THE WINNER GAVE IT ALL   GIVEN YOUR ALL - NOW WHAT ?    HOME     ISBN 0 9577 426 7 3    CHAPTER  17   Written/published 30/01/09 - 2/02/09

 

17.  Season of Change     

With my towel slung over my shoulder and the toiletry bag under my arm, I was walking toward the shower block in a Melbourne Caravan Park. Suddenly I realized, if church starts at 9.30 am I have 20 minutes to spare. Why not first take a walk on this sunny, warm Sunday Morning?

In the dark, the night before, I had pitched my tent inside this park, beside a creek. I had arrived from Hobart, Tasmania and had planned to stay for two nights.

As you can see I am deviating (for moment only) from writing about my big bicycle tour. A magical find (may I call it 'golden junk') during the short walk that Sunday morning can't wait. It links clearly to what I had written two weeks earlier in the previous Chapter 16. Judge for yourself.

 

Had I decided to ride my bicycle that morning, which I often do, or had I indeed not gone for a walk at all, I would not have discovered this 'piece of gold', which was actually made of cardboard. I believe it was placed right in the path I was about to take.

On the entrance road to the caravan park steps were leading uphill to a bush track beside the main road. I climbed the steps and followed this dirt-path for about 7 or 8 minutes. On my right I came to a vacant paddock, and a large double-story residence beside it.

Two strange looking animals, Alpacas, were grazing peacefully, not the least interested in their visitor. (Days earlier in Tasmania I had had an interesting encounter with an Alpaca - full story in a later chapter, God willing).

A small, red hatchback was parked in the driveway. I continued a few more meters to read the registration number. It's a silly habit, I know, but there are worse ones. It was not the registration plate that took my attention next. It was a piece of cardboard, lying beside the roadway. It had large numbers on it.  

 

NV - SG - 160

Knowing that I had just written Chapter 16 in this book, the number 16(0) had me hooked. "But 160 is not 16", I hear you think.

What if we take the extra 0 as the letter 0? I did. It took only seconds to unscramble - 16 Song V.

 V-Song made sense. Both, the word song and word scrambling, had featured in Chapter 16. 

After scanning the above it came to me: V for Victory ... in Victoria?

 

 

But there was more, which again could be a link to chapter 16. I crossed the road. A discarded can of an alcoholic beverage reminded me, how many of these I had noticed. In South Australia, the only state with a refund scheme, each is worth 10 cent. The link to Chapter 16 was the brand of the can - Bundaberg.

To complete a souvenir hat-trick that morning, only meters away in the middle of the roadway, I picked up a 2009 magnetic calendar. It was one of those to stick on the refrigerator. The name behind this promotional material, a real estate agent, sounded genuinely Da Ninci - A N I AM SON.

- - - - - - -

 

 

(Back on the bicycle - Newcastle NSW)

My friend Robert, who I had stayed with in Hamilton, escorted me out of Newcastle on his mountain bike. It was the first time I cycled through a tunnel, a converted railway line. When I reached the Pacific Highway we said our good-byes.

It was a most scenic ride, south on the Pacific Highway, along Lake Macquarie through the towns of Belmont and Swansea. My destination that Monday (1/12/08) was Lakes Entrance.

I arrived early at the Caravan Park, which was situated magnificently between Lake Tuggerah and the Pacific Ocean. Only a road separated the two shores - hence the name Two Shores Caravan Park (Remember the name!)

In January 2007 I had once before camped beside Tuggerah Lake. My son Jon and I had camped on the other shore of the Lake. The travel story in Book 5, Chapter 28, tells how we had missed the daily feeding of the pelicans. This time I made sure I'd be there to witness this spectacle.

 

The Entrance, New South Wales

Top: Lake Tuggerah, looking toward the shore, where Jon and I had camped in 2007.

Centre: The feeding of the pelicans. Note right in the centre of the picture: three colours, red, yellow and blue. I never saw this when I took the photo.

Another colour twist - a blue and white hat on the right, a lady with a blue top/white hat on the left. (There is a strange story in my diary - about  blue and while. (Future chapter, God willing.

Bottom: Pete your doing a bad job - Cycling around the lake that evening I discovered these words in the concrete footpath. It was right where in 2007 I had seen much 'golden junk' (rubbish with a meaning).

I took the photo for two reasons: One, just in case Pete, whoever he is, doesn't know that he is doing a bad job. Two, whoever does not like Pete's job, and set this message in concrete, needs to learn spelling:

'Your' is a personal pronoun - belonging to you. 'You are' is the second person singular (or plural). Abbreviated it is spelled: You're.

- - - - - - -

 

 

The days were getting longer in December. It was a superb evening on New South Wales' Central Coast. The setting sun provided a colourful sky, which reflected in Lake Tuggerah in many shades of red. Riding back to my caravan park through the township of The Entrance I heard music coming from a church. A few cars were parked outside. Curiosity made me turn and check it out.

I crossed the road and parked my bike near the front door. Looking through the front glass doors I saw 8 men, sitting on pews at the front of the church near the podium. Another man played the organ. My outside the box, number-loving mind, could not avoid transposing the way these men sat into the number 4 4. 1 organist completed 441. No other people were in the auditorium.

The first song I heard was "Love is in the air, everywhere I look around ..." Not exactly a church song, but why not? It really depends, what love we are talking about. The organist spotted me and motioned me to come in and sit down. I did, a little reluctantly and listened from a seat near the door.

The small men's choir sang a few more popular song, most of which I knew. After I had listened to the well-known tune Danny Boy I felt it was time to move on.  The last line reads: "...O Danny Boy, I love you so." Love at the beginning, love at the end. Loved it.

 

Now this is amazing - a discovery while writing this chapter. I just realized the similarity between the number 441 and 414 (read on).

 

Among a display of promotional leaflets in the caravan park foyer I spotted one, with an address on it - 414 The Entrance Road, Erina Heights. The place was a branch of Ken Duncan, the famous photographer, who did photographs for, and was a friend of, Robert Schuller, the US preacher, who started the Hour of Power TV program.

 

As if God was emphasizing the above, two days after writing the last paragraph, I woke at 4.14 am, without alarm clock. (He can). I watched the Sunday morning religious programs on TV Channel Ten. During Robert Schuller's Hour of Power a book was on offer - The Life of Power, Daily scripture readings, enhanced with photographs by Ken Duncan! (I may even order one?)

 

My cycle the next day would take me right past the Ken Duncan gallery at Erina Heights. The place came not long after I had climbed Brooks Hill,* ...  

 

*Amazing timing and all ...

...moments after editing this (1/2/09, 4.24 pm) on Radio 5 RPH 1197 I am listening to a female voice, singing: "Climb every mountain ..." It is during the Hour of Power (on Radio). The singer sounds like Cynthia Clawson?

(Normally Radio 5 RPH replays the morning's television hour. Today they are replaying a different Hour of Power episode). 

 

... which took all my strength to conquer with my bike and loaded trailer. After taking a look at Ken Duncan's fabulous photographs I had a well deserved cup of coffee at the Gallery Cafe. The place had only opened a year earlier, in November 07.

As I sipped my coffee on the veranda, among a lovely forest of eucalyptus trees, I thought to myself: What a great job, travelling the world, being amazed by the beauty of things and photographing it!

But then, wasn't this what I was doing? Only I photographed different things, including golden junk! Of course, I'm well aware, there is more to photography than looking through a lens and pressing a button.

If the first part of Tuesday, December 2nd was relaxing, the rest turned out to be a little more eventful. I almost wrote disastrous; but a disaster, which is turned into a challenge and overcome, makes us stronger for a bigger challenge ahead.

- - - - - - -

 

How strange, but I tell it as IT is! - At this point of writing I went into the kitchen and made a sandwich. Walking out I looked at the clock on the micro-wave oven. It read 4.41 (which is not the correct time).

Another 44 1(11) distraction - the weather. Adelaide is having the heatwave of the century. Maximum temperatures this week: Tue 43, Wed 45.7*, Thu 43, Fri 43. Today it's only supposed to reach 40. Remember, we are having summer here and the degrees are Centigrade - 44 C = 111 F.

*This temperature is only 0.4 degrees of the all-time highest maximum in Adelaide.

I smiled when I noticed the song sheet for this week's church service. After a week of the sun blazing down, making everyone crabby, we're going to sing: "Oh. let the sunshine in ..." 

- - - - - - -

 

An interesting belt, worn by a lady, pictured on a newspaper's front page.

This belt buckle design is a work of art. For anybody obsessed by patterns, I counted the number of dots for you - 28 21 15 3.

A unrelated headline underneath reads: Visual Arts - Hard work pays off with a stroke of luck.

Who wore this belt? All I say - it's a global star!

- - - - - - -

 

(Back on the bike)

A ferry service was operating from Ettalong to Palm Beach, across Brisbane Waters. (This large harbour is just called that, not located anywhere near Brisbane, but around Gosford). I decided it would be safer to take this ferry (Fare $ 9,10 - bike went for free), rather than cycle down the Pacific Highway. In Sydney's northern suburbs the trailer could be a hazard in the narrow lanes of the Pacific Highway.

In Kincumber, by-passing Gosford, I had another flat tyre. It was right opposite the MC (Medical Centre). My tyre may not have been inflated enough. I hit a stone, which did the damage. I repaired it and aimed for the 2.30 pm ferry crossing from Ettalong, having missed the 12.30 pm.

Unfortunately, the repair only held for a few minutes. I had used a new self-adhesive rubber patch and probably not followed instructions carefully.  After much pumping, re-pumping and more pumping, I bought a traditional repair kit and fixed it again. (This patch is still in place, two months later).

The next problem was finding the ferry. I should have taken the time to search it out for myself. Instead, after asking two or three passers-bye I still could not find the ferry terminal. By now I was racing to make the 3.30 pm ferry. It was just leaving, as I wheeled my bike and trailer down the small ramp onto the narrow jetty. It was 3.31 pm.

Still, why panic? The boat was scheduled to be back in an hour. I decided to use this time to write some postcards. I cycled back a few minutes to the village. This was where the final blow was delivered to my bike trailer. Instead of walking slowly up the kerb to park the bicycle, I cycled up and - crack!  As soon as I heard the noise, I knew what had happened.

There was no way I would even try and attempt a repair. But what does one do with a broken bicycle trailer in the middle of an town, far from home, right outside a cafe?

A stone's throw away from the post office was one of those charity collection bins. It was already overflowing with many donated items, strewn all around it. This is where I left some of my belongings, and the trailer.

I made sure that I included all attachments, just in case there was a handyman, who saw the value in my trailer and was able to replace the axles. (I had only days earlier seen an identical trailer in a shop in Newcastle - price tag $ 249).

On item I felt sad to have to leave behind. I had carried with me a light-weight blanket, which my wife and I had been given by my parents and used for 38 years. During a camping trip in 1972 it had kept us warm in Denmark, Sweden and Scotland. It was just too bulky to carry on the bicycle with all my remaining gear.

  - - - - - - -

 

Top: During my 36-hour stop in Sydney I took a trip down memory lane. Almost 40 years ago I rented a room in above house, in Sydney's inner north. How timely, totally unplanned - the house number is 301 - the day of writing 30.1.

A vehicle parked outside the place puzzled me. I played a little (in my mind) with the registration number: I took the letter O as the number 0 and ...

 (Hey, how amazing, didn't I do the same, 0 to O, earlier in this chapter???)

... moved it into the number and voila -

 AL 5096, the postcode for Para Hills.

I just noticed: Manly starts with Man, Mosman ends in man. At the time I was on my way to Manly, where I was staying with Isobel's relatives. When Isobel and I were first married, we lived in (Germany, then) Mosman.

 

Stop Press: At 5.40 pm (1/2/09) during editing, I played with Mosman/Manly - eliminated man in both words. I inserted a t, the result = mostly. At the same time, within seconds, on Radio Cruise 1323 I heard the word 'mostly' (Weather forecast, mostly sunny).

It's now 5.43 pm, the song playing is: "Honesty, it's such a lonely word, everyone is so untrue..."

Trust me - I'm not!

- - - - - - - 

 

It would have been a crime to arrive in Sydney in the evening and leave the next morning. I had lived in the city on the harbour for a number of years and wanted to spend at least one day here. But not merely as a tourist.

Even since riding a bicycle as a young teenager I managed heavy traffic around me very well. I am not one of those cyclists, who insists on their right of space on a public road. In that area I do have a sense of self preservation.

Cycling across the Sydney Harbour Bridge is always the highlight of a visit to Sydney. The Bridge, the Opera house, the great harbour hold very pleasant memories, going back almost 40 years.

I found that Sydney's taxis drivers love to get intimate with cyclists. A few close encounters made me almost smell the driver's breath. My 25 years work as driving instructor helped to negotiate the jungle up and down, and either side of George and Elizabeth Streets, without any hassles. (I may have created a few for the taxis and buses, but ...)

Around 9 am, in Martin Place, the crew of the TV Show Sunrise made an appearance to end their breakfast program. I had experienced this event twice before. There was a rather big crowd that Wednesday, Dec 3rd, 08. Fans were pushing through to get autographs or to take photos of the popular TV presenters.

Others, as I did, were chatting with other visitors and tourists from far and wide. A lady from Launceston, Tasmania, was on a business trip and wanted to take a look at the spectacle. We had a nice chat. (Little did I know that within weeks I'd be briefly visiting Launceston).

During the TV Show that morning (as I understood it) an organisation was featured, who trains dogs to assist the disabled. Their slogan: DON'T DISMYABILITY. A few puppy dogs, each on a leash with a trainer, were creating much interest among the crowd and TV Station staff.

 

In Martin Place Sydney, 3rd Dec. 08

Love the smell of your hand lotion !

 

 

David Koch (Kochie), Sunrise co-presenter, signing autographs.

Camelbak - Letters 3, 4 and 5 spell Mel. Unfortunately, Mel, the female presenter of Sunrise, was away on holidays.

This puppy-in-training was wearing L-Plates. Another displayed a red P-plate. In New South Wales, obviously, dogs can learn to drive! (Aha, they train them as taxi drivers - just kidding!) 

 

 

At the nearby post office I searched the telephone directory for organisations, who should know about my pel, sorry pet, subject. (Pun intended). How I had wished to make contact with PL's (Mr. Liddy) brother, while in Queensland! Perhaps some positive action could have been instigated, to have his innocent brother released from jail?

I picked out three organisations, who I thought had the authority, and the connections to act. If they would do so, was another matter. It was worth a try, even if only to demonstrated that injustices can't simply be ignored. In all the years of my whistle blowing, it must be at least 5 by now, I had not had a serious response to the questions, which were still niggling in my mind. (Any reader not familiar with the case - read what I uncovered, in Book 5, Chapter 13).

The first organisation I visited on my day in Sydney was the Australian Crime Commission or ACC. The location was 280 Elizabeth Street. I was there in minutes on my Giant, possibly faster than a gas-guzzling taxi. Somewhat nervous, not knowing how they would receive me, I took the lift to Tower B and walked to reception. Surprisingly enough, I was granted a few minutes to tell my story.

But to what degree would they be taking it seriously. The website of the ACC states on its index page (Text copied & pasted):

Organised crime impacts on the Australian community. If you have information which could help the Australian Crime Commission in its investigation of organised crime, please contact us on one of the following:

I thought I had information to help the ACC uncover a serious crime. Ever since delving into the Liddy case, which I regarded as the biggest miscarriage of justice in Australia's legal history, even greater than the Chamberlain case in the late 1970's, I tried to share this information with whoever. Call me naive, but an innocent man should not linger in jail for 25 years, not even a day - fullstop!

What was I missing? Why has this bloody stain on the Australian legal system been ignored for so long?

 

After a few minutes wait a gentlemen, Paul, ushered me into a small room, and we started talking. The gentleman looked nothing like the TV crime-fighters portrait in the 007 movies. The officer or detective, if that's what they call them, reminded me of a man I used to know, who ran the local supermarket.

For a few moments I had a strong sense of deja vue, going back to 2003, when I was sitting on a table, in a small room, in a large office building in California, being interviewed by an FBI officer. (Book 1, Chapter 70). 

I had the feeling officer Paul knew a lot. He knew exactly, who Mr. Liddy was, and that he had a brother, who headed .... (a multi-billion Dollar company) in Queensland.

As I was trying to tell of the big miscarriage of justice, which had taken place in Adelaide, Paul made notes on a large note pad. I told him that he could find all the details of my research online, on dieterfischer.com, Book 5, Chapter 13.

 

(I just re-read the chapter and must say I am amazed myself at the gravity of my findings. It's hard to grasp, why no media ever has made a simple phone call or sent me an email, even to abuse me? At least I would know I exist!

Yet, I notice regular media reports, based on websites by terrorist organisations, who broadcast messages online, to spread their anti-West propaganda! Why are they taken seriously, even assisted in spreading their dangerous messages? Hypocrites!

 

Next I noticed something strange, talking to ACC officer Paul. The pages on his note pad were numbered. I could clearly read the page number - 77. (Please note!)

When I had finished telling my story, what else could I expect? I heard what I had heard from many, who either don't want to, or genuinely can't, get involved in the case: "Sorry, can't help you ..." (As if it was I, who needed help!)

What happened minutes later, back in Sydney's traffic, left me confused and puzzled. As if some unseen power was following me - no, driving me. Moments after cycling away from the ACC Sydney Headquarters, I saw these two parked motor vehicles:

 

Two Australian Federal Police vehicles, parked near Sydney's Central Station.

One vehicle carried registration plate ...77, the other ...97. The Australian Federal Police was on my list to contact. 

 

My next target was to talk to an investigative journalist at the ABC Headquarters, which was not far away at 700 Harris Street, Ultimo. The impressive looking foyer reminded me of an entrance hall to a railway station. It was huge. I went to the desk and asked to speak to an investigative journalist.

The lady at the switchboard gave me a name and said: "You can use this phone over there, dial 91 and ask to speak to Mr. A.F."

The person was not at his desk. His answering machine said to leave a message. This I did, saying that I wanted to speak to Mr. AF and was going to wait in the foyer downstairs, for a short time.

I went back to reception and waited. Nothing happened. I again enquired at the desk, asking if I could speak perhaps to another journalist, since Mr. A.F. is obviously not available. After more waiting around, without result, a male security officer at the reception said, I could not just walk into this building, and speak to a journalist.

He advised me to put my case in writing. That was it. Hoping for an appointment, I left in disappointment.

- - - - - - -

 

Thinking it through: What's wrong with just walking up to a media contact and tell of a major crime?

Had I not emailed, sent letters, made telephone calls, phoned radio stations etc. and nobody was seriously listening to what I had to say?

Now, my effort to tell the story to a journalist, face to face, again was stone-walled. What does one have to do, to be taken seriously, to gain the ear of the mass media pointing to a serious crime?

A further important aspect: Phone calls, emails, even letters could be monitored, and they are, no question, by whoever has an interest in gagging us whistle blowers. But this was not 1936 Germany, this was 2009 Australia.

When did newspapers stop being a sounding board for the community? Or is today's media all about reporting stories, true or fabricated or a bit of each, which keeps the audience entertained?

Case in point: A convicted mass murderer a few days ago (in late January 09) was reported to have cut-off his little finger, then tried to post it off to the High Court. Why on earth do I need to know this?

This mass murderer probably laughed his head off, for having once again taken top spot in the national TV news. (If so, someone may want to post his head to ..., just kidding).

The truth may be, now I'm speculating, the whole saga started with an accidental spill of tomato sauce, next an outside-the-box thinking prison officer saw the potential and ...

The truth would never make it into the news. Who would believe a convicted mass murderer, if he were to try and set the record straight? And why should he, why cry over spilled tomato sauce, when it has so much potential?

 

- - - - - - - -

 

My next port of call was the Australian Federal Police (AFP) Headquarters at 110 Goulburn Street.

(I just uncovered a little twist here, in Chapter 17.  Two days later I would be camping at 77 Sydney Road, Goulburn !)

This time two AFP officers talked with me. They took me into a lecture hall, off the main foyer. The outcome was simple, very predictable. It made me wonder, if I would have been better of taking a bike ride, or visit Taronga Zoo instead:

"Federal Police has no jurisdiction over criminal matters at state level. We can't help you."

I suggested to the officers, if they could at least contact their state counter parts in South Australia, and notify them of my visit. A brief memo, what I had found out, may become a trigger for an investigation? What was more simple than a memo from one AFP office to another? To these two officers it must have sounded like hard work - but then, it was right on lunch time. 

I left with the strong impression that, like the ACC, the AFP was a government-funded organisation, staffed with hundreds of public servants, all on handsome salaries, occupying luxurious offices and driving flashy, red cars. It certainly looks nice on the surface. I did not sense a passion to fight crime.

None of the three officers I had whistle-blown to that day gave me the slightest impression that they believed me, or were willing to do anything. I doubted they would even bother reading the explosive chapter 13 in Book 5.

One institution, which could have prevented the Liddy fiasco, but failed miserably in bringing justice to Peter Liddy, was the High Court of Australia.

 

Peter's appeal had been dismissed. As I understand it, a document, which exposed his main accuser telling lies about child abuse, was not ready for the main trial. But Peter Liddy's defence was able to procure it for the High Court challenge.

Peter had hoped (and he knew the system better than anybody) that this document was so powerful, it would lead to a retrial. He was mistaken. A key witness, a probation officer from Queensland, for some unknown reason (gun at her head?) changed her mind at the last minute, and refused to appear in court.

 

I was not so naive to think I would gain an interview with any authority at the High Court's Sydney Branch (the main office is located in Canberra). All I had in mind, to spend a few minutes in prayer outside this highest legal institution in Australia.

The legal profession in Australia certainly needs to take a good look at itself. Justice is far too expensive, if justice is indeed what you get! The system took hundreds of thousands of Dollars from Peter Liddy. Yet, he is still locked up in jail - I believe innocently.

- - - - - - -

 

Near Lady Macquarie's Chair, opposite Fort Denison.

 

Was taking this photo breaking some new-age privacy law? What if I was just taking a photo of Fort Denison, and Mr. Torres got into the photo? I may need to consult a lawyer on this issue!

Denison is a lovely name: ie DN son.

It came to me recently, how this name not only fitted my Da Ninci code, but crossed my path almost 40 years ago in the same city. In 1969 not long after arriving from Germany as a young migrant, I joined a Church youth group. It was only a short distance north of the harbour (and Fort Denison). There was a pretty, young nurse with long, straight hair. I had my eyes on her: Her name was .... Denison. (This was before I had discovered another girl with even longer, straight hair - Newton). 

 

I needed a break from whistle blowing. Around the Domain and Botanic Gardens, Sydney's green lungs stretching out into the harbour, was an ideal place to do it. Cycling right to the end, near Lady Macquarie's Chair I saw a young man, sitting reading a newspaper. He wore a soccer shirt - Torres. Loved it; so I took above photo, without permission. (The full photo includes Fort Denison, at the top).

On my way back to Manly, where I was staying, I wanted to briefly drop into a place in North Sydney - the Australian Office of the Hour of Power. Apart from saying Hi, I was going to tell them I would not be at the Adelaide meeting, which was to be held a few days later at 540 Regency Road, Enfield. I had indicated I would attend.

The North Sydney office I was going to visit was in Victoria Street. Trusting I would find it easily, I cycled down Blues Point Road. To my left in Blue Street I could see the office building of A-League sponsor Zurich.

It took quite some time to actually find Victoria Street, which was a narrow, residential street, not one you would expect an office to be located at. Anyway, when I arrived at 5.01 pm the door was shut. Like the ferry, the day before at 3.01 pm, a minute is after all 60 seconds.

(To appreciate how long this really is, just hold your breath for that long, or stand close to a bagpipe, which is playing one long note, in F-sharp minor, fortissimo!)

My ride around North Sydney, while searching for Victoria Street, did have a sequel. Further down Blues Point Road, I made the find, which I had alluded to in the previous chapter - the letter G. It came in the form of a large, black paper cut-out. Was it junk, golden junk, or nothing? I don't know.

I do know, however, that it was exactly the size of a 20 cent coin. I had picked it up on the roadway, right where I had turned my bike around, before reaching Miller's Point.

Here it is - in my diary. (Please note, the scan is slightly enlarged):

 

G - Found on Blues Point Road, North Sydney

 

Only seconds after picking up this G, I saw a different G, that's why I took this photo:

 

The address of the 'rapture' shop  was  No. 150.

 The parked Honda B ...15 G was outside No. 144.

 

Friends, I tell it as it is, and was.

 

Let me finish this chapter the way we started - with a song. On January 13th I played the trumpet in the small band during a funeral. (Come to think of it, this was the first time ever that I was asked to play at a funeral). A lady at our church in Salisbury East had passed away after battling cancer.

In another one of those twists, her name, I only realized after the funeral, had meaning in my books - Muriel Watson. One of the very first deaths, which I linked supernaturally to my writing, was a lady by the name of Muriel. (Book 2, Chapter 10).

A second death, a motor cyclist allegedly killed at Para Vista, had the surname Watson (Book 2, Chapter 18).

Again friends, I can only write what I see, as it is, as it was. What lay behind it, the eternal plan of God, is all in HIS hand. As the song goes, HE holds the whole world in HIS hand. (This was our closing song at church, yesterday - 1/2/09).

At Muriel Watson's funeral one of three songs was especially suited to the trumpet. Besides, I found it full of codes, from 1511 to L-BACK to 44 - see for yourself:

 

 

 1511 1511 - 1 Cor. 15, 52 - 763 + 200 - 44 a b (bee = truth).

The composer was JM Black. JM stands for James Milton - Love it!

 

 

1. When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more,
And the morning breaks, eternal, bright and fair;
When the saved of earth shall gather over on the other shore*,
And the roll is called up yonder, Iíll be there.

Refrain:
When the roll is called up yonder,
When the roll is called up yonder,
When the roll is called up yonder,
When the roll is called up yonder, Iíll be there.

2. On that bright and cloudless morning when the dead in Christ shall rise,
And the glory of His resurrection share;
When His chosen ones shall gather to their home beyond the skies,
And the roll is called up yonder, Iíll be there.

3. Let us labor for the Master from the dawn till setting sun,
Let us talk of all His wondrous love and care;
Then when all of life is over, and our work on earth is done,
And the roll is called up yonder, Iíll be there.

 

* How amazing - I just thought of the word entrance, then I recalled The Entrance,  then I remembered the name of the caravan park I had stayed at: Two Shores ! (Maybe this is crazy - I'm not too shoore!)

 

Had I written the third verse, I might have changed the word labor to love: Let us love our gracious Master... Loving HIM passionately will inevitably result in works done to his glory, even the smallest deed will count. Serving HIM is not hard labor, it a pleasurable journey, an adventure. It's fun - I know!

There has also been objections raised to the second verse's lyrics, cloudless morning. Is he not supposed to come in the clouds, they say?  

The scripture reference (1. Cor. 15, 52) starts at the end of verse 51:

 "...but we shall all be changed - in a moment - in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet shall sound, and the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed."

This is the final victory over corruption, over evil, over sickness - yes, victory over death itself.

Friends, God is sounding HIS trumpet, calling for change. All who sincerely follow Jesus Christ will be changed. Old things become new, bad things become good, hate turns to love, bitterness turns to forgiveness, bringing unspeakable joy.

 

If this is the change the newly elected US President is advocating - I am all for him, and his changes. He will need God's wisdom to recognize and stand up for what is bad. Words alone are not enough.

If the President were to start by helping to save helpless, unborn babies, innocent little lives killed by the thousands, he would be walking in the right direction, toward positive change!

 

Moments before writing the above I read the Australian Prayer Network Newsletter. The first sentence points to a significant shift within the Christian (particularly the Catholic) church:

"There is no doubt we are seeing the most significant shift within the Christian Church, and indeed in the nations, in our lifetime, as the "Season of Change" that we have been proclaiming for more than 12 months now begins to take shape.

 

God is calling for change, positive change under HIS leadership.

When the roll is called, will you be there?

 

Chapter 18

Index