Where did all the young men go...?

That is what the song asked about all the young men sent to Flander's Fields in the First World War.

From the excellent blog: http://hans-david.blogspot.com/2011/01/thou-shalt-not-kill.html

At the moment I am sitting in my house, waiting for the time to walk over to our church building, to conduct a funeral service for yet another young man.  And as I sat here, the news came in of yet another death. This morning at 04h00 a young man of 36 came back home after a farewell party. Somehow a car has driven over him and his motorcycle.

The memorial service I am conducting in 45 min time is for a young man, who has experienced severe fever two weekends ago. He was taken to hospital, and a bacterial infection was detected in his blood stream. He was healing quite beautifully. But this young man has suffered from epilepsy since youth. He had three extreme (Grand Mal) seizures, each one stopping his heart from beating. The last time it was fatal. He was just 18 years old.

Two weeks ago my son attended a birthday party at a school. While the 16 year olds were enjoying themselves, a young man of 19 also entered the premises. He had a drink to many, and jumped into the swimming pools shallow end, breaking his neck. Nobody noticed immediately, and paralyzed- he drowned in front of them. The children tried to get him out of the water and applied first aid till the ambulance arrived, but it was in vain.

We are living in a relatively small town in South Africa. At the moment the whole country is focusing on a High Court case involving the death of yet another of our young men, murdered by his stepfather, who also hired three Zimbabweans to rape the boys mother- his estranged wife. You can Google the Modimolle Monster to read more.

As a pastor in this community, all this death and hurt of people affects me deeply. It is extremely hard, like this morning, to bring messages of love, hope and peace in times like these. It is difficult living in a dangerous society where more young men are dying unnaturally than would be the case if we were a nation at war.

And yet- this is where the light of the world is needed most. This is where we are called to make a difference.  This is where we must love, where we must give compassion, where we must mourn with those who are mourning. It is just so hard to do sometimes...
    

#6 The Calling to Ministry

My friends sometimes wonder why on earth did I become a pastor.

After the CSM camp I had a real struggle in Grade 10/ Standard 8. My time in high school were running out fast.  I had to start planning my career.  When I was younger I thought I would love to make lots of money. So I decided to join the church.... (joke! :-) )  I  thought at first to study to become an accountant, but then- my results in Accounting were not that good. I also thought about becoming a lawyer, but I thought I was too honest for that job...  (Sorry Petra!)

I have a good friend and classmate, Roché Vermaak, who were also in our congregation.  Between us we had quite a good knowledge of the Bible. One day our pastor asked us what we wanted to do with our lives. And then he dropped the bomb- he thought that we would be good candidates for ministry.  I could easily see Roché as a pastor. He had these fantastic academic results, and was always well spoken in front of people. And yes- he became a good pastor, he is now in the Brentwood Presbyterian Church in California- the Lord even blessed him with a wife who is also a pastor. I imagine they speak in Ancient Greek in the bedroom...

But me- a pastor? No ways! I was extremely shy and introverted. I had that Moses complex- I can't speak in front of people!  And 6 years of University study at the Angel Factory!  That is quite a long time!  And to learn Ancient Greek and Hebrew- way above my head...  I had lots and lots of excuses why the Lord had about 5 billion better suited candidates for the job.  I often still feel like that!

But one evening I was reading my Bible. And suddenly Paul's words in 1 Corinthians 2:1-5  was as if spoken to me personally. If somebody as clever and awesome as Paul of Tarsis said he was not relying on big words and great learning (Good News Bible) If he said he was weak and trembling all over with fear and his teaching was not delivered with skilful words of human wisdom- then MAYBE, just maybe the Lord could do something with my life as well. But then God had to deliver verse 4- I needed the convincing power of the Spirit of God. (still do!)  People's faith would not be built on my words, but on God's Power.
And so I said yes to the calling to ministry. With the understanding that I will preach Jesus Christ, the risen Lord, as my foundation.

My friend Roché moved away from our home town, and he studied at another university, it would be years before we saw each other again. And I wish we could have a nice time to visit each other again.
I went to the University of the Orange Free State in Bloemfontein, in the centre of South Africa.
Wow- what a journey- especially the Greek and Hebrew- it really, really floored me! I remember this one test in Hebrew- I studied for days on end, and finally scored 11%
I did finish my Theological Studies in 6 years time, through a lot of grace, not always based on hard work...

It was a long, long time to be busy with studies. And it really stretched my faith, sometimes to near breaking point. Subjects like Text Critique was really tough. The debates even then- the Old Testament prof saying academically there is no person as the devil visible in the Old Testament, and it is a far stretch to see any OT texts dealing specifically with the prophesies of Jesus Christ coming in the fullness of time as the Messiah...

Somehow I came back to the point were it is necessary to believe like a child.  I still do not have a clue what I am doing in Ministry, but somehow God sometimes touches people's lives in spite of me...

I have now been 20 years in full time ministry- the time a Roman soldier were in the Army...
This is the halfway point of my career, speaking of the retirement age of 65 in our church.
I still have so much to learn, things to do, being there for people in need..

Still following in Jesus' footsteps in my own unique way while trying to lead others...

[I have written this after the 5th funeral in 3 weeks time, to try and remember why I am still here...]

#5 A fire on the beach- a fire in the heart...

I grew up in a church- going family. In our family there are two lines of belief: christian or agnostics.  At school I was really interested in Bible stories, as I were always wondering what the meaning of life was supposed to be. And Douglas Adams' answer of 42 did not do it for me... (Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy- a favourite book of mine, by the way!)  I was religious, but did not  have a relationship with Jesus yet. My faith could be described as a set of rules- don't drink, smoke, sleep around, dance...  And so it went on till I was 16- in South Africa's Standard 8- (Grade 10 today)

The Christian Student Movement had camps during holiday times at Winklespruit near Durban, South Africa. These camps usually were about 5 days long, at a camping site next to the beach.  As a young boy, living far from the beach, it was wonderful to go to these camps, swimming in the sea, playing volleball and beach cricket, meeting friends from all over the Natal Province of South Africa. 

Every day also had some spiritual sessions. One of the highlights on these camps was the last evening. Then all the counsellors prepared a very special journey on the beach.  We went walking on the beach in the dark, each one carrying a kerosene torch... the beach is quite a stretch, and then it makes a bend. Around the bend there stood a burning cross on the beach. Now in South Africa a burning cross does not have the KKK connection as in the USA, it is not a racist symbol here at all. In fact, the message was that the cross of Jesus became a shining light in the darkness. As we gathered around the cross, we quietly sat down. The pastor leading the camp reasd from Luke 15- the story of the Prodigal Son.  He told us of the Fatherheart of God, and of the life in abundance which flowed from a personal relationship with Jesus. And then he invited us to commit our lives to Jesus as Lord and King. That evening of 3 October 1983 I said yes to Jesus.  And a new journey began. It was quite a bumpy ride so far. But even if I sometimes doubt a lot of things, I am sure about the foundation of my life. Even if I do not understand everything, I know this: we were made as social creatures- we need relationships in our lives.

My personal experience is that it makes sense to me that the God who created heaven and earth, wants to be a Heavenly Father to me.  My belief is that Jesus came to show me the way, to sacrifice Himself to give me a new life.  And I believe that the Holy Spirit is busy reforming my life to be more and more a vessel of God's love to others.
As I experience God in my life, I am also sure that Jesus'commandment to love one another (John 15 to name just one example) is still the best way of life on earth. If everybody loved one another, this world would already feel like a piece of heaven. 
Relationships became the most important thing in my life, with God, family and friends. I find the greatest joy in relationships. And in my life- the things that hurts the most is broken relationships...

So if you read this to understand me a little better, this is one of the crucial moments in my life. I may be one of God's more uncertain children- a doubting Thomas if you like. But this I know- Jesus died and rose for me.  He has given me a new life.  I still have a very hard time living a holy life. I grew up in an industrial town, and really have a hard time to not use swear words. I  still have a hard time trusting the Lord in financial matters. My faith is sometimes weak, and I really get upset about the level of commitment in His church.  But Jesus has never let me down. I trust in Him, even if it sometimes still feels like a small trust- like the mustard seed...

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Picture found on the internet- I just can't see the blog's name anywhere to give credit where credit is due- so sorry if it is your picture!
That time in my life I did not have a camera to take a picture, the picture of the burning cross is in my heart...

#4- My glamorous life as a Sport hero in High School

Photo: http://www.martinjdougherty.co.uk/fencing.html

Growing up in South Africa, as an Afrikaner,  there was just one measure of a man's worth: How good are you at rugby? If you are a talented star, you would automatically be rated as a man's man, a born leader, hot stuff. You had it made socially.

Enter me on stage left, stumbling and falling flat on my face in front of everybody. This is my confession, finally, it must come out so that I can go on with my life. This burden must be unloaded,  And this is my confession, forgive me father for I have sinned grieviously... I suck at rugby!  I had the distinct honor since entering primary school: I usually was the slowest runner of a 100 meters in my age group. Or second last, My 100 meter times would be favourably compared with other's 800 meter times, and still they would win. That automatically disqualified me from the backline. But I was also one of the smallest guys around, and not that strong, so there goes my glory in the scrum.  When we played at breaks in schooltime, everybody lined up. And then the two best players started picking their teams for playing touch rugby. And every single time I was left standing alone- no one wanted me in their team. So from a young age I chose rather to go to the library during breaks, find an interesting book or two, and read till the bell rang again.

As I entered Secondary School, a new world opened up for me.  Growing up in Natal, suddenly there were more types of Sport available than in the other provinces. We had a lady teacher who was a Springbok fencer. And that sounded romantic: being a swordfighter like the heroes in the story books.  I was hooked.  And I really enjoyed fencing. The history of the sport. The difference between the foil, the epee, and the sabre. The balance needed, one arm behind you, feet never crossing... Although being slow and not so strong, I did have good hand-eye coordination.  My hands could move quickly, I instinctively were good at the parry and reposte. And at age 14 and 15 I really enjoyed the competition, sometimes even fencing at competition level with university students, and sometimes, just sometimes, beating one of them! This was such a good experience in my life!

And then, I made one of my most stupid decisions in my life. I left the sport. At age 16 it really got to me that I had such a hard time making friends. I did not experience being acceptable in my class, and thought if I just started playing rugby, I would be part of a team, Maybe, just maybe, I would make it into the coveted social groups. And so started my mostly undistinguished career as hooker or prop for the school's Third team, just because there was not enough boys to make up a fourth team. There was this one day when I had to play for the second team because their one prop was MIA. And that was the summit of my rugby career, There I stayed, often wondering about my father, who has played in his school's firsr team, and who was a good gymnast.

There was one other light in my sporting career. Somebody gave me a horse. A real life horse,  The steel corporation where my father worked, had an Equestrian farm outside the town. And I got to keep this horse there. The sport discipline both me and my horse were suited for, were gymkhana (other countries calls it Tentpegging). Another military sport concerning swords and lances. Also in this sport I really found great joy. This I could do to the best of my ability. It was so good for me!  But finishing school, going off to university, I had to sell my horse, It would be more than 10 years before I rode again, and the first time, a one-eyed Arabian mare had a scare, sidestepped for a running rabbit, and I went flying.  At school a horse had a hard time throwing me- and now I really went ballistic- fell hard, and tore a muscle in my back- there is still a knot in that muscle another 10 years later on.

The sad fact is: there is not one photo of me fencing in existence.  I will find a gymhana photo and update- here is an example- not me...

http://paisleycurtain.blogspot.com/2011/06/tent-pegging.html

 So this was me at high school: never being able to perform in team sports made me quite a loner. I did better in sports involving weapons like swords and lances, and never did any good in any ball related sport.  The sports I did take part in was usually related to the English speaking community. Being Afrikaans, that made me feel an outsider to the English community, and not being good in rugby made me feel an outsider to the Afrikaans community.  That was why I did so many kilometres alone on my motorcycles, dear High school friends at Schoolfeed.  I always felt alone at school, never completely fitting in anywhere.  That was why I spent so much time reading in the school's bib.

Sometimes it really gets to me- not being able to be a good sportsman myself, Maybe that is why I am trying so hard to reach 21 consecutive medals in the Pick 'n Pay Argus Cycle Tour, I am now standing on 18! Not fast, but completed every one since 1995.   I am not a good athlete. But I really love the concept of sport. I am a big follower of rugby, cricket, tennis, cycling, Moto GP, F1, and most Olympic Sports- I regularly use sport metaphors in my sermons as a pastor.  I appreciate good Sportmanship- the sweat, guts and determination needed to reach the goal.

I am not a good player, but an excellent supporter.

#3 A Biker is Born

I grew up in a big, industrial town, where a thriving motorcycle fanatics culture resided. From a very young age I noticed the bigger guys and girls on their 50 cc motorcycles. And from a very young age that image stirred the longing for freedom in my heart.

There was just one major problem in this dream. My mother was a theatre sister- and she saw all the people who's longing for freedom ended on the operating table.  So her response was: "Over my dead body will you ever ride a motorcycle..."  Fortunately, she is still alive.

When I went to high school a friend of the family made a huge mistake. He had this Yamaha Chappy 80cc which were just standing idle in his garage. A motionless Bike eats batteries!   A motorcycle really needs to feel appreciated, by spending some time with it, otherwise it dies a sad, sorry death.  So- this friend decided that I would have some time to spend with his little bike. And on that Chappy with it's 4 gears I learned to ride a motorcycle. Yes, I did fall many times, being ever so ambitious to become the best motorcyclist in town.  But the Chappy was very forgiving, never ever breaking anything expensive... but I totally became hooked.

Mom still said: Over my dead body. Dad said grumpily: buy it yourself!  So I took the challenge of Dad more seriously. I started to look for any jobs for a Standard 6 guy (Grade 8). I started delivering newspapers in the morning before school. In the Natal winter, being under freezing point, that was fun!  I delvered magazines like Die Huisgenoot on a Thursday. I delivered the free local newspaper, about 150 copies, each Friday. I did temp work at the till of the local Spar. And little by little my bank balance grew...

At the end of my standard 7 year, I was more than halfway to a brand new 50 cc. But what to buy? That was some epic mindsearching!  The other High School in town were leaning towards Suzuki- the RG 50.  In the third High School they liked the limegreen Kawasaki. And in our High School you would find some of each major Japanese brand, but mainly we were Honda or Yamaha fans...

In the High School, there were naturally also various subgroups. And the people I admired, (but never got the chance to be accepted in their midst :-(  ) were Honda people. Our local pastor were a small man, riding big Honda CB's - I think the 9oo F. And his sons were on MB 5's.  I Tried to be the pastor's son' s friend, unsuccessfully.  But he brainwashed me into believing that Honda is the only brand of motorcycle worth being on this planet.

The next question at the end of 1982 was: which Honda? Many of the guys were on Honda MB 5's. The Bobcat. Other were on the little scrambler- the MT 5.  But the new generation was coming out- the MBX was supposedly much faster AND watercooled! And with that also came out the MTX 50. Much bigger than the MT, and as I reasoned- Honda is THE best, so this new MTX would be a much faster bike than the famous Yamaha DT 50.  I approached my dad, he made a small loan, and I became, as far as I know, the first owner of a 1982 Honda MTX 50- brand new.  I paid R990 for it at Hannes Strijdom's father- who owned the Toyota and Honda dealership in our town.

My Honda MTX 50- 1983

This is a classical Honda look, continued in the bigger XT range of scramblers as well. I was so proud of being the owner of this motorcycle. But in the first week I found out: it is MUCH slower than the Yamaha DT, or the Suzuki! It could not even approach the MB 5's in speed!  I bought the wrong bike!

It could only reach a top spead of 80 kph.  But still- it gave me a sense of freedom that just was not possible on a bicycle! I continued the newspaper route: for buying fuel and tires!  On this bike I did over 30 000 km in just 24 months! I practically lived on it!  And where I had a hard time to connect to friends, even harder making an impression on the ladies, I had the freedom of my bike: If you don't own wings you'll never fly, the ad said. It was true: This bike became my best friend, my girlfriend, my travel companion in life.

Yes, I did fall of it a lot! I tried my best to go as fast through the corners as possible. MOTO GP on a set of knobblies!  I once went through the back window of a ladies' Corolla- thinking about an exam in stead of being alert to the road in front of me...

I had such good times with my bike, but, it being the slowest of the slow, I never had the chance to be part of a group.
I had this bike till halfway through matric.  I never ever could be honestly described as a technical person. I plainly did not remember to change the oil as often as I later found out bikes should be serviced.  And one day the engine had enough abuse.  It just seized.

In our town, there was a big steel factory. And the workers of the factory could only ride in to their workplaces on a bicycle, and on 50 cc motorbikes, no bigger engines were allowed. So secondhand 50's was in big demand. As such I sold my broken down bike for R 360 as is to an appy at Iscor.

But I was not without a bike for long... but that is another day's story.

Cleaning up after a long muddy dirt road-  about 1984

The love for motorcycles is as part of me as my personal faith. I probably will always have a soft spot for dualer motorcycles  as well, giving me the freedom to sometimes go to the roads less travelled!

#2 A little bit about me...

As Austin Powers said: "Let myself introduce... hmm...myself..."

I was born in Pretoria a long, long time ago, while the Dead Sea was still sick...
I am the eldest of three children, the two in this photo still in this world. This is me and my sister at an aunt's wedding, the photos being taken at the Union Building- the Prime Minister's office of old South Africa, and at the moment President Zuma's office.

We grew up in the then new suburb of Monumentpark, Pretoria, overlooking the Voortrekker monument, another controversial monument in South Africa. My father worked at Iscor- South Africa's steel industr, And my mother at this time was a sister at a Maternity hospital- helping new people arriving on planet Earth...
Our suburb was at the foot of the Waterkloof Air Force base,where many of South Africa's fighter jets were based. As schoolboys we were all very interested in anything Air Force, and we could recognize the different planes by sound alone- the Mirage F1 was our favourite as- in our eyes-  the fastest and most dangerous fighter jet in the whole wide world. Growing up in South Africa meant we didn't have a clue how big that whole wide world actually is. The Mirage F1 had a different sound from the older F 3. The most common plane we saw coming over were the Impala-  made by Airmacchi in Italy.  As little boys we also knew the sound of the Buccaneer bomber with it's off-centre canopy. And sometimes they started the old museum pieces as well- the Sabre- which our 2nd Squadron took part in the Korea war with as part of the Allied Forces. The whisling sound of the old Vampire- these sounds we knew well.  We were not that interested in the Airforce's helicopters- they were just not that interesting in our eyes as being too slow to do anything exciting... But we knew the difference between the French Aluette, Puma and Super Frelon choppers coming over.
I have a great love for flying, and really enjoys any movies about flying to this day- Top Gun! Amelia, Iron Eagle- all those flying movies rated high on my must see list.  To this day I am actually sad that I never believed enough in that dream to become a pilot. And to this day I never miss a chance to hop onto an airplane if I can get the opertunity to fly along...

I lived in Pretoria from birth to the age of nine, when life took a few nasty turns, and I ended up in the cold cold town of Bethlehem in the Orange Free State for two years... Skipping right along...

At the age of eleven we moved to the coal mining and steel producing town of Newcastle in Natal, the Last Frontier of the British Empire. Quite nearby was various battlefields from South Africa's different wars. Between Newcastle and Volksrust is the mountain of Amajuba, where the Boer Forces won a major victory against the British Empire in the First English War (1880's) Some people still do not want to call it the Anglo Boer War, because, they say- we didn't start it.  As schoolboy I climbed Amajuba several times, following the different forces' route up. At the top is a remembrance plaque which marks the spot where the upcoming star of the British Army, General George Pomeroy Colley, was shot and killed. He made the classical error of underestimating his opponents. In our town, very close to our home, was the old british Fort Amiel. There we went and played archeologist, digging up old bottles and buttons from the English forces staying there.  Also not too far away is the old battlefield of Bloodriver, which was a major piece of Afrikaner history from the Groot Trek. And a little bit further the battlefields of Isandlwana and Rorke's Drift, where the British took on the Zulus, and where the most Victoria crosses in history were awarded for a single battle...
Growing up as an Afrikaans boy in Natal was quite a war in itself, being one of the provinces where English speaking and Afrikaans speaking children grew up in the same school/  And we fought the Anglo Boer Wars over again- we thought we hated each other. Sometimes the fists would fly around during the breaks at school. South Africa was, and still is, quite a divided place to stay.  I really loved history from very young age, and it was only at university where we actually became aware that our country is regarded as one of the skunk nations of the world.  That time we had our own versions of history, being God's chosen people like Israel of old. Local history will always be tainted in South Africa, we white people had our version of it, and now there is the version of the Struggle, and the Other Side being taught at our schools. I really hope that in my lifetime there will come a time where all South Africans can share Our History, forgive the wrongs of the past, and work together to build a better future for our children. Because we live in a very special place, a country of such magnificent natural beauty and cultural difference... but as little boys we knew so little of what is going on around us.

Do I still hate the British? No- my sister on the photo lives in England and is a UK citizen... And I had the opertunity to visit the UK several times- I really love the Lake Distrct and Scotland, but that is another story,,, 

And that, I think, is enough for one day, now I want to see why the Tour de France riders is experiencing so much flat tires today...

#1 Buen Camino!

Hi there, thanks for finding my new blog!  I am the owner of two other blogs, but they are written in Afrikaans.  For a long time I pondered the situation, but now I just started to discover the joy of Twitter. I am also finding new friends who do not understand the heavenly language of Afrikaans, normally the first language given in any list of languages on any computer program.

So here goes- a blog in English. But please remember, it is a second language, and it is not normally spoken in the Bushveld region of South Africa- it could be regarded as a totally foreign language around here. So please excuse all spelling mistakes, mixed up tenses, and general mistakes in the way a sentence should be put together.

A little bit about me:

I am a pastor of the Dutch Reformed Church, residing in the town of Nylstroom in the South African province of Limpopo. It can be found on a map about 130 km north of Pretoria.
I am happily married, and the father of 4 kids.

The title for this blog is stolen from John Bunyan- whose copy right fortunately expired 50 years after he expired.  Yes, I am a pilgrim.  This is meant in the Christian way- where both Peter and Paul said we are pilgrims in this world, traveling through. Also in the Old Testament we find the metaphor of pilgrimage to the worship of God in the temple in Jerusalem.

Life is a journey, both the Bible and Nissan South Africa advertises.  We are not there yet. But the journey is just as important as the destination.
So in this blog I intend to share some of the moments along the way of my journey as Christian, as pastor, as husband and father, as a Biker and a cyclist.

Yes, I also have another claim to the title Pilgrim- I completed a portion of 317 km of the Camino de Santiago in June 2011, and received my Campostelo.  The photos can be followed in my Afrikaans blog at ewaldschmidt@blogspot.com, at the CAmino de Santiago link on the right side of the post.  The photo above is a picture taken by autotimer alongside the river at Villafranca del Bierzo last year.

Thanks for visiting here, come again soon!

Ewald