Photo: A fair portrayal of life at University; I’m dressed in black.
This book is dedicated to my wife, Kathy, in deepest gratitude and respect, for sharing with me your life. If I had but a penny each time you’ve filled my horizon with your loveliness, I’d be a very rich man indeed. Which, I guess, means that I am.
“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”
I Corinthians 13v13.
Preface.
This is a testimony to God’s goodness, written in simple honest terms, much in the way that I speak, but without my Yorkshire accent. My conscience is my guide; and as for the truth of it, well the whole point of testimony is that it can easily be put to the test. For example, it takes me five minutes to bring together, weigh, measure and decant the ingredients required to make a loaf into the hopper of my trusty bread-maker; everyone should have one. Four hours later, I have a perfect loaf of bread. It always tastes fantastic. The proof of any pudding is in the eating. So it is with God. He likes it that way; and his reference to wine, bread, milk and honey is not accidental.
“Taste and see, the Lord is good.” 1
I have tasted and I can confirm that everything about him is good. He abounds in love and grace towards us and he wants to bless us.2 He calls it Covenant or Promise3, and just as with Abraham and David, Paul and John, that means experiencing God’s presence, his angelic protection and the miraculous, today.4 I have had my share of all three. Were it not the case, I’d be dead, plain and simple. He’s rescued me at the point of no return so many times. Not only that; I was an avid God-hater and yet He delivered me spectacularly from the mire. I am born-again, like Paul abnormally, so my faith is not based on belief alone, but on the very firmest of foundations, which is Jesus Christ the Lord, Himself. When you read my testimony, you’ll see why.
Jesus said that he wouldn’t leave us as orphans, and he’s nothing if not true to his word; he’s called the Word and he hasn’t stopped speaking. There’s a thought! He’s also called the Good Shepherd, and he hasn’t stopped caring for the sheep, not one of them. Once upon a time, I thought that meant I was invincible. I was strong, limber and healthy, ran a large practice, dug four allotments and more, fished, hiked, cycled and made furniture at my leisure. I’d happily take on all comers and stand steadfast in the gap for my patients. Then in 2007, my whole world fell in. I became seriously ill and I learned what it’s like to truly suffer. The boot was suddenly on the other foot, but whose? All I knew was that I was about to be tested in the hottest of fires for the duration, whether days, weeks, months or years, when at my lowest ebb and least up to fighting it. Where was God when I needed him most? That fiery furnace was nothing short of agonising, like having an exploratory operation without the anaesthetic for an open and close case. The ‘cords of death’, described in Psalm 18, entangled me and there was no escaping their vicelike grip; and long before I read Job, I felt the soles of my feet had been marked - interesting analogy. If you’ve ever faced death, you will know exactly what I mean.
“You fasten my feet in shackles; you keep close watch on all my paths by putting marks on my feet. So man wastes away like something rotten, like a garment eaten by moths.”
Job 13v27-28.
Well, my life certainly unravelled in a matter of days, and I fully expected to die at any moment. Then, along with some of the Psalms, I started reading Job; and in my despair and discomfort, I found a soulmate. So, in a bizarre twist of fate, Job became my comforter. I like Job a lot.
As I sit here at my desk typing, I don’t know quite where this book is going, but I do trust that it will end well. I’ve been pregnant with it for well over twelve months, putting off the hour. Last week, as I tried to sleep and sleep wouldn’t come, I asked the Lord one question:
“OK, what is it you want me to do?”
I heard him say, as clear as day:
“Read one John chapter one, verse four.’
So I did.
“We write this to make our joy complete.”
It’s begun. Joy is the stuff of Life, even in adversity. In the kitchen, at this very moment, I can hear the bread machine kneading a new loaf. It smells good already. Unsurprisingly, God likes the making of bread. It is of especial significance. He is the Bread of Life:
“And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.’”
Luke 22v19.
“I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty.”
John 6v35.
Five simple ingredients, the number of grace: flour, salt, sugar, butter, water; and of course, yeast (the sin bit) to prove it. Are you feeling hungry? There’s a feast prepared just for you.
I’ve decided to create this endeavour in two halves:
Part one, I’ve called ‘So, Help Me God’ as I was given this title years ago; it’s not a plagiarism, I promise you. I’ve subtitled this account, ‘Special Delivery’. It is my testimony, and relates how a dyed-in-the-wool, God-hating atheist (how can you possibly hate someone you don’t believe in?) came to know and love him well, back in the 70’s, and the miracles and the promises that happened, not by chance, along the way. It is proof-positive that God not only has a plan for our lives and that he radiates love in its truest and fullest sense, but that his detractors are wrong. In today’s hotchpotch, atheistic society, where anything goes, people are in desperate need to know that Jesus is the way, the truth and the life; that sin is real and that the punishment for sin has been paid for in full on the cross.
Part two is entitled ‘The Testimony of Jesus is the Spirit of Prophecy’, and provides a glimpse into my own relationship and walk with God, short illustrations that have become so interwoven into the fabric of my life that they constitute a very real and constant reminder that Jesus has been a faithful helper and friend to me, through thick and thin. In effect, this is my own personal archived pocket-guide to faith-based Christian-living, by experience. Experiencing biblical truth is everything. It’s what’s rooted me to the spot on many an occasion, and whilst not remotely exhaustive, this is a collection of fascinating encounters in real-life situations: God on the coalface, if you will. The Bible, the inerrant word of God, acts as my failsafe guide. As time goes by, I may add to this section, as and when my own experiences on the coalface expand. The Bible is called the ‘Living Word’ for just that reason and the Spirit speaks in every season of our lives. In this section, I will, at some point, be addressing suffering; that will be the hardest to write, revisiting that season of pain. Without wanting to steal any of the thunder, let me say here and now that I wasn’t afraid of dying. It was getting there that was killing me most.
A word about the main title - why have I chosen to call this testimonial “So, Help Me God”? Several reasons:
Firstly, I think that is what the Lord wants it to be called, and also because it is true (I once had to make this very same oath, right-hand on a small bible, when appearing as an expert witness in court).
Secondly, because God wants to be our helper, and however independently-minded we may be, we all need his help.
Thirdly, by inserting a comma after ‘So’ (I like fiddling with punctuation), it becomes the simplest and most basic of prayers: “So, Help Me God!” Never be afraid to ask for help. That’s the best advice I can possibly give you in your hour of need.
“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”
Isaiah 41v10.
1. Psalm 34v8.
2. Deuteronomy 7v13; John’s Gospel 1v1-18.
3. Galatians chapters 3 and 4 and Hebrews 6v13-20.
4. Psalm 91.
Part One:
‘Special Delivery’.
Chapter one:
Back in the Womb.
“How can a man be born again?” asked Nicodemus of Jesus, one dark night, as recorded in the third chapter of John’s gospel, verse four. It was a really good question to ask, from a man who belonged to a religious group ardently challenging Jesus’ Messianic credentials - semi-politely, at least to begin with, murderously later on. Nicodemus is a very interesting man; he was different. He wanted the truth.
I have decided to write my narrative exactly as things unfolded at medical school. It starts in 1974, when there was the unmistakable smell of war in the air, not in this country, but far away in Vietnam and Israel. The news was filled almost end-to-end with disturbing scenes of dead bodies and destruction, on a scale we’d only seen before during unedited WWII newsreels on ‘All Our Yesterdays’. In Britain, my generation had just barely scraped through the so-called Cold War in the sixties, with the constant threat of a Russian nuclear attack: the advice, in the event, being ‘get under your desk quickly and tuck your head in your hands’. We were unequivocally on the lookout for an easy antidote to the cruelty we could see on TV, at the flick of a button, and the gob-smackingly stupid advice on how to survive an A-bomb attack. It was obvious to most that the failures leading to the Second World War could be re-enacted in the Middle East, and then possibly closer to home. After all, the Korean conflict of 1948 was not just another blip on the geopolitical map. Social unrest ruled; strikes were commonplace and Northern Ireland was in turmoil. In the melting pot, many flocked into a happy-go-lucky, cultish, hippy movement, high on drugs and promiscuity; some shaved their heads and donned army boots and actively espoused violence; whilst still others grew long greasy moustaches, wore Nazi helmets and shades, and called themselves ‘angels’. I had already decided to become a surgeon. Having free access to the town library during my teens, it being my employ, I avidly read book after book, wonderfully evocative narratives like, ‘The Making of a Surgeon’ by William A. Nolan M.D. and titles I now can’t remember, penned by surgeons in the field in Vietnam. I was smitten. I hated fighting, but I knew I could cut and sew.
Any road, it was Freshers Week, late September, and mottled leaves were falling in Leazes Park, Newcastle, the pavements wet and slick with mud. The leaves smelled gorgeously musty; the cows’ sloppy droppings on the paths surrounding the halls of residence, less so. Mizzle, rain and fog, and a penetrating icy cold wind blowing straight off the North Sea, up the Tyne Valley, drove most young campus wannabe’s indoors. After sorting out our accommodation, we gravitated like lemmings towards the town centre, some into specialist bookshops to stock up from a recommended list of authors, whilst the vast majority slinked into the more welcoming complex of cavernous rooms and bars in the Union building, a few yards off the Haymarket. It was here that groups of shabbily dressed, in-the-know second and third-year students inveigled Freshers into signing up to their cause. There were some right odds-and-ends on offer. I was only interested in one thing, when I wasn’t working, fishing. I’d done hiking and rock-climbing, shooting, chess and bridge to death at school; and politics bored and perplexed me in equal measure. So, I paid my subs for a tempting prospectus of angling matches on the Tyne, at Close House, and a handful of boat and beach-fishing trips off the Northumberland coast, plus a weekend on a Scottish trawler moored in Arran. That was my leisure time sorted in a jiffy, coarse and sea. Coarse was exactly that, rough and ready and a blast from my past. The sea contingent was several degrees better, being held firmly under the aegis of seven or so ‘Agrics’, all from farming stock and in their penultimate year at university. They took me, cautiously at first, under their wing; and so began a subtle maturing and nurturing process that turned into real fun later on, when I needed it most.
Then, as I say, we Freshers, green as grass, generally knocked around the bars and various fringe cinemas for a week, coalescing into small amicable assemblies that transmuted over the course of five days into loose friendships, soon to become tight-knit little communities. A few reneged, of course, as folk often do, and reattached themselves elsewhere. The rest of us stuck like glue for the five years’ duration. It was a comfortable fit, a kind of ‘love-in’, but unconventional in the day, insofar as it being as innocent as any dove. The following Monday, we formally entered the School of Medicine, splat onto our faces.
I doubt it’s comfortable inside the womb, and certainly there were many moments of unnerving disquiet, during our induction into doctoring. The strain showed on every single face, no matter what the background. Split up into groups according to our A, B, C’s, always a bad sign, we queued to have our photos taken, before being shown to our lockers, and given a grand tour around the old and austere-looking, red-brick building, built square on the corner of Percy Street and Queen Victoria Road, some three storeys high. On our way back through the melee, a few stragglers were still sat on stools, having their mugshots taken. One, a glossy brown-haired girl, with deep dark pools for eyes, and dressed from head to toe in black, caused me a sharp intake of breath and a quick-fire double-take of about 1/250th of a second, before I filed out with my newfound buddies, and was ushered into the small basement canteen for something that smelled just right. We were all starving hungry. The canteen was, like nearly everywhere else, tiled from floor to ceiling and spotlessly clean. Two ladies were serving behind a counter at the far end, sleeves rolled up in a business-like fashion. It reminded me a lot like being back in the sergeants’ mess at RAF Cranwell, as a cadet. That is until they spoke to us:
“Cheeze ahn toost oo soop a tha day, hinny?”
Comment:
I cannot say it was at all dark or gloomy inside the School of Medicine; it wasn’t. It was an immaculate building, staffed by lovely people, top to bottom. However, I felt suddenly in the shade of everyone else, and definitely on my own-some.
Consider what King David says in Psalm 139:
“For you created my inmost being;
You knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you
When I was made in the secret place.
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,
Your eyes saw my unformed body.
All the days ordained for me
Were written in your book
Before one of them came to be.”
God is always faithful to his word. I don’t know why; he looked after me from day one.