDd7CIXAYXUfycuklEdb7RuLqQT9rOFVrMUN1N-9MFF7yPaQybsG8f2YGZTjPB8qf3noO47X8K1u0xqiXVJUJ14P8/s640/6A717D23-DC5C-4517-BEBE-9BA3353AE071.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As
we head into four weeks of isolation and shut down, the future is uncertain,
but God is not. Be wise, be careful and look out for loved ones as far as you
can. This pandemic has not taken God by surprise and while taking every
precaution and obeying the government as we lock down our homes, we can relax
into His arms, knowing He is so much bigger than a microscopic virus. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Enjoying a last coffee with my dear husband before the country locks down at midnight!<br />
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<br />Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-6317361606411628132019-09-20T03:40:00.001-07:002019-09-24T01:09:53.559-07:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Day Daniel Drowned<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It
was a mild October afternoon in 1993 when Daniel drowned. I was doing homework with the
older children and he was outside riding his plastic motorbike up and down the
driveway. I suddenly realised that the rhythmic sounds had stopped. “Ethel,” I
called our maid. “Please can you check what Daniel’s doing.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">Seconds later a shrill scream changed the course of my life forever. With a mother’s instinct I threw the homework aside and ran to the swimming pool. He lay on the surface of the water, face down, limbs limp, hair floating like a golden mist. I was already praying as I plunged down the steps, swam to him and pulled him to the love seat in the deep end. “Lord, please let him be okay when I turn him over.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJfLPC9y2EVybxs-SJIDV_zEhcz86XUat4QA-g6GmC6SJfifDcJXkV3zSQCNEsSqB8NcxPt2FIXsVuRpVtoipw6zWiDJtuhhKV36WBh2lQ1troxMr8QkelWJfrMnOKKVcBREhaKPKOk4/s1600/IMG_0684.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSJfLPC9y2EVybxs-SJIDV_zEhcz86XUat4QA-g6GmC6SJfifDcJXkV3zSQCNEsSqB8NcxPt2FIXsVuRpVtoipw6zWiDJtuhhKV36WBh2lQ1troxMr8QkelWJfrMnOKKVcBREhaKPKOk4/s640/IMG_0684.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
hefted him onto the pool surround and turned him on his side. His face was blue
and grey like marble, lifeless and dead. Water ran from his mouth, his eyes
were shut. I tilted him further over to get the water out while shouting at
Ethel. “Go and find a neighbour, ask them to call an ambulance!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The
ABC steps I’d learned in a CPR course a few weeks earlier miraculously came to
mind. Airway, breathing, circulation. No more water was coming out but he was
still and had no pulse. I started breathing into him, compressing his tiny
chest, breathing into him, over and over. The lady from across the road arrived
with Ethel. Took in the situation with a horrified glance and dashed off to
call an ambulance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It
seemed forever that I breathed into and compressed my son’s lifeless body,
praying fervently the whole time. And then he coughed, water came up, and he
coughed again and drew in a shaky breath. The relief was immense but I didn’t
realise the battle was just beginning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The
ambulance arrived 30 minutes later. I’d stripped Daniel’s clothes off and
wrapped him in his cot duvet. He was breathing but unconscious. The children sat
with me, all of us silent and devastated. The paramedics assessed him quickly
before carrying him to the ambulance where I sat in the back with him. They
wrapped him in a thermal blanket to warm him up. By now he’d started making
convulsive movements and his breathing was raspy and laboured. “It’s called
posturing,” they explained to me. “It’s a sign of the brain being starved of
oxygen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We
were taken to A&E at Greys Hospital and a couple of doctors had a brief
look at Daniel. He was still posturing and they told me his pupils were dilated
and unresponsive to light. Both of these were signs of brain damage but they
refused to treat him as we earned too much to qualify for hospital care. I knew
the first hour was critical in situations like Daniel’s and begged them to do
something. But they would not. The system had robbed them of humanity and a
heart. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazmsekF9yEoMXddXghvQ6NIhX-D-a0yjCfAglBDMMQyYOHTWXUpKrXK-f5WSdJV33ScguAuiiCxE_PqKQ7_7s0gdpxlTlvFQ0brE1928V8tWRfxVvCW-JjcMgheCmLrBa4ssRYT-xFeY/s1600/IMG_9804.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="922" data-original-width="1591" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazmsekF9yEoMXddXghvQ6NIhX-D-a0yjCfAglBDMMQyYOHTWXUpKrXK-f5WSdJV33ScguAuiiCxE_PqKQ7_7s0gdpxlTlvFQ0brE1928V8tWRfxVvCW-JjcMgheCmLrBa4ssRYT-xFeY/s400/IMG_9804.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Kevin
arrived at this stage and sought information from the medical staff on Daniel’s
condition. He spoke to the paramedics, A&E nurses, the matron, the doctor
and all of them advised him they had no idea and we would have to wait for our
private doctor. When the doctor arrived, he told Kevin that if Daniel </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">lived
through the night, he would be mentally impaired and probably spend the rest of
his life in a wheelchair. He also refused to treat him and said Daniel needed a
paediatrician. Kevin walked outside, looked up to the stars and asked God to
please take him home. He didn’t want him back in a damaged state. </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">He
then went back into A&E to see Daniel and was asked to hold an oxygen mask
to his face. Kevin watched in disbelief as Daniel’s face swelled up by 25
percent. At this stage, the shock was too much and he was given half a Valium before heading home. A friend took the other
children home for the night.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Two
paediatricians from the practice we were with arrived an hour after we’d
reached the hospital. They assessed Daniel as critical as convulsive movements
shook his little body and his eyes stared vacant and unfocused. It was now 6pm.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He
was lying on a normal bed in A&E with the rails up and the doctors decided
to move him immediately up to paediatric high care. Brakes off, they stood one
on each side of the bed pushing it, running through the hospital corridors,
into the lift and up to the children’s floor. In a private room they tried to
get a line into him, poking and probing as he postured and wailed. Eventually
one of them turned to me. “His veins are all flat. Do you mind if we shave some
of his hair off and insert the drip into his scalp?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Would
I mind when he was at death’s door? “Do it,” I said. Several minutes later, they
said that too had failed. The last resort was to insert the drip directly into
his jugular vein. Once the medication was finally seeping into his battered
body, they ordered a set of x-rays and then updated me on their findings. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“His
brain is swollen due to a lack of oxygen,” they said, “and his pupils are not
reacting to light. We’ve started him on Mannitol which should reduce the
swelling … but he’s scoring low on the Glasgow coma scale, about 4 or 5 out of
15. It’s really a waiting game now. If he makes it through the night, we’ll be
able to assess how bad the brain damage is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
sat down in a chair next to Daniel’s hospital cot. His hair was shaved on the
side and there were monitors and cables attached to various parts of his body.
He was still convulsing and posturing but his eyes remained shut. He had his
own nurse who would spend the night with us in the room. It turned out she was
a Christian. “I’m praying for your son,” she told me as she checked the
readings every 15 minutes. The figures remained the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This
was before mobile phones were in use and from about 7pm, friends from church
started calling the hospital. Time after time the staff called me to the phone
in the nurses’ station. Friends and acquaintances told me they were praying for
Daniel, praying for us. That they were so sorry to hear what had happened. They
encouraged us to keep believing God for a miracle. It was heart-warming to know
that our church community was behind us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At
9pm a small group of people arrived from the church, just three or four of them
from memory. We hugged and I updated them on the situation. Daniel lay in the
cot, unconscious but alive. These wonderful friends gathered around him, laid
hands on him, called him back to life, bound the enemy’s work and prayed
blessings over him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmbt0MtICOZktlmD_S7qviF1fvy9ppIFZb3kVFdOlS-cwYMh0UDnFdkW4DQ9hdOReaxQbzhsWK7S7EVbc3NiZe6mFGiC9hcPiaP3kOCyvHyZhvs8XmHPr8haaduVtGsTp8wMTYJJ6358/s1600/IMG_3860.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmbt0MtICOZktlmD_S7qviF1fvy9ppIFZb3kVFdOlS-cwYMh0UDnFdkW4DQ9hdOReaxQbzhsWK7S7EVbc3NiZe6mFGiC9hcPiaP3kOCyvHyZhvs8XmHPr8haaduVtGsTp8wMTYJJ6358/s640/IMG_3860.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel with my Mom in 2018</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Still
there was no change. I had a bed in the same room and lay awake all night,
praying, wondering how all this could have happened so quickly. How our lives
had been changed in an instant. How the pool gate had been left open. I still
don’t know how it happened. I chose not to question the family over who might
have left the gate unlocked. It had a chain and padlock but both were lying on
the ground that afternoon.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At
5am, I leaned over Daniel’s cot yet again, brushed hair back from his forehead
and talked to him. His eyes opened and he looked at me. Not through me like
he’d been doing, but at me. “Daniel,” I said. “Where’s your foot?” Slowly the
blanket lifted. “Where’s your hand?” He lifted his right hand. His nurse was
behind me, sharing the miracle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Your
son is back!” She sent a message through to the doctors and I called Kevin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“After
I left the hospital,” he said, “Kelvin (our pastor) came around to see me. He
had a word from the Lord and said that just as Daniel was in the lions’ den
overnight, so our son would be in the den for a night but would walk out
unharmed in the morning.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">One of the
paediatricians came in soon after and confirmed that Daniel was in good shape
with no ill effects of the drowning. He said he was very surprised to see the
remarkable recovery after being in such critical condition the night before. In
fact the story spread throughout the hospital and medical staff stopped in throughout
the day to see the miracle baby as they called him. By mid-morning, he was
running around, playing with toys and eating and drinking. He was put on
antibiotics as a precaution and kept in hospital until evening for observation
but he was fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In
the days that followed, we found out how extensive the prayer support had been
for Daniel. Stories were told of people interceding, lying on the floor before
the Lord and crying out for God to save and heal our son. Without them, he
might not be with us today and I’m eternally grateful to all those who prayed
and cared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So
Daniel was fine but I lived with the guilt for years after. The shame of not
keeping my home safe. Of not noticing sooner that he’d gone quiet. I imagined
people judging me behind closed doors for having too many children and not
being able to look after them properly. His story was picked up by the local
newspaper and a couple of friends let slip that I was getting too much
attention for nearly letting my son drown. I’m also so aware that many people
have faced a similar situation that has not ended up as well as ours did. For
years I never talked about what happened although Kevin shared the story frequently,
often bringing people to tears. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Things
would probably have continued like this, but I was on a flight to Sydney last
week and spotted a movie called “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Ui6m_eEEOI" target="_blank">Breakthrough</a>” on the new release list. It was
the true story of a teenager who drowned in an icy lake and the steadfast faith
of his mother that God would heal him. I lived through all the emotions as the
movie unfolded, remembering my own story and the anxious hours waiting to see if
Daniel would live. I realised afresh that my son is a miracle and I should share
our story just like that family has shared theirs. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I
still have mementos of the day Daniel drowned. The little green tracksuit top he
was wearing, and the baby duvet I wrapped him in while waiting for the
ambulance. I pull them out every so often, close my eyes and remember that
terrible day. Life is fragile and every breath we take is a precious gift. Hold
your loved ones close, look out for them and never give up hope, even if the
situation is desperate. God still performs miracles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvIfTaI_tY3Mz2yP6EXTYKBb_5HymvH3U3s_kx1buZOOJfyhzWBpgpqwLlnxlueqwn6ycdY1m3MbUw2bwPM24AWA3rPLqBZ5BLmvuvkmBwT2EzrWs-Zc4KeZ6Db2tXXWsMnJqXQ8aii4k/s1600/IMG_9803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1408" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvIfTaI_tY3Mz2yP6EXTYKBb_5HymvH3U3s_kx1buZOOJfyhzWBpgpqwLlnxlueqwn6ycdY1m3MbUw2bwPM24AWA3rPLqBZ5BLmvuvkmBwT2EzrWs-Zc4KeZ6Db2tXXWsMnJqXQ8aii4k/s640/IMG_9803.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tracksuit Top Daniel was Wearing when He Drowned</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<br />Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-90307935848988677742017-01-21T11:06:00.001-08:002017-01-21T11:06:36.478-08:00A Man with a Cross<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It
was a routine day, a routine trip to Temuka and Geraldine, one I’ve done dozens
of times. It’s normally a boring drive but just past Rangitata I saw a man
trudging along the roadside, pulling a cross that rested on his shoulder. I
whizzed past, processing the sight, thinking he must have a story to tell. Two kilometres
down the road I decided I wanted to hear what it was. I turned around and went
back to find him.</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He
was still walking, dragging the cross towards a bridge. “Hello,” I called from
my car window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Hi,
how are you?” he replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Tell
me about the cross,” I invited. He laid it down on the roadside and crossed
over to chat through my car window. After a minute I invited him to sit in the
car. Hopefully a man with a cross would not turn out to be an axe murderer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKVC-VcMrR02SCG5AZHo5zim2EQDu8fs65ARLrQBmMFU15vfJq5ajF0y-C9lwWwYfXLbbafOCpLRHK31fy-cL1QFGIZQ7zo6zp-kkh7RqzvSVfzQGp0FQoQ1yIhOIOD2LaedO62QsTT4/s1600/IMG_1824.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKVC-VcMrR02SCG5AZHo5zim2EQDu8fs65ARLrQBmMFU15vfJq5ajF0y-C9lwWwYfXLbbafOCpLRHK31fy-cL1QFGIZQ7zo6zp-kkh7RqzvSVfzQGp0FQoQ1yIhOIOD2LaedO62QsTT4/s640/IMG_1824.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Q:
What’s your name?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A:
Kim Rusden and my wife is Joan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Q:
What’s with the cross?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A:
I’m walking around New Zealand with it. The North Island is done and parts of
the South Island. I started at Puponga near Farewell Spit and then went to
Seddon to encourage the people there after the earthquake. After that, I headed
south in mid December to start walking up from Bluff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Q:
Why are you doing it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A:
My wife and I love people and believe this is the way God wants us to share His
love with them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Q:
Do many people stop and ask you about the cross?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A:
They do but not as many as I’d like. Often, I engage with people first and get
a conversation going. I spent an hour with a guy yesterday who was a
backslidden Christian. It’s all about sharing God with people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Q:
Who made the cross?<br />
A: I did – I’m a carpenter. My wife accompanies me on the road and we carry a
spare cross on top of our van. If they both got damaged, I could make another
one in a day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Q:
Are you on the road all the time?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A:
No, I walk with the cross during the school holidays. We travel with a van and
caravan and often people let us stay on their land. My 14 year old son has been
with us but flies home tomorrow to spend a week with his mates before school
starts again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Q:
Have you experienced any problems on the road?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A:
There are a lot of narrow bridges so we often put the cross in the van to cross
these and then I start walking again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Kim
and Joan, may God bless you as you travel the South Island. We pray He will
bring people across your path who will be touched by the story of your cross -
and the cross that inspired it!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-34321852545211900602016-02-27T22:57:00.000-08:002016-02-28T10:11:40.215-08:00An Unusual Cemetery<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
graveyard reminded me of a miniature town, complete with little buildings and
quaint streets. I was standing at the entrance to <span style="background: white;">La
Recoleta Cemetery</span> in Buenos Aires which is where the remains of Eva
Peron are entombed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As I wandered along paved walkways, I stopped frequently to
peer through iron grilles, Perspex windows and slatted doorways. Several tombs
had coffins stacked inside – not as we know them today – but more bulky with
rounded ribs of wood. One contained two large ones and a tiny baby size one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1k98KNwO4HM0u1NDHG762oh3qGPcGfAhOFnzc6NkI3ChtJmZFf5-DueRfsafmDqmj_T-Ei3vYm9DBEmm_3YeH3CRNIqjFceT9hIZT1c7TkBYbnIbLBPEMu6QXzb9P462D449_rC0rmeQ/s1600/IMG_2098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1k98KNwO4HM0u1NDHG762oh3qGPcGfAhOFnzc6NkI3ChtJmZFf5-DueRfsafmDqmj_T-Ei3vYm9DBEmm_3YeH3CRNIqjFceT9hIZT1c7TkBYbnIbLBPEMu6QXzb9P462D449_rC0rmeQ/s640/IMG_2098.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As one does in such a place, I wondered about all those who
have gone before us, what their lives were like one or two centuries ago, what
they would think if they could walk out onto the streets of Buenos Aires in
2016. That thought led me to a section of scripture that described what
happened at the moment of Jesus’ death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Matthew 27:51-53 At that moment the curtain of the temple was
torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split and the tombs
broke open. The bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life.
They came out of the tombs after Jesus’ resurrection and went into the holy
city and appeared to many people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
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<span class="text"><span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That’s the only information we are given so we don’t know how
long the holy people were in the city and what happened next. Have you ever
wondered how that day unfolded? What family members would have said when long-deceased
loved ones appeared to them? Would they have been able to touch them … invite
them to their homes … how would they have been dressed … could old hurts have
been laid to rest ...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="text"><span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span><span class="text"><span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">La </span></span><span style="background: white; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Recoleta<span class="text"> was a fascinating walk down the lanes of history but it settled one
thing in my mind. When I die, I’m confident that I’ll pass from this world straight
into the arms of my Heavenly Father, but please don’t entomb my remains in a
dark cold hole. Take me for one last plane ride and when you find a frothy confluence
of turquoise rivers, a spot where the ocean surges against mountains, and a
scattering of wild flowers, then let my ashes go to
swirl and dance before settling into the arms of this land that I’ve grown to
love so dearly.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span>Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-87858120440797355832015-12-24T14:31:00.000-08:002015-12-24T14:31:34.538-08:00The Golden Sandals – a True Christmas Story<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It
was six years since I’d seen my parents, and nine years since I’d been back to
Africa, but the first thing I noticed was my mother’s sandals. They were
tired-looking, colour peeling from the uppers, soles worn. As the days rolled
past, I noticed she wore these shoes all the time and eventually she apologised
for their condition and told me why. “I got them in New Zealand when we last visited
you and I keep wearing them because they’re comfortable. The only other pair I
have hurt my feet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
niggle at the back of my mind developed into a fully formed thought. “Give her
a pair of your sandals.” I sat in my room that night and looked at the shoes I’d
brought with me: black leather sandals that were okay but old, white leather
sandals with flowers and thin straps, and my gold sandals. The gold ones were almost new, a
$29 special from K-Mart, with soft synthetic uppers, cushioned soles, Velcro fastening,
and good support. Perfect for 80 year old feet in fact. They weren’t fuddy
duddy by any means but didn’t fit the designer bracket either. <i>I need them</i>, I
rationalised to myself. <i>I spend hours on my feet and need comfortable shoes,
besides, they were cheap and they’re not even leather. They might not last
well. I can’t give them to her</i>. I ignored the fact that I had a cupboard full
of shoes at home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
next day, the niggle was stronger and I decided I would try and find Mom a pair of Gold Sandals when I got home. First of all though, I needed to see what size she would need.
In past years, she’d always worn a size bigger than I did. I took the sandals off,
explaining my idea, and she eagerly slipped her feet into them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It
was like Cinderella trying on the glass slippers: they fitted perfectly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’ll
send Chantelle (my daughter) a message and get her to look for some,” I said, fastening them
back onto my feet. The problem was, I knew the Christchurch stores did not have
the sandals in stock, and I had bought mine in Nelson, a five hour drive from home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That
night, when I returned to my room on the other side of retirement complex, my
heart hung heavy in my chest. I knew I was being selfish but as I sat on the
bed, God spoke clearly into the silence. “You do know they weren’t yours to
begin with.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“What weren't?”
I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“The
shoes. I had them in mind for my daughter, your mother. I used you as a
messenger to find them, get the right size and deliver them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Oh
the shame I felt. I realised it wasn’t about the money, but rather the fact
that I thought they were irreplaceable. That I wouldn’t be able to get another pair. The issue wasn’t the sandals. It was my heart. It was almost Christmas,
the time when we remember how much God gave us, and yet I was too mean to give
my own mother a pair of sandals. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
next morning I put my old shoes on and carried the gold ones across to my
parents’ home. “They’re yours,” I said, laying them on the carpet in front of
her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It
was as though a light had turned on inside of her. “For me? Are you sure? I’ll
pay you for them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No,
they’re a gift,” I replied, and they were. I was no longer attached to them. I’d
realised that God was at work and that His ways were and are so much better
than ours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Her
smile grew even wider. “Can I wear them to church?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Of
course you can!” I replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Mom
wore those sandals every day for the rest of my visit and remarked frequently
how comfortable they were and how nice they looked on her feet. I knew it was
because the Creator of the Universe had chosen them for her and He had organised
the size, colour, style and fit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But
the story doesn’t end there. It turned out that I had to travel to Nelson a few
days after my return to New Zealand and one of the clients I visited, was in
Richmond Mall. The K-Mart I bought the gold sandals from was across the car
park from the mall and I had a few minutes to spare. I looked at the shop,
wondering if it would be acceptable to my Heavenly Father to go and have a look.
“Are you happy for me to go to K-Mart?” I asked Him? Peace welled up inside, so
I hurried over and headed to the shoe department.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
saw them straight away, a pair of gold sandals, size seven, hanging on a hook. What
was more, they had been marked down to $12. I slipped them onto my feet, relishing
the familiar feel and cushioned support. And then I saw they were available in
black as well. I walked out with two pairs of shoes and a heart full of joy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">What
a fine example of God’s grace. God doesn’t take away from us to hurt us. He
teaches us to hold things loosely and then He is free to bless us in greater measure.
I treasure my gold sandals as they’re more than just a pair of shoes to me. Each time
I fasten them on I’m reminded of God’s grace and love, and that He’s interested
in every aspect of our lives. Even in cheap gold sandals with synthetic uppers,
cushioned soles, Velcro fastening, and good support. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-64311364110984078032015-12-02T22:19:00.001-08:002015-12-02T22:19:52.740-08:00Follow your Dreams<div style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px;">
In January 2016 it will be ten years since we moved to New Zealand. As I look back, I'm awed at all God has done and the opportunities He's put in our paths. In the midst of moving country for the second time - and to a land far across the ocean, I had a dream to become an author. The desire had been there since early childhood and I'd had some success in South Africa - children's stories and short fiction published in magazines - but I wanted more. There were stories buried deep in my heart that longed to spread themselves across pages for people to read.<br />
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I made a firm decision that in this new land, I was going to become a writer. I backed this up by doing a freelance journalism course and signing up to a number of writing groups - both in Christchurch and online. The most significant of these was Faithwriters.com. I started entering their weekly challenge and sent my words out week after week, gladly receiving the comments and advice posted by other writers. Within a couple of months my stories were placing in the weekly contest and my confidence grew.</div>
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Ten years on, I can say that God has honoured my desire and efforts and with a number of significant writing competition wins to my name and eight published books, my dreams have come to pass. Just this week, I heard that the first chapter of my work in progress - Twisted Ribbons - had placed first in the Faithwriters Page Turner Contest.<br />
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The release of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Broken-Shells-Debbie-Roome-ebook/dp/B018O3CTY4/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1448694874&sr=8-7" target="_blank">Broken Shells</a> in November 2015 has been one of the highlights of my writing career. Set mostly in the Marlborough region of New Zealand, the story dropped into my heart on the way home from a trip to the area. Think azure seas, grey volcanic beaches, white driftwood, and vineyards that follow the swell of gentle hills. In this beautiful setting, Taylor looks at the broken shell of her life and with the support of Logan and Greer, allows God to restore and heal. Broken Shells won the Rose & Crown New Novels Competition in 2012. If you'd like to read a sample or purchase the book, you will find it <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Broken-Shells-Debbie-Roome-ebook/dp/B018O3CTY4/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1448694874&sr=8-7" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
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Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-15824985033868435672015-01-22T23:17:00.000-08:002015-01-22T23:20:35.013-08:00First Chapter of Contagious Hope<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "sOuTh Afirkas 2100"; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Savannah<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Desyrel; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Chapter One</span><b><span style="font-family: Desyrel; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">I stand still, cocooned with
indecision as people swirl past. The drifts of humanity tell me I’m in a
different place; one with foreign languages, strange accents, and dark skins.
Dozens of black faces surround me, some with big smiles and white teeth, and
others framed with cornrows, braids, and beads. All of them talk loudly, some
seemingly shouting to someone on the far side of the arrivals hall. A woman in
flamboyant emerald and orange jostles me and I clutch my bags protectively. I
was warned to be careful at the airport. Apparently, thieves loiter here,
preying on unsuspecting tourists. <i>But I’m
not a tourist,</i> I remind myself, taking a deep breath and straightening my
spine. <i>I’m on a mission to help the local
people, not fear them.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"> I spin in a tight circle, absorbing the glass
walls and modern curves of the airport. It’s far more first-world than I
expected and I’m impressed. A row of men form a loose barrier to the left,
holding up signs with names on them. That’s what I’m looking for. The person
from the mission house who is picking me up must be over there. The crowd parts
as I struggle forward, suitcase dragging behind me, bag clutched firmly under
my arm. A mechanical voice drones in the background. “This is a safety
conscious airport. Please do not leave your <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">bags unattended.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">The row of men becomes a
line of individuals representing hotels and taxi companies. I read the signs
from left to right, ignoring the hands that hold them and the faces above,
looking only for my name. For something that is familiar and safe. <i>Savannah James</i>. I spot it towards the
middle and raise my eyes to the bearer. He turns out to be a well-built young
guy with a big grin and unruly hair the colour of chocolate toffee. Relief
washes over me as I angle myself towards him, pulling my suitcase behind me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Hi,” I say, stopping next
to him. “I’m Savannah.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">His grin broadens as he
sticks out a hand. “<i>Kia ora</i>,
Savannah. My name’s Blake Baxter. Pleased to meet you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">I laugh out loud. “I didn’t
know South Africans could speak Maori.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“They can’t,” Blake replies.
“I was born and bred in the thriving metropolis of Timaru.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“No!” I’m surprised by this
unexpected appearance of a fellow Kiwi. “I’m from Christchurch but also lived
in Auckland for a few years. We often drive down to Timaru at Christmas for the
carnival.” I look at him. “But you don’t sound like a New Zealander.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“My dad’s American and I’ve
just spent a year in the States so my accent’s a bit of a mixture.” He takes my
suitcase and gestures for me to follow him. “I’m here for a couple of months to
volunteer at Mercy House. Already done one of <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">them – and then I’m heading back to New Zealand.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">I walk next to him as he
manoeuvres my suitcase towards the exit. “Thanks for coming to pick me up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Your first trip to South
Africa?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Yeah, I haven’t been farther
than Australia before.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">We plunge into a wall of
heat outside the terminal building and my skin dehydrates instantly, tightening
across my bones<i>. If it’s this hot at
10am, what will the noon day heat be like? </i>Blake turns to look at me. “You
okay? The mission van is a fair walk from here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Yes, that’s no problem.” I
match my stride to his and we weave through a crowd heading in the opposite
direction. An unfamiliar odour lingers in the air, a mixture of hot tarmac and
sweat, reminding me again that this is not home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">The van turns out to be a
scruffy banger of indeterminate age. Blake loads my bags into the back and
locks the door before opening the passenger side for me. “Lock your door,” he
instructs as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “Hijackings are common in
Johannesburg and while I don’t think they’d target this decrepit old thing,
it’s best to be safe.” He sets the GPS and soon we are out on the highway. It’s
like Auckland only much busier with roads and bridges spiralling in all
directions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“So what do you know about
Mercy House?” Blake asks as he accelerates.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">I don’t answer at first,
alarmed by the speed he’s travelling at. Then I see the signs along the roadside.
So the <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">speed limit in South Africa is 120 kilometres per
hour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Blake laughs as he follows
my eyes. “You have to keep up or the other drivers get angry. In fact, most of
them travel at 140. You’ll get used to it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“I hope so.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“And going back to my question
…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">I pull my thoughts to order.
“I’ve seen the Youtube presentation of the mission house – along with the
information pack and photos they sent me. I know Hillbrow is a dangerous area
but I’m excited to be here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“It’s a real eye opener but
you’ll see for yourself. I won’t try and explain.” He gestures to the skyline
in the distance, the skyscrapers and towers silhouetted against a smattering of
smog. “Hillbrow is next to the CBD and used to be a sought-after residential
and shopping area. Much of it is comprised of blocks of flats that used to be
inhabited by a mixture of yuppies and older folk. These days many are occupied
by squatters.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“And Mercy House is in one
of those?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“It is indeed.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Blake is silent for a moment
as he looks for a gap in the traffic and changes lanes. I gaze across the
buildings that line the highway, boxy concrete structures with residential
homes set beyond them. Everything is bigger than I’m used to and I suddenly
feel lost and alone. When Grandpa told me stories of Africa, they were of dusty
roads, mud huts, and brown streams. He spoke of mission churches with
whitewashed walls and fields planted with stunted corn. The landscape before me
does not look like a mission field but I know it is. I think again of Grandpa
and the promise I made him before leaving New Zealand; of the secret he
entrusted into my care.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Blake swings to the left and
exits the highway. “I need to pick up a parcel for Bob and Lily who head up
Mercy House. It will only take a few minutes.” He heads into suburbia and I get
a closer look at the houses. “It’s so different from New Zealand,” I say,
noting the high walls, electric gates, and armed security signage. It’s as
though these people are imprisoning themselves in an effort to keep safe: each
home an isolated box with tightly-controlled access. I think of my parents’
home with the lawn that rolls down to the street and neat flowerbeds that
border the driveway. Of how they chat to neighbours across the low dividing
walls. I can’t see that happening in this street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Blake stops at a traffic
light and I’m so busy staring at the view to the right that I jump when a hand
knocks on the car window. “Don’t worry,” he says touching my arm. “It’s just a
street vendor trying to get your attention. They sell everything you can
imagine. They’re all over the city and often set up shop at the traffic
lights.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">I shake my head to the man
who has an array of ladies’ scarves over his arm and watch as he moves on to
another vehicle. “I’m sorry. He gave me such a fright.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Blake points across the
intersection. “Have a look over <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">I follow the direction of
his finger and see table-loads of goods with signs in fluorescent pink and
yellow. “iPad covers, iPhone accessories, kitchenware, towels,” as well as the
advertised goods, plastic-ware in bright jewel colours lines the roadside.
Laundry bins, vegetable racks, buckets and storage containers. “Is this legal?”
I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“I’ve no idea but this is
just a small set up. In some places it’s like a giant market.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">I fall silent for the
remainder of the journey, watching, observing as the effects of jetlag and a
strange new culture overwhelm me. I’ve always considered myself a strong
character but this is more than I’ve had to handle on my own before. I’m
excited but also a little intimidated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Thirty minutes later, Blake
steers the van into central Johannesburg. “The CBD is off to the left,” he
points as he takes a right turn. “And Hillbrow is not too far away. Some areas
are worse than others but Mercy House is in the main shopping area which is not
too bad.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">I lean forward in my seat as
impressions flash past me. The area deteriorates by the block and I see stately
old buildings clad with peeling posters, and streets strewn with litter.
Cellular phone shops abound and old pallets are set up as impromptu fruit and
vegetable stands. Coils of barbed wire hang loosely over walls and washing
hangs from dingy balconies. There doesn’t seem to be a white face among the
crowds milling around and I turn to Blake. “Are we in Hillbrow yet?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Just on the outskirts.” He
flashes a smile at me. “It’s built on the ridge of a hill and isn’t flat like
the centre of Johannesburg.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“This is so different from
New Zealand.” I realise I’m repeating myself, but I can’t help myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“It is,” Blake agrees. “Do you
see the tower over there?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">I look towards a slender
structure that soars high above the other buildings. “Is that in Hillbrow?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Yes, it’s commonly called
the Hillbrow Tower although I think it has another name too. It’s 90 storeys
high.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“It’s a bit like the Sky
Tower in Auckland.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Yes, it is. Unfortunately
it’s closed to the public.” He points to another part of the cityscape. “That’s
Ponte City aka the Vodacom Tower.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">I follow his finger to a
tall circular structure. “Is that offices or flats?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“It used to be flats. It’s
hollow on the inside and was sought after for the views it offers across the
city.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Do you know how tall it
is?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“Over 50 storeys I believe. Unfortunately,
it fell into the hands of gangsters and was unsafe for years.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“What a shame.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">“It was. I’ve been told it
was in such a bad state that <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">the debris and litter in the inner core reached five
storeys high. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">It has been tidied up since then.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">I scan the buildings close
by as the road rises and the structures around us grow in height. By
comparison, the streets seem to grow darker as he drives deeper into Hillbrow.
“It looks like it used to be quite different.” I point at a multi-storey
building next to us. “There’s a lovely example of architecture but it’s lost
under that garish paint job and all the handwritten signage. And the litter …”
I look at a mound of black garbage bags, ripped on all sides with the contents
spilling into the gutter. “It’s just disgusting.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Blake smiles. “It’s quite a
culture shock but these are the people we’re here to help. We work on their
hearts and when those change, the external behaviour follows.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">I lean back, absorbing the
wisdom of his words.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Mercy House turns out to be
larger than I anticipated from the video footage. A brown brick building that
rears five storeys up, it’s cleaner than its neighbours and the sidewalk in
front of it looks freshly swept and free of litter. Blake swings left into a
driveway that leads underground and swipes a card through an access point that
raises the metal grille. “The first rule of living in Hillbrow is keep
everything securely locked,” Blake says as he pulls into the underground garage
and parks the van. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">The lift from the basement
is an old-fashioned one with a hinged wooden door and a metal safety trellis.
Blake carries my bags for me and pulls the trellis across before punching the
brass button for the ground floor. With a shudder, the cage starts to move and
I’m encased by the odour of old wood and polish. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;">Blake chuckles softly, an
easy sound that resonates with the excitement in my heart. I’m here, I’m
finally in Africa and it is just as different and exotic as I’d imagined it
would be. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Contagious-Hope-Inspiring-Book-ebook/dp/B00JTH8IX6/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Click here to buy Contagious Hope on Kindle for 99 cents.</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fragrant-Hope-Inspiring-Book-ebook/dp/B00KEVT7E0/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">Click here to buy Fragrant Hope, the sequel to Contagious Hope for 99 cents on Kindle.</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-NZ; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span>Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-35499172482315285412015-01-17T21:39:00.000-08:002015-01-17T21:44:38.611-08:00Fragrant Hope - Chapter One<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "CMON NEAR";">Chapter
One<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The text comes through
at three twenty one on a perfectly ordinary afternoon. I’m sitting in my room
going through some lecture notes when I read the brief message. Seconds later,
I’m in flight, heart pumping wildly as I dash out of Mercy House. Sure enough,
thick smoke curls into the sky a few blocks to the north. I push the quick dial
number for Lindiwe’s cell phone as I start running through the streets.
Towering buildings block the sun. “Lindiwe! Have you called emergency
services?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUBPdmWjG25Dn4NLekbXZAczFINCmbdHU5od_vOwNPfmX8kV1BxupPWA-urlw_mWHqS-sLEfQWi2pnHmAr3YWGbpBsG9uUaDwSgu97lwQDsUmvhDwh3C1IxuSYZ8tYKO9-1vg4peRAJU/s1600/FH+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUBPdmWjG25Dn4NLekbXZAczFINCmbdHU5od_vOwNPfmX8kV1BxupPWA-urlw_mWHqS-sLEfQWi2pnHmAr3YWGbpBsG9uUaDwSgu97lwQDsUmvhDwh3C1IxuSYZ8tYKO9-1vg4peRAJU/s1600/FH+Cover.jpg" height="640" width="401" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“It’s me, Buhle, and
no I haven’t. I’m scared, Pumzile.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Is your mama there?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Yes, but she’s
sleeping. She’s really sick today.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Do you know if the
fire is above or below your floor?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“It seems like it’s
above.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I’m going to call the
fire department, and then I’ll ring you back. You need to wake your mama up and
get her downstairs.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Okay …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I cut the call and
dial 10111. “There’s a building on fire in Hillbrow!” I pant out the address as
my feet pound the pavement. Has anyone else seen the smoke? Are there rescue
crews on the way already?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I call Buhle back.
“Use the stairs,” I shout as she answers </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 150%;">the call. “Don’t go in the lift.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I’ve got Mama up. I’m
trying to get her to walk now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I’m coming to meet
you. Just keep going as quickly as you can. The fire brigade is on its way.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I burst through the
doors and run across to the stairway. Then I think of others in the building
and backtrack to look for a fire alarm. The square of grimy glass is barely
visible against the filthy wall. I smash it with the heel of my sandal, the
impact shuddering up my arm. The handle moves easily enough and jangling bells
sound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">My thoughts back on
Buhle and Lindiwe, I pull the swing door open and run up the stairs. <i>One, two, three, four</i>, I count the
floors off. The acidic tang of smoke fills the stairwell, and I pass a handful
of people clattering past me. “<i>Ukuvala,</i>” they
shout. “Turn around, the building’s on fire.” Muffled explosions echo above as
they continue downwards, voices fading, women wailing. There is little light as
I push myself on. The power to the building was cut off years ago and dirty
glass panels in the stairwell doors admit a faint glow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Buhle!” I shout.
“Lindiwe!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’m between the fifth
and sixth floors when a human tornado hurls herself at me, sobbing. “Pumzile,
Mama’s lying on the floor! I can’t move her!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">My lungs burn with
exertion as I follow Buhle up a few more steps and see Lindiwe slumped on the
landing, eyes <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">closed. She’s even thinner than
the last time I saw her and bones jut at awkward angles. The smoke is thicker
now and cascades down the stairs, a waterfall of noxious fumes. “Buhle, I’ll
get your mama out, but I want you to go now! Run until you’re outside!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“But …”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Go!” I shout, giving
her a shove. “You need to go now!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She grabs the bag
lying next to Lindiwe and runs off sobbing as I try and haul her mother to her
feet. “There’s a fire, Lindiwe. We have to get out!” There’s little response so
I squat down and push my arms under her. Her body is frail and light but
awkward to carry as her head flops backwards. The smoke is even thicker now,
and I cough as I struggle down a few steps. “Help me, God. Don’t let us die up
here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">An explosion shakes
the building and I startle, heart racing even faster. I pass a grimy five on
the wall. I’m not moving quickly enough. I have to escape before the smoke
overtakes me. Lindiwe may be light, but she’s a dead weight and my muscles
burn. My arms feel like they’re pulling out of their sockets. I make it to the
next landing, tears tracking down my face, sweat drenching my body. The smoke
is thinner here, and I pause for a moment, trying to keep Lindiwe from slipping
out of my arms. She stirs slightly and coughs as she sucks in a deep breath. I
set off again, arms straining, weakening until finally I </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 150%;">collapse on the stairs, Lindiwe
sprawled half on top of me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 7.2pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Help!” I splutter, a
cough smothering my voice. “Help us!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">As I’m struggling to
move, I hear steps pounding up the stairs and a man hurtles around the corner.
“Whoa!” Strong arms lift Lindiwe from me. “Is there anyone else up there?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“I don’t think so.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Come on then. You go
ahead.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I stagger down the
stairs, sweat soaking my shirt, relief energising me now that I’ve transferred
my burden to someone else. Another explosion sounds above us, and the stairwell
shudders. I imagine glass shattering from windows and flames consuming walls,
floors collapsing, and possessions incinerating. If this was a taste of hell, I
would be an instant convert.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The fire crew meets me
on the first floor landing, and a tall fireman puts an arm around my waist.
“You’re almost out,” he says as he half carries me down the remaining stairs.
The air outside is cool by comparison and black flakes swirl in the breeze. The
fireman helps me towards a group of people huddled against a building in the
next street. “Go and get yourself checked,” he says, pointing to three
ambulances parked near the crowd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We make a sad knot of
humanity, and I’m guessing my face mirrors the shock and disbelief on the faces
of those around me. A cough hacks its way out, and I lean against a wall,
nausea playing with my stomach. I want to ask the <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">fireman about Buhle and Lindiwe
but he’s gone, absorbed into the fire crew and policemen around the base of the
building. Fire engines are in position and jets of water surge towards the
upper floor windows. Flames flicker and thick black smoke streams out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I lean against the
wall scanning the crowd, searching for two familiar faces. A few seconds later Buhle
appears. “Pumzile!” She throws her arms around me, burying her head against my
chest. “Where’s Mama? Is she safe? Why isn’t she with you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“She’s okay,” I say,
hoping the stranger managed to get her out. “A man came and carried her for
me.” We cling to each other for a while before I point at the ambulances
further down the street. “They probably took your mama to one of those. Shall
we go and have a look?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The stranger is
standing near the first ambulance chatting with a paramedic, and I head straight
for him. “Is she all right? The woman you carried down the stairs for me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He turns to look at
me, and the compassion in his eyes catches me by surprise. He’s about six foot
tall, dark-skinned with short dreadlocks and a genuine smile. Mid-twenties, I guess,
and he’s dressed in paint-spattered overalls. “She’s being treated for smoke
inhalation,” he says gesturing to the ambulance. Then he looks back as a cough
tears through my lungs. “You don’t sound so good yourself.” He puts a strong
arm around me and guides me towards one of the other ambulances. “You need to
be checked out as well.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“There’re other people
who need help more than I do.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“You still need to be
checked out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Buhle tugs on my arm.
“I’m going to see Mama.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I nod as the man
steers me forwards. Minutes later, I’m propped up in an ambulance with an
oxygen mask on my face, my new friend standing next to me holding my hand.
Thoughts race through my mind. It’s amazing how a crisis bypasses social
etiquette. People instinctively reach out to help each other, holding, hugging,
crying, and drawing comfort from touch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“What’s your name?” I
ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Joshua. And yours?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“Pumzile.” Another
cough tears my chest, and I try and suck in oxygen. An hour ago, I was working
on a psychology paper in Mercy House, and now I’m struggling to breathe. Will
Lindiwe recover from this? Her health is at an all-time low, and I worry about
her. It’s not good for Buhle to be her caregiver at such a young age and
certainly not safe. Chamberlain Court is little more than a flophouse and drug
den and is not the place for a young child to live. I’ve begged Lindiwe to move
to Mercy House where we can look after them both, but she’s refused every time.
Maybe now she’ll have no choice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The paramedic
reappears and checks my pulse. “Your </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 150%;">heart beat is steadier, which is
a good sign. We’re just going to move the ambulance a couple of blocks away.
The fire crew are concerned about the smoke and possibility that the fire might
spread to neighbouring buildings.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She turns to an
elderly man who lies in the other bed, a large dressing on his left arm. His
eyes are shut, and he moans softly. “How’s the pain?” she asks, and he shakes
his head. “We’re just going to move, and then I’ll increase the dosage for
you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I notice a drip taped
into the back of his right hand and say a silent prayer for him as the
ambulance rumbles to life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">“The streets are
crowded,” Joshua says, peeking through the back door. The police have taped
them off, but there’re hundreds of people out there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The smell of smoke is strong,
but I’m not sure if it’s in the air or in my lungs. Maybe both. It’s not the
sweet aromatic smoke of the wood fires we cook on in Impendle. It’s acidic,
poisonous and bitter, restricting airways, and choking off life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The enormity of the
fire hits home. I can go back to Mercy House tonight, but Lindiwe, Buhle and
dozens, maybe hundreds of other people have lost their homes and possessions.
Hillbrow is a damaged community as it is, and this will only add to the
problems and pain. I struggle upright, retching as a cough starts in my lower
chest and tears at my lungs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Joshua lays his free
hand on my back. “Breathe the oxygen. Deep breaths. You’ll be alright.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I force myself to
relax and slowly air filters through. When I try and speak, I can’t form the words
and tears burn behind my eyes, forcing their way out in warm streams. Joshua
tightens his grip on my hand. “Is there someone I can call for you?”</span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fragrant-Hope-Inspiring-Book-ebook/dp/B00KEVT7E0/ref=la_B005PUJ7T0_1_8_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1421559831&sr=1-8" target="_blank">Click here to purchase the book on Kindle for 99 cents.</a></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<br /></div>
Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-57758629777931661032014-12-14T00:37:00.002-08:002014-12-14T00:50:01.035-08:00Lost in Translation<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
mother in South Africa was not impressed when she heard I was going to
Shanghai. “Are you sure you’ll be safe?” she wrote. Always the intrepid
traveller, I emailed back and said, “Of course! I’ll be fine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
touched down in September 2014 and Shanghai was a surprise in many ways. A city
of contrasts, of brass, glass, glitz and glamour, swirling and flashing neon,
concrete towers, and thousands of bicycles, scooters and motorbikes whose
riders totally ignored red lights and pedestrian crossings. Throw in a few
temples, dingy slum areas that were literally one street removed from top-branded
retailers, and a plethora of Starbucks and you’ll have a glimpse of Shanghai. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF27DMp4fitx57JNBnXzVw1T_4xt0SPG2jev2cZKGfWvZRvGmAVgV5ntEa8kQNnjJNZ3bU4Q_laNDpGXVGjqqYqoGrvNWbfu55Qn1meqW4u26g9zEB-0uaGQiyqyGiEWLOu0oENV88OHE/s1600/IMG_6610.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF27DMp4fitx57JNBnXzVw1T_4xt0SPG2jev2cZKGfWvZRvGmAVgV5ntEa8kQNnjJNZ3bU4Q_laNDpGXVGjqqYqoGrvNWbfu55Qn1meqW4u26g9zEB-0uaGQiyqyGiEWLOu0oENV88OHE/s1600/IMG_6610.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
had a fabulous few days and all too soon it was time to retrace my steps to New
Zealand. I asked the concierge at the hotel to arrange a taxi to the bus
station for me. This consisted of standing in the street and flagging down the
first taxi that drove past. Unfortunately, neither the concierge nor the driver
could speak English and my request to be dropped at the bus station was met
with blank stares. Eventually the concierge took my paper with the English address
on it into the hotel and came out with it written in Chinese characters.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMO02K8j2p5_sh2gGVhfSmxKnc_rS_1S32Jt_Ro0vLh7xFhC_ia87EczMS8bnffWg65YKAEfF1L_XBw6L_ZY_pqyUFL7FBLDxmhJXUsSg3JYVumrcMlZvgCqN3-wDLDb-cAlBEmt1VcNg/s1600/IMG_6762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMO02K8j2p5_sh2gGVhfSmxKnc_rS_1S32Jt_Ro0vLh7xFhC_ia87EczMS8bnffWg65YKAEfF1L_XBw6L_ZY_pqyUFL7FBLDxmhJXUsSg3JYVumrcMlZvgCqN3-wDLDb-cAlBEmt1VcNg/s1600/IMG_6762.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Thirty
minutes later I realised the trip was taking far too long. I tried to
communicate with the taxi driver but was met with blank stares – so eventually
sat back to see where I would end up. It turned out to be Shanghai Stadium! All
I could think was the receptionist had confused the word station with stadium.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No!
No!” I shook my head at the bemused driver as he tried to usher me out of
the car. In a flash of inspiration I pulled out my phone and tried to look up
Shanghai Bus Station in the map app. I couldn’t find it but it did show me
Shanghai Train Station in English and Chinese. “Here, take me here.” I pointed
to the destination on the screen and understanding dawned on his face.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSlC25dTXBgVC63Aqz8-xwBuJSd3MTO1zd21OPvJdRsHF3paJbWHXdawWuFDN6xB3qJYnKj1ntLZs0qKgHwNnzUI66d2nVpBsmXyyzvJ0_WK1Dju0FXfoJDeUgP780jxk05-8GgtJ3TNg/s1600/IMG_6743.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSlC25dTXBgVC63Aqz8-xwBuJSd3MTO1zd21OPvJdRsHF3paJbWHXdawWuFDN6xB3qJYnKj1ntLZs0qKgHwNnzUI66d2nVpBsmXyyzvJ0_WK1Dju0FXfoJDeUgP780jxk05-8GgtJ3TNg/s1600/IMG_6743.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Twenty
minutes and 88 Yuan later I was at the train station. I have ridden trains and
the underground in many large cities and as I looked at the snaking queues,
x-ray machines and Chinese signage, I knew I was in trouble. So there I stood,
a relatively tall, pale-skinned foreigner, alone in a city of 23 million without an English
speaker in sight. I had allowed plenty of time to get to the airport but the
minutes were speeding by. I needed a miracle. I prayed for a miracle. Thirty
seconds later he walked up. “Do you need a taxi?” he asked in English.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Yes
please, to Pudong Airport.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“250
Yuan.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Fine,
let’s go.” I followed him to a car park and discovered the car was not a
branded taxi – and – you’ve guessed it – the driver could not speak English. A
few doubts crept in along with thoughts of abductions and human trafficking. I
could disappear into the bowels of Shanghai and my family would never hear from
me again. I glanced at my watch, thoughts racing frantically. <i>I’m too old to be sold as a prostitute. I’ll
have to trust he is my miracle</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_NHiZBMpHBvdr4pOu7KlPBFpLCBVsX0sbtqEDrb3D7JuhRuN275uo0KsUdyG_wSdBy2amhJFgjf7POrjyDVt1wMwY0xHMb9dDjIRWKDaUxdRUEvVxmiYQRwd1Od-YRFjnQTKJfxixkMs/s1600/IMG_6764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_NHiZBMpHBvdr4pOu7KlPBFpLCBVsX0sbtqEDrb3D7JuhRuN275uo0KsUdyG_wSdBy2amhJFgjf7POrjyDVt1wMwY0xHMb9dDjIRWKDaUxdRUEvVxmiYQRwd1Od-YRFjnQTKJfxixkMs/s1600/IMG_6764.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
next problem was I needed to draw cash as the driver did not have an eftpos
machine in his car. Our go between translated this for him and then we were on
our way, hurtling through traffic into a seedy part of the city. He slammed on
brakes and drew up by a set of Perspex booths. It turned out that each housed
an ATM and you entered and bolted the door behind you. Sixty seconds later,
mission accomplished, he put foot and roared towards the airport, cursing all
and sundry in an unknown dialect. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
had the map app open on my phone and was relieved to see he was heading in the
right direction. Thirty minutes later I discovered he could speak one English
word. “Money,” he demanded as Pudong International appeared on the horizon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
handed over the 250 Yuan and he tapped something out on his phone and showed
me. “360.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“No!”
I said. “We agreed on 250.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZSHVmeRvcrCK7zIuOl86F18sJA6v3xf8TQ5oqAeVGgOBQO6bPfOcehrC7y6uQa2AM2Hs523N8Gs34uf358KEAx4L79k0IkigjkZ_7nTb12rBkg42wATqjYBpuezIbQiUKhx-wTjMvbrY/s1600/IMG_6770.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZSHVmeRvcrCK7zIuOl86F18sJA6v3xf8TQ5oqAeVGgOBQO6bPfOcehrC7y6uQa2AM2Hs523N8Gs34uf358KEAx4L79k0IkigjkZ_7nTb12rBkg42wATqjYBpuezIbQiUKhx-wTjMvbrY/s1600/IMG_6770.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He
slowed down shaking his head and his phone. “Money.” I was running out of time so
eventually handed over another 110 Yuan figuring he could still knock me over
the head and drive off with all my belongings! I made it to check-in with five
minutes to spare, a racing heart and an empty purse!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So,
Mom, I’m home, I’m safe, you were right, and I promise my next destination will
be one where English is spoken fluently!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-33278867815230875562014-05-18T12:08:00.004-07:002014-08-23T23:00:19.162-07:00Coming Soon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQEwLVJ5E7KE-duTKg4wuVfe3qChCycbJWOh6tjWdOJWRi21vJuG6TrG3atDgpr_lrPE4hWe33eBz98V0rYVp7KvyQQVYzdIstohWDzgFcmDYBRo9wbCLZYRi2_Tw3wGYOhd-6_RD33HI/s1600/FH+Front+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQEwLVJ5E7KE-duTKg4wuVfe3qChCycbJWOh6tjWdOJWRi21vJuG6TrG3atDgpr_lrPE4hWe33eBz98V0rYVp7KvyQQVYzdIstohWDzgFcmDYBRo9wbCLZYRi2_Tw3wGYOhd-6_RD33HI/s1600/FH+Front+cover.jpg" height="640" width="403" /></a></div>
<br />Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-58351852961414565872013-12-11T08:12:00.000-08:002013-12-11T08:58:08.763-08:00A Ruby Christmas<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I’m part of an exciting Christmas story – <a href="http://writeintegrity.blogspot.co.nz/2013/12/a-ruby-christmas-chapter-one.html" target="_blank">A Ruby Christmas</a> –
that is being released one chapter per day. Catch up on this heart warming
story <a href="http://bit.ly/1cEQdUo" target="_blank">here</a>. If you want to get the whole novella, pop over to Amazon where it
will be free from Friday to Monday.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The release of A Ruby Christmas includes a contest on Pinterest
organised by Write Integrity Press. A new photo is posted each day and ties in
with the chapter being posted on their blog. My chapter is being released today
and the contest image is below. Pop over
to the <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/231583605812508479/" target="_blank">Ruby Christmas Pinterest Contest Board</a> to see more.</span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2l4vhbR-Rg-qNlFksYWR3vK5CMPFpcckmXaIt-2-DL0AeRvMvabO4HmRXZnjWMEXOFSirjJ2jBzPiso22NN8e8qQGj3KsWVYD5Q4kIOcJWiwP2vg9uzn-EB-frR9j1aqYHC3-3ibKaPc/s1600/Cape+Town+South+Africa+altered.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2l4vhbR-Rg-qNlFksYWR3vK5CMPFpcckmXaIt-2-DL0AeRvMvabO4HmRXZnjWMEXOFSirjJ2jBzPiso22NN8e8qQGj3KsWVYD5Q4kIOcJWiwP2vg9uzn-EB-frR9j1aqYHC3-3ibKaPc/s400/Cape+Town+South+Africa+altered.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Hope you enjoy the story!<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-13710158558791649312013-04-02T01:38:00.001-07:002013-04-02T01:38:30.638-07:00The Lost Child
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve
discovered that when I go on holiday, God goes with me. In November 2012, Kevin
and I and the children flew to Sydney for a family wedding. There were ten of
us from New Zealand and we met up with extended family over there.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">During
the course of the weekend, a group of us were at the Westfield Mall in Bondi
waiting for my son to come out of Target. As we leaned against the rails, I watched
the shop entrance while the others chatted. Soon after a lady dashed out of the
doors looking distressed and I wondered if she was feeling sick.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">She
disappeared and then reappeared, even more distraught, looking in every
direction. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’ve lost a child</i>,” I thought
and started to pray silently as she went back into the store.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The
third time she came out she was frantic, tears streaming, running up to
strangers, showing them how tall the child was with her hand. She had lost part
of herself, her own flesh and blood. At that stage I poked Kevin and told him
what was going on. He gathered the family around and we prayed the mother would
find her child.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">That
moment has lingered with me and God used it to show me a number of things:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">When
you lose something you love, a part of you, it hurts, it’s very distressing and
you go looking for it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The
woman’s pain was so great that she reached the place where she had to ask
others for help. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3)<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In
spite of all her activity and apparent distress, I was the only one in my family
who noticed her pain. People are busy and self absorbed and often don’t notice
your need for help.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Life
is hard and we all get bumped and bruised along the way and sometimes we lose
part of ourselves on the journey. It could be one particular thing or maybe
several:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Ability to trust<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Sense of self worth<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Hope for the future<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Joy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Peace<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Vision<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Confidence<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Ability to love and
forgive<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt/normal "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Faith in God<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve
been on that journey and I understand what it is to lose part of yourself. I also
know that sometimes you have to ask for help to find what you’ve lost. God is
the restorer, the healer, the one who makes all things new but sometimes we
need each other to remind us of this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">You’re
probably wondering if that mother found her child. The answer is she did. She appeared
shortly after we prayed, child in her arms, overjoyed, weeping, embracing him
like she’d never let go. There was no anger, no blame, just love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">If
you’ve lost a part of yourself, it’s not too late to go looking for what’s
missing. God wants to do a work of restoration for you today and you can
know the same joy the mother did when reunited with her child. It was pure, straight from her heart and absolutely unforgettable. I wish the same for you.</span></div>
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Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-23698392891719109102013-03-17T01:59:00.000-07:002013-03-17T01:59:07.664-07:00The Reluctant Pianist
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">What
do a Steinway grand piano and an old home in Dunedin, New Zealand have to do
with God?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Kevin
and I spent a day in Dunedin at the end of February and had a lovely time
visiting the Albatross Colony, driving around the Otago Peninsula and visiting
Larnach Castle. A friend had suggested we visit Olveston which is an old home
that was bequeathed to the City of Dunedin in the 1960’s on the condition that
it was preserved as it was with its contents. We had a spare hour before
heading to the airport so decided to go and find the house.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It
was perfect timing as a tour had just started and we slipped into the dining room
with the rest of the group. It was a large two storey home and fascinating to
see the old appliances and furnishings. All went well until we entered the
drawing room and the tour guide pointed out the full size Steinway grand piano
near the window. Then she turned to the group and asked, “Does anyone here play
the piano?”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I
suddenly found the pattern on the carpet very interesting. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m just a little church pianist … I can’t play a Steinway grand piano …
I wouldn’t know what to play</i> … <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Then
I heard Kevin’s voice from the other side of the room. “She does!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I
wanted to wring his neck as all eyes turned in my direction. “Please will you
play for us?” the tour guide asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I
made my way under the rope barrier and sat down at the piano. What could I
possibly play for this diverse bunch of people? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What would they be familiar with? Then it came
to me - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amazing Grace. Breathing a prayer for help, I
placed my hands on the keys and began to play. The notes were pure and clear
and by the time I’d finished, I could feel God’s presence all around me. It was
a holy moment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Amazingly,
the tour group seemed to feel it too. Instead of a polite thank you, there was
a collective sigh and then people started thanking me, saying it was beautiful
and had touched them. I realised then how small-minded I’d been. “I’m sorry
God,” I prayed silently as we moved through the rest of the house. “I’m sorry
for not seizing opportunities, for doubting my ability, for being unwilling to
use the gift you’ve given me to bless others.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My
brief concert turned out to be the highlight of the trip for me – and a
powerful lesson in always being prepared, always ready to take the
opportunities God places before me. I hope I will never be seen as a reluctant pianist again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-83297445838617876302012-12-29T22:40:00.002-08:002012-12-29T22:44:19.497-08:00Anointing Oil<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s
that time of year again; when we look back at the highs and lows and determine
what we want to change in 2013. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve
spent a few days pondering on 2012. It’s been a tough year in many ways but
each difficult circumstance has revealed more of God’s character to me. If I
could go back and change things, I wouldn’t. I’ve realised that each painful
step, each situation I’ve had to face has wrought changes in my heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One
of the passages of scripture that God gave me during this year summarises my
experience perfectly: <span class="text"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And
now, isn’t it wonderful all the ways in which this distress has goaded you closer
to God? You’re more alive, more concerned, more sensitive, more reverent, more
human, more passionate, more responsible. Looked at from any angle, you’ve come
out of this with purity of heart</i>. 2 Corinthians 7:11, The Message.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A
W Tozer is quoted as saying, “</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It is doubtful whether
God can use a man greatly, until first He wounds him deeply." I’m not sure
I would blame God for bringing the painful situations into my life – but He has
undoubtedly used the wounds to bring me to a place where He can use me in a far
more effective way. At times I felt lost and alone but I know that <span class="text">God was always there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One
of the struggles I experienced was an ongoing episode of cyber-bullying. As a
result of this, I went through a period where I woke up nearly every morning
between 2 and 3am and was unable to go back to sleep. If I did manage to sleep
through, I suffered from terrible nightmares. After six months of this, I was
seriously sleep deprived and had pretty much given up expecting a normal night.
Then I went to a Christian conference up in Auckland.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I
had simply thought it would be a good experience, but didn’t know I had an
appointment with God. After a workshop and teaching on the Holy Spirit, all of
us were invited to go to the front for prayer and refreshing. I hung back,
watched from my seat for a while, and then decided to go up. The man who prayed
for me was a stranger – we had never met before and lived in different cities –
and he did not ask if I had any specific needs. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He
poured oil into his hands and wiped a large dollop on my forehead before
massaging the rest into my hands. The aroma was warm like cinnamon and cloves
and I could feel God’s presence with me. He prayed while rubbing the oil in – a
general prayer – but then paused before praying more specifically. He asked
that God would help me to sleep at night and that He would give me dreams.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span><br />
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I
was amazed! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">God had seen the sleepless
nights? God had seen the nightmares? God had said enough was enough and things
were going to change?</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span><br />
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">That
was the 3<sup>rd</sup> October 2012 and since that day I haven’t had a problem
sleeping. The nightmares have gone and I’ve actually had dreams that have been
healing and restorative. It’s been a life changing experience and I’ve realised
God could do the same in all my painful situations – but that He won’t. He uses
difficult circumstances to refine us and shape us and He is with us each step
of the way. However, the day always comes when He says enough is enough ... and then things change.</span></span></div>
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<span class="text"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m
looking forward to 2013 and m</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">y prayer is that God
will have His perfect way in my life. I pray the same for you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-44157672096857042212012-12-20T09:23:00.000-08:002012-12-20T09:26:07.014-08:00Tender Christmas TalesThe story below is included in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tender-Christmas-Tales-ebook/dp/B0066YAGZS/ref=sr_1_6?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1356023916&sr=1-6&keywords=debbie+roome" target="_blank">Tender Christmas Tales</a> which is available as a Kindle book on Amazon for only 99 cents.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Baby’s First Gift<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-NZ;">It’s dark
in the cabin and passengers lie sprawled across the seats. The monotonous thrum
of jet engines sedates them as miles surge past. Christmas flights are often
quiet like this; frequented by those who book too late and loners with no
family back home. <br />
<br />
It’s gloomy outside but a tinge of apricot rims the horizon. I didn’t sleep
during my break, trying to fool my body into thinking it’s still afternoon. I
dread the mornings with their nausea and weakness, both reminders of my guilt.
I leave the window and go and find Lucy in the galley. She touches me on the
shoulder, concern creasing her brow. “Feeling alright?” <br />
<br />
I nod as I help her with breakfast preparations. The airline has supplied a
gift for each passenger; a small box wrapped in red with curls of gold ribbon.
I wonder idly what’s inside them. Fruit, nuts, a novelty? <br />
<br />
Lucy is the only one who knows my secret. “It happens all the time,” she said.
“Long haul flights, exotic destinations, pilots looking for some entertainment,
a moment of weakness. It’s not as though you owe the father anything. Just get
rid of it.” I’ve walked into an abortion clinic three times but haven’t had the
courage to sign the papers. I have a sense that what seems like a solution may
actually add to the problem.<br />
<br />
I’m laying out gifts on food trays when a bell pings softly. “You go,” Lucy
says. “I’ll manage here.”<br />
<br />
A young mom looks up at me, exhaustion etched in weary features. “My baby
hasn’t slept all night. I wondered if someone could hold her while I go and
freshen up quickly?” <br />
<br />
My heart sinks but I curve my lips into a smile. “Of course. Take your time.”
She hands me a tiny wrapped bundle and I slip into a vacant seat by a window.
The rim is thicker now, a deep red circle embracing the world. It looks like a
heavenly Christmas wreath. I adjust the blanket and peer down at the child.
What would my friends at church say if they knew I was pregnant? What would my
parents say? <br />
<br />
The baby snuffles gently and I watch tiny lips sucking and rooting, trying to
latch on to the blanket. She’s tiny, can’t be more than a couple of weeks old.
I try and imagine how it would feel if this was my child. Words like
tenderness, love and hope swirl through my mind. The mother returns and I
motion her to sit. “She’s going to sleep,” I whisper. Outside, Christmas dawns
properly as red suffuses into pink and smoky gray lightens to dusky yellow. <br />
<br />
Another baby comes to mind as I rock this child; Jesus, the one whom Christmas
is all about. I wonder if He looked like this little bundle, perfect, innocent,
content in arms that offer love and safety. A flush of shame warms my cheeks as
I realise my double-mindedness. How can I cradle a child on the outside while
contemplating murder for the one inside?<br />
<br />
I stand and gently place the infant in her sky cot before tears spill and
splash. Locked inside the toilet, I sob as streams of repentance overflow and
cleanse my heart. “I’m sorry, God. I wanted to fix one mistake by making
another. I’ve been so concerned with people’s reactions that I forgot to ask
what You thought.”<br />
<br />
A while later, I’m serving breakfast and smiling as I hand out Christmas gifts.
My heart is raw and soft but the pain is tempered with peace. Peace that I can
handle the consequences of my sin. Peace that I can face my family and friends
and confess what I have done. Peace that there will be those who will draw
close and extend grace and mercy over the next few months. <br />
<br />
Today, however, I will celebrate Christmas in all its fullness and majesty. I
can do nothing less for this is an extra special day. It is the day I gave my
unborn child his first gift. The gift of life. </span></div>
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Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-59659789640824565862012-12-12T22:01:00.000-08:002012-12-12T22:01:48.893-08:00The Christmas Tree Treasure Hunt<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://debbieroome.blogspot.co.nz/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt.html" target="_blank">Read Chapter Eight Part One here.</a> <br />
<br />
Chapter Eight Part Two<br />
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<div style="border: currentColor;">
By Debbie Roome</div>
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“Tell me how you and Grammie ended up in mission work,” I asked as I strolled next to her.</div>
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“It was at a mission house in New Plymouth,” she replied. “Bea and I were put together to do door-to-door evangelistic work. She was quite homesick at first, so I brought her home with me at weekends. My mother treated her like a daughter, and we became best friends.” Her voice broke slightly, and she gazed upward. “It may sound silly, but I miss her terribly. We hadn’t seen each other in decades, but we wrote each other every month. And when e-mail came out, we kept in touch even more often.” She stopped walking and looked me in the eye. “She was an amazing woman, Grace ... and I can see the same strength of character in you.”</div>
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“Really?” I was still trying to make sense of her words when we reached the edge of a low cliff. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlikZpAQrEqA87D9I4mjut4tNtWz2xIIve5tEfZ1mG55UEH9mn8AdyPLOyr_e6m6WnOEhFmyiPJo7UUdUBbcVLAeRubxOdAKL9ABTyKTeGRDXDW5989xtl8eNMG5H_0K8-bZfNh-YGr34/s1600/5+dec+12+(6).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlikZpAQrEqA87D9I4mjut4tNtWz2xIIve5tEfZ1mG55UEH9mn8AdyPLOyr_e6m6WnOEhFmyiPJo7UUdUBbcVLAeRubxOdAKL9ABTyKTeGRDXDW5989xtl8eNMG5H_0K8-bZfNh-YGr34/s320/5+dec+12+(6).JPG" width="240" /></a>“Be careful down here,” she instructed. “The sand is loose, and it’s easy to slip.”</div>
<br />
I was more interested in the trees with gnarled limbs and weathered trunks that clung to the rocks. Each was crowned with a mass of red blossoms that looked like the ones in my photo. “What are those?” I asked as we clambered down the path.<br />
<br />
“Pohutakawa trees,” she answered. “They’re also known as the New Zealand Christmas tree as they flower in December.<br />
<br />
“They’re beautiful,” I said, gazing up through the canopy of red.<br />
<br />
“We’ll stop here for a moment,” Ngiare said. “This is one of my favourite prayer spots.” She patted a smooth gray rock and indicated I should sit next to her. The beach was about a dozen feet below us and the sand lay flat, its wrinkles and flaws smoothed by the outgoing tide.<br />
<br />
“I can see why,” I said, taking in the floral beauty, the sparkling waters below. “It’s so peaceful here.”<br />
<br />
“It is today, but it’s not always like that,” Ngaire said, her expression contemplative. “We have violent storms from time to time and the wind can be very damaging.” She seemed to withdraw into her thoughts for a while, and I sat and waited. The sun cast a peachy glow across the ocean, and I felt more at peace than I had for a long while.<br />
<br />
“Did Bea ever tell you about the whales?” she asked after a while, angling her head toward me.<br />
<br />
A surge of excitement made me sit upright. “No, but she placed a carved whale in the envelope with my tickets to New Zealand.”<br />
<br />
“She was staying with me one weekend when a pod beached themselves over there.”<br />
<br />
I followed the direction of her outstretched hand to an expanse of sand. “What happened?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“We tried to rescue them. Called in an emergency and the local radio put out an appeal for people to come and help.”<br />
<br />
“And?”<br />
<br />
“Come,” Ngaire stood and started the descent to the beach. “They were pilot whales, a pod of about thirty and they were stranded just here.”<br />
<br />
I stood still, wind whipping my hair, salty spray coating my face as I tried to imagine the scene.<br />
<br />
“We had a hundred volunteers come out,” Ngaire continued the story. “We stayed down here all night, draping the whales with wet towels, pouring sea water over them and turning them so they could breathe more easily.” Her eyes misted over, and I felt my own eyes moisten.<br />
<br />
“Did you save them?”<br />
<br />
“Some. When the tide came in, we managed to refloat those closest to the water but some of them came back. The thing is that they’re social creatures. If one of them becomes stranded due to illness or injury, the others will follow. They stick together, so to speak. They won’t leave a wounded family member – and one of the whales was obviously sick.”<br />
<br />
I closed my eyes and for a moment I had a vision of a beach full of whales, gray skin glistening as people worked to save them. If an animal cares for its own, who am I not to? The thought skittered through my mind, and I pushed it away. People are different, I told myself. <br />
<br />
Ngaire reached out and took my hand. “Don’t fight God, child. If He’s talking then let Him talk. And when He’s done talking, act on what He’s told you.”<br />
<br />
“I need a few moments,” I said, loosening my hand from hers and walking toward the water. I knew that coming to New Zealand would be challenging, but Grammie had got right under my skin this time. As an animal lover I knew if whales were stranded on the beach, I’d be down here helping them ... and yet I had no time for my own sister who was obviously hurting. She had to be. “My heart has become very hard,” I whispered to God although, since it was the first time I’d talked to Him in years, I wasn’t sure He’d be listening. “If you want me to change, You’ll have to soften it for me.” I stayed on the water’s edge allowing the waves to lap at my feet as the sea changed from apricot to gold to silver. <br />
<br />
Eventually Ngaire came to join me, her hand soft on my arm. “Come up to the Pohutakawas, Grace. There’s something there for you. <br />
<br />
I followed her and after examining the trees in the area she pointed out, I found a carved Christmas bauble hanging from a low branch. The wood was inlaid with swirls of turquoise and pink shell and had a seam through the center. “Does it open?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“Try and see,” Ngaire said with a smile.<br />
<br />
I twisted the bauble carefully and split it into two halves. A carved wooden whale nestled inside in tissue paper. It was twin to the one in the envelope Grammie had left me. Twin whales, I thought. Sisters that would stay with each other to the point of death.<br />
<br />
Before dinner that night, I volunteered to babysit Aroha. We sat on the carpet and stacked blocks into towers and then knocked them down before starting over again. She squealed with laughter and tossed her head. “Again, Grace,” she shouted. “Let’s do it again.” We had a great time, but she fussed as her mother supervised dinner and then Aroha’s teeth brushing. It’s an immense responsibility raising a child, I realized. And Lauren is doing this alone ...<br />
<br />
I confided in Ngaire when the family had gone to bed. “I never thought of Lauren’s baby as being a child, a little person that can talk and laugh and have fun. I’m still angry with her, but something has started to shift inside me.” I hung my head, regret rising like a fountain. “I wish I had a photo of her. Flo in the Rocky Mountains showed me one of her and Lauren, but it was too small to see her face.<br />
<br />
Ngaire smiled. “I can show you an up-to-date picture if you’d like – we can even print it out.<br />
<br />
Five minutes later I sat in front of the family computer while she scrolled through her e-mails. “Here it is,” she announced triumphantly after a quick search. “Bea sent this through shortly before she died.” The child’s face filled the screen; thick dark curls, olive skin like mine and eyes that danced with life. I had seen that face before. The escape artist, Clara Grace, at the Nutcracker Ballet. I couldn’t stop tears from overflowing as Ngaire pulled me into her arms.<br />
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Read Chapter Nine Part One by Joan Campbell today!<br />
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<br />
The Christmas Tree Treasure Hunt<br />
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Grace takes delivery of a package and her life is turned upside down by nine sealed mystery envelopes from her late grandmother. Grammie’s instructions require Grace to take the journey of her lifetime, not only to far off places, but also into the deepest parts of her heart. As she follows the trail laid out for her and uncovers her family’s darkest secrets, Grace is forced to confront the loss and betrayal that has scarred her past and seek the greatest Christmas Treasure of all.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9i5vOCo5erlB5EswwPfhMigWKYVbJxOAo7HNjzLGr3fzKQpAkXY2WbPtliRDEQSh9pXxmYqbN9olnd-TtaV9qgnoOFM5y_YXe7aN41Tpn8Gei3nSjoMKbX7iW71z01js8yLV6dtNGqhw/s1600/Christmas+Hunt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9i5vOCo5erlB5EswwPfhMigWKYVbJxOAo7HNjzLGr3fzKQpAkXY2WbPtliRDEQSh9pXxmYqbN9olnd-TtaV9qgnoOFM5y_YXe7aN41Tpn8Gei3nSjoMKbX7iW71z01js8yLV6dtNGqhw/s320/Christmas+Hunt.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
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Read More:</div>
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<a href="http://joancampbell.co.za/blog/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt-ch1-part1/" target="_blank">Chapter One by Joan Campbell</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.ruths-real-life.blogspot.co.nz/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt.html" target="_blank">Chapter Two by Ruth O'Neil</a><br />
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<a href="http://web.jamarx.net/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt-chapter-3-part-one/" target="_blank">Chapter Three by J.A. Marx</a><br />
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<a href="http://pixnpenspub.blogspot.co.nz/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt.html" target="_blank">Chapter Four by Deanna Klingel</a></div>
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<a href="http://marjilaine.com/2012/12/10/christmas-tree-treasure-hunt-2/" target="_blank">Chapter Five by MarjiLaine</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.pixnpenspub.blogspot.co.nz/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt_10.html" target="_blank">Chapter Six by Sheryl Holmes</a></div>
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<a href="http://faylamb.com/ontheledge/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt-2/" target="_blank">Chapter Seven by Fay Lamb</a></div>
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<a href="http://debbieroome.blogspot.co.nz/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt.html" target="_blank">Chapter Eight by Debbie Roome</a></div>
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Learn more about this fun project at <a href="http://www.writeintegrity.blogspot.co.nz/2012/11/winner-of-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt.html" target="_blank">Write Integrity Press</a>.</div>
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Joan Campbell is the Featured Author today at WIP, so drop by to read her Favorite Christmas Recipe.</div>
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You’re invited to <a href="http://www.virtualcelebration.com/MagnificentHope" target="_blank">Magnificent Hope’s Christmas Party</a> so come over and join all the fun!<br />
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<br />Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-27447333009751243332012-12-12T00:26:00.000-08:002012-12-12T00:26:14.187-08:00The Christmas Tree Treasure Hunt<br />
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<br />
<a href="http://joancampbell.co.za/blog/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt-ch1-part1/" target="_blank">Chapter One by Joan Campbell</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.ruths-real-life.blogspot.co.nz/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt.html" target="_blank">Chapter Two by Ruth O'Neil</a><br />
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<a href="http://web.jamarx.net/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt-chapter-3-part-one/" target="_blank">Chapter Three by J.A. Marx</a><br />
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<a href="http://pixnpenspub.blogspot.co.nz/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt.html" target="_blank">Chapter Four by Deanna Klingel</a><br />
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<a href="http://marjilaine.com/2012/12/07/christmas-tree-treasure-hunt/" target="_blank">Chapter Five by MarjiLaine</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.pixnpenspub.blogspot.co.nz/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt_10.html" target="_blank">Chapter Six by Sheryl Holmes</a><br />
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<a href="http://faylamb.com/ontheledge/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt-2/" target="_blank">Chapter Seven by Fay Lamb</a><br />
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<strong>Chapter Eight Part One</strong><br />
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By Debbie Roome<br />
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The flutter of little feet drew me out of deep sleep.<br />
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“She’s awake!” A child’s high pitched voice pierced through the last remnants of drowsiness. The feet and voice receded. “Granny, come! Aunty Grace is awake.”<br />
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Light streamed through an unfamiliar window. My head pounded; my eyes ached. It didn’t feel as if it should be morning already. Where on earth …?<br />
<br />
Of course – New Zealand! Slowly the events of the preceding day seeped back into my consciousness: the warm weather, that didn’t feel at all like Christmas, despite the baubles and tinsel decorating the airport; the strange local accents; and—worst of all—driving on the wrong side of the road to reach Ngaire’s house. As stressful as the drive had been, I had still managed to take in a little of the breath-taking scenery. The ocean had spread like a sequinned mat to the left, sparkling in the brilliant sun, while green hills had unfurled to the right. Farms had dotted the landscape and sheep grazed in clumps. <br />
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Ngaire stood at the door now, a large smile on her deep olive face. Her nut brown hair, streaked with gray, hung in a braid.<br />
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“Did this little rascal wake you?”<br />
<br />
At Ngaire’s side, the little rascal’s face was lit up with pride at her accomplishment.<br />
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“Well … yes. But it’s a good thing. The sooner I start operating on New Zealand time, the better.”<br />
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“I’ll brew some fresh tea for you in the kitchen. Chamomile, right? I bought some especially.”<br />
<br />
I smiled. After a few weeks of being on Grammie’s adventure, it didn’t surprise me anymore that she had seen to all these little details.<br />
<br />
Fumbling for my watch on the bedside table, my fingers instead wrapped around the tiny wooden whale that had been in envelope seven. I traced its smooth shape before putting it down next to the photo of the tree with the spiky red blossoms, the other mystery item in the envelope.<br />
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“All to be explained, right Grammie?” I said aloud to an empty room. Ngaire and her great-granddaughter had already left.<br />
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I made my way—somewhat groggily—to the sagging bay window and pressed my face up to the glass to stare out at the ocean. Blue, navy, and turquoise layered the water, and waves washed against rocky cliffs and a fringe of dark sand. How many times had Grammie looked at this same view? Ngaire had told me the night before that Grammie had slept in this room many times in the year she spent as a missionary in New Plymouth. The thought filled me with a strangely conflicting mix of joy and sorrow.<br />
<br />
As I dressed, I thought of the warm welcome I had experienced from the moment I had arrived at this home. My first feeling as I drove up the long sandy driveway had been one of trepidation. The weatherboard home, spreading in all directions, looked rather haphazard. Additions had been made over the years and nothing quite matched. I couldn’t help but wonder who could live here.<br />
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However, Ngaire’s warm welcome at the door had eased my apprehension. She had folded me into her arms like a long last daughter and drawn me into her worn, but spotless home where the aroma of home baking wafted from the kitchen. I had been introduced to her large extended family. Her son and daughter-in-law, with their five teenage children, all lived in the house. One of her granddaughter’s had ‘got herself into a spot of trouble’ as Ngaire put it, with the result that a lively two-year-old now also shared the home. “It’s crowded but whānau – extended family – is important to us Maori,” Ngaire had told me with a smile.<br />
<br />
The evening had passed quickly, a blur of smiling brown faces and hospitality. I loved the way they spoke, the lilting accent that ended every sentence on an upbeat. I suspected it was on purpose that Ngaire delegated me as babysitter for her granddaughter’s little girl, Aroha. “We’ll cook while you watch the little one,” she said, depositing the child in my arms. “She’s tired so just cradle her, and she’ll probably go to sleep.”<br />
<br />
I admit I hadn’t been all too happy to begin with. I knew nothing about babies and small children, and they scared me somewhat. I had leaned back in the armchair, shifting position until Aroha seemed comfortable.<br />
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“I like you,” she had said, reaching up and touching my auburn curls. “Your hair is pretty.” She entwined her fingers in a spiral and held it firmly until her eyes drooped and breathing slowed. Then her grip loosened and her hand fell onto my chest, splayed like a tiny starfish.<br />
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As I brushed the hair that little hand had clasped the night before, a new—unwanted—thought drifted through my mind. Lauren’s little one would be just a little older than Aroha. What kind of conversations would she and Lauren be having? Did she look like us, or more like Steve? The sudden yearning to see my sister’s child was intense, but I pushed it away as I made my way to the kitchen for my cup of chamomile tea.<br />
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“You ready to go girl?” Ngaire asked when the tea was finished. <br />
<br />
“Sure.”<br />
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“Take a jersey with you. The early morning breezes are fresh on the beach.”<br />
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We slipped out of the house and Ngaire led the way to a sandy path. “I often go down to the beach in the morning to pray,” she told me.<br />
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<strong>The Christmas Tree Treasure Hunt</strong></div>
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Grace takes delivery of a package and her life is turned upside down by nine sealed mystery envelopes from her late grandmother. Grammie’s instructions require Grace to take the journey of her lifetime, not only to far off places, but also into the deepest parts of her heart. As she follows the trail laid out for her and uncovers her family’s darkest secrets, Grace is forced to confront the loss and betrayal that has scarred her past and seek the greatest Christmas Treasure of all.</div>
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Read More:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9i5vOCo5erlB5EswwPfhMigWKYVbJxOAo7HNjzLGr3fzKQpAkXY2WbPtliRDEQSh9pXxmYqbN9olnd-TtaV9qgnoOFM5y_YXe7aN41Tpn8Gei3nSjoMKbX7iW71z01js8yLV6dtNGqhw/s1600/Christmas+Hunt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9i5vOCo5erlB5EswwPfhMigWKYVbJxOAo7HNjzLGr3fzKQpAkXY2WbPtliRDEQSh9pXxmYqbN9olnd-TtaV9qgnoOFM5y_YXe7aN41Tpn8Gei3nSjoMKbX7iW71z01js8yLV6dtNGqhw/s400/Christmas+Hunt.jpg" width="262" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://joancampbell.co.za/blog/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt-ch1-part1/" target="_blank">Chapter One by Joan Campbell</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.ruths-real-life.blogspot.co.nz/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt.html" target="_blank">Chapter Two by Ruth O'Neil</a></div>
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<a href="http://web.jamarx.net/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt-chapter-3-part-one/" target="_blank">Chapter Three by J.A. Marx</a></div>
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<a href="http://pixnpenspub.blogspot.co.nz/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt.html" target="_blank">Chapter Four by Deanna Klingel</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://marjilaine.com/2012/12/07/christmas-tree-treasure-hunt/" target="_blank">Chapter Five by MarjiLaine</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pixnpenspub.blogspot.co.nz/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt_10.html" target="_blank">Chapter Six by Sheryl Holmes</a><br />
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<a href="http://faylamb.com/ontheledge/2012/12/the-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt-2/" target="_blank">Chapter Seven by Fay Lamb</a><br />
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<br />
Learn more about this fun project at <a href="http://www.writeintegrity.blogspot.co.nz/2012/11/winner-of-christmas-tree-treasure-hunt.html" target="_blank">Write Integrity Press</a>.<br />
<br />Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-90576942019016339142012-12-05T14:20:00.002-08:002012-12-05T14:21:28.243-08:00Extract from New Kindle Book<br />
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<strong>Alluring Lists & The Bus Watcher</strong></div>
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Thanks for stoppying by to read a couple of extracts from my latest Kindle book. Alluring Lists & The Bus Watcher is just over 5000 words long so would be classed as a long short story.<br />
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Here's the blurb about it: A young girl’s life takes a downturn when she misses the bus to work one day. Afraid of getting into trouble with her employer, she picks up a bus timetable little knowing these will soon rule her life. Over the space of three years, her life spirals downwards into a cycle of lists, hoarding and obsessions. An intriguing short story that looks at OCD and how untreated obsessions and compulsions can destroy a life.<br />
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<strong>Extracts</strong><br />
There was a bus stop directly outside my cottage that serviced several routes, its shelter a gaunt skeleton of metal ribs and frosted glass. It was there that my love affair with buses started. The first weekend after Mrs Cooper’s rebuke, I jiggled Dad’s old recliner into position by the front window and for an hour sat watching the buses. I could see through the frilly white veil but no one could see in and I enjoyed being a secret observer; a mouse peeping from her hidey-hole.<br />
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The next weekend, I took my research a step further and started riding the buses. Timetable in hand and metro card in the other, I boarded the buses outside my home and rode the complete circuit. I carried notebook and pencil and scribbled notes to myself, working out which buses I could catch to work, noting where they stopped and how often, always following the route on the timetable. I needed to leave home between 7 and 7:15am and I had a choice of three buses during that time. Any one of them would deposit me within a block of the office.<br />
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By 2011, I was in deeper than I had thought possible. My life revolved around the buses and the view from my front window. I was compelled to record every movement, every minute detail. If I cooked, it was a matter of tossing a pie in the microwave. More often, I had takeout delivered to my door. I couldn’t leave my spot by the window for longer than a few minutes. The lists grew in number and size and I started boxing the old ones, stuffing pages in haphazardly and tossing them into my bedroom and the passage way. I still couldn’t part with them. They were vitally important to my well-being; hoards of information that was the focus of my life.<br />
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The buses stopped their circuits at midnight and that was when I would do my shopping. Squeaking down Bailey Street on my bicycle. Pedalling from one street lamp to the next, their cinnamon cones of light illuminating my way, never allowing darkness to shroud me. At the second corner, I would turn left by the broad oak and then right into the car park. The twenty-four hour sign flickered incessantly, reminding people they could shop anytime; luring in weary travellers and thirsty party goers. My basket contained only bread, milk and microwave meals. I would be home by 1am and if I had the energy, would put on a load of washing before collapsing into bed. It was easy to toss it in the drier when the alarm called me to rise.<br />
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<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Alluring-Lists-Bus-Watcher-ebook/dp/B00AGABNVY/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1354745416&sr=1-4" target="_blank">Alluring Lists & The Bus Watcher</a> is available through <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Alluring-Lists-Bus-Watcher-ebook/dp/B00AGABNVY/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1354745416&sr=1-4" target="_blank">Amazon.com</a> for ony 99 cents.<br />
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<br />Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-36865309772683727612012-11-07T10:59:00.001-08:002012-11-09T19:47:16.202-08:00The Grace Filled Christmas Blog Tour<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGcbAF54Qre9zLZYiWSBo2NTrzr3VBg587PfP2ZmH0gen74VYk-FL5MoZOKddvvhMg3vjU5_rA2c9hfvi0ISKllMdH2yElPEEV9qiKD3plJqWLh4kF4xn28pZil2CylHI7y6zmlpqDXQ/s1600/Contagious_Hope_FRONT_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGcbAF54Qre9zLZYiWSBo2NTrzr3VBg587PfP2ZmH0gen74VYk-FL5MoZOKddvvhMg3vjU5_rA2c9hfvi0ISKllMdH2yElPEEV9qiKD3plJqWLh4kF4xn28pZil2CylHI7y6zmlpqDXQ/s320/Contagious_Hope_FRONT_cover.jpg" width="197" /></a>I’m honoured to be a part of the Grace Filled Christmas Blog Tour of 2012. I’m featuring two of my books – and although these are not Christmas themed, they both carry the message of Christmas - that is hope, forgiveness and love.</div>
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Contagious Hope is my latest novel released in September 2012. It’s a romantic adventure set in three locations in South Africa and here’s the blurb on it: Savannah James, a young New Zealand therapist, volunteers for a six-week mission trip to South Africa. During her journey, she is confronted with AIDS, prostitution, murder, and even a midnight escape to a safe house. Her new friends have struggles of their own, and one may lead them into even more danger.</div>
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Will Savannah, Blake, and Pumzile ever be safe again? Will they ever be able to make a difference in the lives of those around them or will their final destination put an end to it all?<br />
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<a href="http://savannahmissiontrip.blogspot.co.nz/" target="_blank">Click here</a> to read Savannah’s Mission Blog.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZHHUOM3tNH-xz_vRlIJT8AvqKUZrgT2j4E0YemzafQvfvnqjtlJRHRpP2PAiYcst9B6vwDCkxeG5DYUbFX92QoWzjR0mgiPD5QkXUJTWCv3Ng9kaWSvE-iQxWcOxgbYQlAkyV1GfhdU4/s1600/Embracing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZHHUOM3tNH-xz_vRlIJT8AvqKUZrgT2j4E0YemzafQvfvnqjtlJRHRpP2PAiYcst9B6vwDCkxeG5DYUbFX92QoWzjR0mgiPD5QkXUJTWCv3Ng9kaWSvE-iQxWcOxgbYQlAkyV1GfhdU4/s320/Embracing.jpg" width="218" /></a>Embracing Change is an inspirational story of personal challenge. When Sarah Johnson’s fiancé is killed by a hijacker in South Africa, Sarah carries out his wish to continue with their plan and moves to New Zealand, taking his ashes to scatter there. In her grief she hasn’t counted on her gradual healing coming from two unexpected sources: Jesus Christ, and His new plan for her: Joel Baxter. But will Joel’s old flame, Mandy, succeed in destroying Sarah’s fragile progress in both her spiritual and earthly paths? And will she ever break free of the oppressive power still held over her by the hijacker who murdered her fiancé and attacked her, too? It takes a journey halfway back across the world for Sarah to face her demons, and finally forgive.</div>
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The Grace Filled Christmas Blog Tour runs through to December 22nd. Don’t forget to check out all the other authors on the tour. Below is a link telling you who all the authors on the tour are and what dates they will be on their own blog sharing about their novels.</div>
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<a href="http://graceawardsdotorg.wordpress.com/grace-filled-christmas-blog-tour-2012/" target="_blank">Grace Tour</a></div>
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Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-64031530038986128622012-04-23T13:23:00.001-07:002012-04-23T13:26:00.721-07:00Permission to FlyHave you ever seen a headline that grabbed your attention? Like<em> really</em> grabbed your attention? I saw one a couple of days ago that read ‘Permission to Fly’. The only problem was it was part of a video presentation and there was no way I could read the rest of the article. I tried to dismiss it but the words stayed with me, popping unbidden to mind, tantalising, provocative. Eventually I asked God what He was saying to me.<br />
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I was on a flight to Invercargill the next day when answers started flowing. I thought of a plane sitting on the runway. All the pre-flight checks had been completed and the control tower had cleared the pilot for takeoff. But he just sat there. He had permission to fly but he didn’t act on it.</div>
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I suddenly saw that I was in a similar place in my own life. Over the last 14 months, I have experienced an ongoing, intense, personal attack that left me wondering who I was, if there was anything good in me and if I had completely missed my calling in life. Intellectually I knew it was lies - but emotionally I was devastated.</div>
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God continued to speak while I was in the air on the way to Invercargill. I was reading a book that included a section about Joseph. He was falsely accused of sleeping with Potiphar’s wife and even though he had done nothing wrong, he was sent to jail for years. It was unfair and unjust but God used the experience to develop character in Joseph. <br />
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I realised that because of my situation, I’d withdrawn from life. I’d found it increasingly difficult to trust people and I’d built protective walls around myself. That was not where God wanted me. He had surrounded me with family and friends who loved me. He had brought myriad opportunities my way. He had given me permission to fly but I was still sitting on the runway.</div>
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My work in Invercargill took less than an hour and I had the day free to think and pray. I realised during this time that I needed to give myself permission to fly, permission to do things that I should have done a long time ago. I also realised that I’m not alone in this. Have a look at this list and see if there are any things you need to give yourself permission to do:</div>
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Permission to fly</div>
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Permission to cry </div>
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Permission to fail</div>
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Permission to succeed </div>
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Permission to move on </div>
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Permission to adapt </div>
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Permission to accept help <br />
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Permission to stand up for yourself <br />
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Permission to grow </div>
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Permission to dream </div>
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Permission to unleash your potential </div>
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Permission to let go </div>
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Permission to stop beating yourself up <br />
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Permission to forgive <br />
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Permission to say what you really mean <br />
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Permission to heal<br />
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The sense of freedom I experienced was amazing. I gave myself permission to be free of the shame and humiliation of the last year, permission to be who God has called me to be and to use my gifts accordingly, permission to open myself up to people again. I accepted what God was saying to me. “Debbie, you have permission to fly!”<br />
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I encourage you to look at your own lives, at areas where you have allowed others to diminish you, at areas where you’ve felt inferior, condemned or unworthy. Then create your own ‘permission list’ and take flight.<br />
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It was a simple headline – ‘Permission to Fly’ – but the message behind it was straight from God’s heart to mine. <br />
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<br />Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-84677636473722708962012-03-04T10:02:00.000-08:002012-03-04T10:03:28.956-08:00Trails of Sawdust<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Airborne drifts of sawdust swirled from the truck in front of me, bouncing off my windscreen, whirling like a wooden snowstorm. The sun had just set and the lights of vehicles behind me revealed that they too were enveloped in this trail of sawdust. The driver seemed oblivious to what was happening - or maybe he just didn’t care. The back of his vehicle was completely closed in and he probably assumed the wood was contained. I drove through flying wood chips for several kilometres until the truck turned off and I continued my journey home from the deep south of New Zealand. <br />
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When I got in my car the next morning, I noticed that bits of sawdust still clung to the windscreen and slivers of wood were lodged under the wiper blades. This was after travelling a further 200 kilometres past the truck.<br />
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There and then, God dropped a clear life lesson into my heart. We leak. This happens in the natural as we see in shows like CSI. Wherever we go we leave skin cells, saliva, sweat, tears, hairs, fingerprints. It’s almost impossible not to leave a bit of ourselves behind.<br />
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Then I realised that this shedding is not just physical. We may lock ourselves up emotionally and withdraw from others – but we still leak. Even without saying a word, we communicate attitudes and feelings to those around us. We make them feel loved and accepted, or despised and rejected. Indifference, hatred, admiration and encouragement can all be passed on without a word. It was a wake-up call as I realised anew how my life affects those I come into contact with – and how that effect may still be visible days, months or years later. <br />
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I think often of that trail of sawdust and pray that God help me to live carefully and choose life. I ask that the trail I leave behind will be one of mercy, grace and peace. That love, acceptance and joy will cling to those I pass in daily life. <br />
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<em>Be very careful, then, how you live — not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil.</em> <br />
Ephesians 5:15-16 (NIV)<br />
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<br />Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-3580545749340668152011-12-30T01:53:00.000-08:002011-12-30T01:53:04.594-08:00And the Earth Shook AgainIt’s a week since the 5.85 and 6.0 aftershocks that rudely shook Christchurch on the 23rd December. Kevin and I were having lunch at a restaurant at a mall when the first one struck and the moment is clearly etched in my mind. The gradual shaking, the acceleration and rocking, the fear that it was going to be another massive one. <br />
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The young waitresses were distraught and clung together crying as diners looked at each other in shocked disbelief. Another big quake – and just before Christmas. <em>How unfair! How awful!</em><br />
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Trained by past experience, people started to evacuate the mall and crowds streamed past. Car sirens shrieked and faces reflected dismay. For me it was one of my lowest points since the first earthquake in September 2010. Things had been relatively calm for a few weeks and I couldn’t believe the earth was heaving again.</div>
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The restaurant staff kindly packed my meal into a container and Kevin and I left as the ground continued to shake with repeated aftershocks. Back home we turned on the TV and watched the breaking news. All the malls were closed, traffic was gridlocked in places, liquefaction and flooding had affected certain areas, cliff faces had collapsed further and the airport was closed.</div>
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I turned to Kevin. “Jason and Erin are supposed to fly in tonight for Christmas. I hope they aren’t delayed too much.” Erin told me later she burst into tears when she heard their rescheduled flight was for 9pm on Christmas night. Fortunately, they later managed got on a flight at 6pm on Christmas Eve.</div>
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It no longer felt like Christmas. I was sad for the retailers who lost out on one of the best shopping days of the year. I was sad for the people who once again faced clearing silt from their properties. I was sad that our own family plans were disrupted.<br />
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And then God spoke to me. I had a choice and it was up to me whether I had a good Christmas. I got up the next morning and went back to the mall to finish what I needed to do. The day was punctuated with shakes but I chose to focus on God. The circumstances were dismal ... but He was not. It made all the difference and Christmas Day turned out to be a lovely time of family and fun.<br />
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A week later, our world is still rattling and rolling. A 4.3 set the Christmas tree bouncing last night and another 4.3 woke me early this morning! From past experience I know these are set to continue for a while. As 2012 approaches, my prayer is that God will continue to help me focus on the positive and not on what is happening around me. It’s wonderful knowing the peace He gives in the midst of turmoil!</div>
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<em>God is our refuge and strength, </em></div>
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<em>an ever-present help in trouble. </em></div>
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<em>Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way </em></div>
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<em>and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, </em><br />
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<em>though its waters roar and foam </em></div>
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<em>and the mountains quake with their surging</em></div>
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<em>Psalm 46:1-3</em><br />
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<br />Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2208807557687006368.post-24629519113916820172011-12-11T02:09:00.001-08:002011-12-11T02:16:59.649-08:00The Bright Pink Torch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<strong>A Story of Hope for Christchurch</strong><br />
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Katy had a bright pink torch that she loved with all her heart. It was a birthday present from her granny and still looked as new as the day she got it. That was surprising because she used it all the time. Sometimes she wiggled under her bed and pretended she was in a cave full of aliens. Other times she flashed signals to her friend Melissa who lived next door. When they had the big earthquake, Dad couldn’t find his torch and used hers to check the house and garden.<br />
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“Katy!” Dad called. “Come and see this!”<br />
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She scrambled upstairs, wondering what Daddy wanted to show her.<br />
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“Look out the window, Katy.” <br />
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It was dark outside and thick clouds hid the stars from view. Katy snuggled on the seat next to Dad and as she watched, bright beams of light bounced across the sky. “Wow! That’s so cool! Where’s the light coming from?”<br />
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“It’s from the centre of town where all the damaged buildings are. There’s no power in the city so the council have set up these lights to shine hope into the darkness.”<br />
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Katy was silent for a moment. “They must have giant torches to shine that brightly.”</div>
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“I’m sure they do.” Dad smiled as he tugged one of Katy’s pigtails. “Can you think of another light of hope, Katy?”</div>
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Katy put her head on one side. It was a few days before Christmas and she guessed what Dad was thinking about. “The star over the stable in Bethlehem,” she said.</div>
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“That’s right, sweetheart”</div>
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“Why was the star a light of hope, Daddy?”</div>
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“It led the wise men to baby Jesus – and he came to die in our place and save us from our sins.”</div>
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The next day Katy went down to the church with Dad. “What are you doing here?” she asked.</div>
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“We’re packing food parcels for people who don’t have as much as us.”</div>
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Katy listened to the adults chatter as she played with her torch. She’d piled up some packing boxes to make a tunnel and pretended she was a spy on a secret mission. “Keep still,” she whispered to her pretend friend. “We need to hear what’s happening out there.” She flashed a few signals with her torch while peeping through a crack in the boxes.</div>
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“That’s the last one,” Dad said as he placed a gaily wrapped parcel on top of a frozen turkey, Christmas pudding and packets of food.</div>
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“This one doesn’t have a gift,” called a lady.</div>
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“Who’s it for?” Dad asked.</div>
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“Old Mrs Wilson.”</div>
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Katy knew who Mrs Wilson was. She was bent like a comma and walked with a silver stick. No one liked her grumpy ways and she often shooed children out of her path. </div>
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“I don’t know how that happened,” Dad was saying. “We double-checked our numbers.”</div>
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“We’ll have to put it aside and get a gift later.”</div>
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“But the turkey will defrost,” another lady chipped in.</div>
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The adults’ voices faded as Katy thought about Mrs Wilson. She had been to her house once and hated it. It was surrounded by ugly old trees and was cold and dark inside. She was sure Mrs Wilson didn’t know about the lights of hope, otherwise she wouldn’t be so bad-tempered. If she could see the city lights ... and if she understood the star that shone over Bethlehem, she would smile and be happy.</div>
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A thought crept into Katy’s heart and she didn’t like it. But the more she tried to push it away, the bigger it got.</div>
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“What is it Katy?” Dad asked distractedly as she tapped his arm.</div>
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“I heard you talking about a Christmas present for Mrs Wilson.” She tried to stop the quiver in her voice. “I want to give her my torch.”</div>
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Dad stopped what he was doing and looked at Katy. “But sweetheart, you love your torch.”</div>
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“I know but I think Mrs Wilson needs it more than I do. She can’t see the hope lights from her house and she never smiles.”</div>
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On Christmas Day Katy was walking out of church when she saw Mrs Wilson hobbling towards her. “Katy! Katy, dear!”</div>
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Katy stopped as the old lady caught up with her. To her surprise, tears were running down the old woman’s cheeks - but she was smiling through them. </div>
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“I want to thank you for the torch, Katy. Your father told me the whole story – and it’s the best gift anyone ever gave me.” She reached out a bony arm and pulled Katy into a hug. “God bless you child.”</div>
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Katy hugged her back, a big bubble of joy bursting up from inside. She missed her torch but God had used her gift to shine hope into an old lady’s heart. For her, that was more important than any game she could play. She lifted her face heavenwards and whispered two words. “Thank you.” </div>
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<br /></div>Debbie Roomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07109006003177428376noreply@blogger.com1