26. Free lunch at Wallsend
If the morning of August 27th 05 was anything to go by, I wondered what the rest of the day would bring, as I prepared to spend the day in and around Newcastle. A brief morning shower soon cleared to a reasonably fine day. I was determined to enjoy a relaxing day in this seaside city, which I had only visited once or twice, many years ago.
Was it really possible, in my mental frame of mind, to relax and just be an ordinary tourist? The answer is a decisive yes and no. My life had years ago turned towards seeing numbers, letters or symbols, which turned up without warning like a visitor, without an appointment. It was impossible for me to simply turn off the switch and put my brain into neutral, as you would a motor car at a red traffic light.
Since I had not found a sounding board, after all these years, I had no idea if my outside the box view of the world, made any sense to any other human being. If what I had observed in Newcastle on Saturday 27/8/05 was arranged by my unseen, powerful friend, was not for me to question. I merely used my eyes and my brain. Neither is switched off until I go to sleep.
God knew where I was, what I did and what went on behind the scenes at every turn of my life, including this day in Newcastle. If HE wanted to show himself to any doubters, who needed to see that HE is real, it would be so, without me forcing the issue. HE who called me, the ONE who is faithful, promised to also do it (1.Thess. 5, 24).
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Beside a railway line at the Port of Newcastle, on the way back from Stockton, I spotted this roadside memorial. The surname Hesketh could turn into various meanings; starting with the last 3 letters - he T ...
On a pole right beside this cross was piece of writing, inside a plastic cover. I read the heart-rendering account by one, who lost this loved one. The name of the deceased was Tim. The pole had a number - JT 9 - 2352.
I had already passed the cross. I had to U-Turn to get back to the place. The street name was Egret Street. I was in my Wagon R+. So what did that make it?
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(Back in Stockton)
I caught the 9.40am ferry-boat for the 5-minute-trip across the Hunter River, where moments earlier I had seen a huge cargo vessel enter the Port of Newcastle. In the distance, on top of a hill, I could see a white obelisk. To me hills were created to be climbed. Before leaving the boat I had decided this hill was my first destination.
The ferry wharf, called Queens Wharf, is connected to Newcastle's main pedestrian mall via an elevated walkway. This spans not only the railway lines, but also the main road along side it.
Walking across this overpass, above the shops, my eyes observed and my brain decoded what I saw.
Above one of the shops, on the flat roof of the footpath, was an orange traffic cone. A strange location for a traffic cone, how did it get there? This thought automatically made me take note of other things close by. In the window right beside the cone I recognized the sign of a well-known Real Estate firm. (I had had fun with our local agent a few times). The sign, with its distinct colours and logo, was cut. The letters in the business name ..hite were missing.
Right in line with all this, on the footbridge lay a Fanta soft drink can. My mind linked all three clues, as if I had been asked to investigate a crime scene to solve the mystery. If this was an investigation to solve a mystery, it was of a different kind.
The steep hill made my heart pump faster and my lungs breath deeper, which made me feel real good. A vehicle, car registration 963 was the only one parked on the roadside near the obelisk. House number 96 across the road was for sale.
My diary also says, I was surprised to find out, I had walked up Wolfe Street. (It was not long after I had written the Lone Wolf story. Please note - I had no map and not planned any particular path to take that day).
Newcastle, NSW, looking north-west toward the lighthouse. A girl, Belinda, on a day trip from Sydney, took the photo.
Two girls came walking up the path to also enjoy the panoramic views. We got talking, as tourists would. I could detect a German accent on one of the girls. Her name was Claudia. She came from Sindelfingen, a large town in the same district of Southern Germany, where many place names end in …ingen. I come from Esslingen, my Internet Service Provider came as a child from Reutlingen, a large University city is Tuebingen etc.
Continuing my walk, after chatting 20 minutes or so, my path took me past the Monet Café to the corner of Church/Watt Streets. On the door of the office building, even from across the wide intersection, I could read a letter/number combination - 1 Love. It was the address and the name of the business. The way it was written made me take note and think - did somebody really love No.1 and wanted passers-by to see? If so, good one!
I skirted a large hill to my left, as I walked along the beachfront. The hill is called Flagstaff Hill, on top of which stands Fort Scratchley. Somebody told me it was closed, so I did not climb Flagstaff Hill, but walked past the main beach into the central business district, only a short stroll away.
Amongst the many signs I noticed 'Newcastle Herald' above the door of a historic stone structure. It was not the actual Herald office, but only the shop of a newsagency. I walked inside and mentioned to the shopkeeper about the inaccurate, misleading reporting about the football match the night before.
He understood and agreed; to write the goal was scored before half time, implies it came after 40 minutes or so, not in the 19th minute.
If anyone thinks that I was making a big fuss about very little, I agree with them. However, only a few months later did the issue of the time, when goals are scored, resurface. In the two final matches, where Australia qualified to play in the World Cup 06 in Germany, the only goal in each match came after 35 minutes.
The magic for Australia continued on December 9th. In the draw of teams Australia was placed into Group F, together with Brazil, Croatia and Japan. I made fun - ABC + J.
On leaving the Newsagent I spotted a pink pair of slippers on the ground. I laughed. They looked totally out of place; plus the colour, Telstra-phone-card pink stirred me. I resisted collecting them as souvenir, rather I placed them on top of a tree surround for the rightful owners to claim them back. There were people watching me. They may have placed them there to have their time of fun?
One or two intersections further, I remember clearly, I received a strong urge to turn left and walk up that street. Newcastle's architecture is a mixture of old and new. This street was just like this. A short distance up that street (Bolton Street), I took this photo:
A careful look at the central step reveals my Ben Mitchell bag, plus a red beannie. Radio 5 AN had arranged a charity-fundraising event. People knitted and donated beannies. The radio station organized a special event to sell them (or auction special ones) during a broadcast.
My red bargain beannie cost 5 Dollars. I had worn it with pride the night before.
Walking further up Bolton Street, outside a hotel the chalkboard advertised – Friday Night - all drinks $ 2,000. (Blind Freddy could see, the sign had one [O] too many). For a joke I rubbed out the comma.
A real estate agent’s name on a For Sale sign needed only an e to literally read ‘gohome’. It wasn't written in chalk and far to high to reach, otherwise ...
I bought a film at a Pharmacy in the pedestrian mall. Without even considering my code I saw on the paper bag afterwards, that I had bought the film in King Street, the number consisted of 1, 3 and 5's.
Minutes later, this is why I am reporting this, I again crossed the same footbridge to catch the ferry back to my car. This time I picked up the Fanta can to place it where it belongs, in the rubbish bin. As I did I noticed under the footbridge a stationary train engine. A railway worker stood beside it.
I got mildly excited, because I still held the 135 paper bag in my hand, when I read number C 1305 in huge letters on the train. I shouted a hello to the man in the yellow jacket below. He looked up, threw his arms into the air, as if asking me: Why are you calling out for? Fair question.
Even if we could easily talk and hear each other, I don't think he would have understood. Instead I just gave a friendly wave and walked on.
Friends, I know it all sounds a little crazy – the numbers were probably purely co-incidental. But why was I so intrigued by these numbers and other data, which I kept coming across?
Let me refresh reader’s minds and go back a few years. It started with the numbers 3 & 5. I could not accept a new regulation, which forced learner drivers to indicate 5 seconds, when pulling away from the kerb. Indicating only 3 seconds was regarded such a serious breach, it failed a driving test immediately, even without any traffic approaching.
Later, the number 1 joined in, after I discovered that the number 315 was the date, when in 2000 a twin-engine Piper Chieftain inexplicably crashed, minutes before landing at Whyalla. It did not take an Einstein to see that these numbers, plus 2 zero's, are also my date of birth.
Another co-incident surrounded this date. A driving instructor named Mike G. and myself were in the end fighting the fundamentally flawed Government licensing system. We tried to make Government officials see, why it was not working - no independent assessment on every driving test. We didn't succeed. Mike and I were both born on January 30th 1950.
Eight people were killed in the mysterious double-engine failure crash. The dead included the young pilot, whose name was Ben. The name Ben and the word all – had become symbols of the supernatural element in my story. Ben was the name of a car crash victim, plus that of my eldest son.
The word All is German for space, as in ‘Outer space’. A few days before the Columbia space craft crashed on re-entry into the atmosphere in February 2003, I had drawn attention to the small, yet powerful word 'all'. I had sent an email to seven recipients, mentioning among other information, that the word All means 'space' in German. The date of the space craft crash was 1/2/03, which birthed the Da Ninci number 123.
I kept asking - why Ben, why 31/5, why all - and during a moment of great revelation saw the resemblance to the name Whyalla.
It may sound spooky, friends, but as I have said all along, what I have reported in my story are facts. Most are public knowledge. How I interpreted these facts, my view of the world from that perspective, is my prerogative. Freedom of thought and speech is a basic human right.
I am giving you, who are reading this, the same right and freedom to reject my story as a fairytale or to probe a little deeper. I wished you all accepted it with joy. Those who do will respond with praise to God for the wonderful things HE has done.
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The divine 307 demands attention!
I took this photo on the corner of Barton Tce./O'Connell St. North Adelaide on 11/11/05.
Four days earlier I had walked past the Salisbury Library. An inner impulse made me turn back and walk in. Seconds later I bumped into a man, who I knew years ago from Paradise church. (That fits, plus his name - Merv).
The Advertiser Newspapers were scattered all over the shelves. So I chose the thick Saturday (5/11) edition of the Melbourne Age. It looked untouched. I started to peruse the pages, thinking: Lord, if there is something you want me to see, you have to show me.
An automobile advertisement caught my eye. The company named their models by numbers 206, 307, 407. I started thinking the sequence should logically be 408. Then I noticed the page number the ad had been placed on - 48! Was this my clue?
Later I looked up the dealership in Melbourne online. Their home was in the suburb of Ballwin, called Balwyn by locals. The address - Whitehorse Rd. Postcode 3103 (There is a yet untold Melbourne story in my diary, surrounding the numbers 1 & 3).
I composed a cheeky email, suggesting common sense by naming their next model the 408 and the next one, hopefully, the 509! I mentioned their competitors Citroen - they have a C3 and a C5, which no doubt had their roots in the ID 19!
Hours after sending the email a friend phoned, if I wanted to come and hear him sing in a Karaoke contest. It was at the Whitehorse Inn on 11/11/05. (Doesn't the word Karaoke sound like 'car OK'?) I went. Outside the Whitehorse Inn I noticed a Victorian registered Tarago, T..P 105 - it made perfect sense. (I just noticed it - Peugeot starts with P and ends in T.
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(Back to Newcastle)
From my limited knowledge of the region I knew that the Hunter Valley, inland from Newcastle, was renowned as a tourist destination. I had never visited there, so I decided to travel back to Sydney via Cessnock.
It may also have been the second half of Cess/nock ‘see N OK’, which influenced my decision. Plus I had seen a sticker on a 4WD vehicle, Cessnock Toyota, parked near my Suzuki. As you can see, I plan my holidays meticulously and literally in the spirit of the moment, depending on which way the wind blows.
Earlier that morning, as I had updated my diary, I had had the strong feeling I would be visiting a church that day. Because it was Saturday, I wondered, how this could be? A church bazaar perhaps, or a garage sale, which I still visited occasionally? The other possibility - I may be guided to a Seventh Day Adventist Church? So it was.
Good timing – in approx. 2 hours from the time of writing (Christmas Eve 05), I will accept an invitation to attend a church service in a SDA Church. I had only attended this denomination 3 or 4 times in my whole life.
During my morning wanderings I had not seen or searched for any church. Now around midday I had forgotten all about a church visit. But the day wasn’t over yet. A few kilometers out of Newcastle a sign caught my peripheral vision for a nanosecond – Open Day. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw that the Open Day was at a church.
As happened regularly my Suzuki turned left, before I could rationally think about what course of action to take, and/or give her official permission to proceed with it. I know someone who occasionally behaves in this manner – but she was at home looking after the house - and I love them both - the Suzuki and the house. (Just kidding).
My Suzie seemed to know something I didn’t. She must have known that Bent Street, which we turned into, was right up my alley. We parked a short distance from the church. There were only three or four other vehicles nearby. One was a truck, registration No. … 991, the car just ahead of us …119.
As I locked the car I noticed my Suzie had chosen 91 T… Street to park at, while I was going to church. This all took place not long after I had upload my incredible 19 story in the USA. Now you know, what I mean by saying, she knew something I didn’t.
My dairy at this point expresses clearly how I felt: “It is God – not I, that’s why it all works together for good.” I nearly forgot to mention that the name of the suburb was Wallsend – V V all send ... etc etc.
But there was more. The church indeed was a Seventh Day Adventist Church. I walked in just as a baptismal service was concluding. As soon I stepped inside the door I could hear - I had come to the right place. “Above all powers, above all king, above all nature and all created things…” Long time readers of my story may recall the touching story of Chapter 31 (…and of a sound mind), which concludes with this lovely song. Amazing timing - the congregation was singing it, just as I walked inside the door of the church.
The next song that was sung happens also to be found in my writings – Chapter 17 (…but now I’m found). "I surrender all, all to thee my blessed Saviour, I surrender all'.
A lady named Glynnis and her husband Ed talked to me afterwards and invited me to stay for lunch. I would have preferred to continue my sight-seeing tour, but considering the extra-ordinary circumstances, which led me to this God-ordained place, how could I refuse?
Judging by the food, the friendly faces and the brightly decorated hall, the event must have been special in the life of the church. As I drove away, 1 ½ hours later, I knew something special had taken place, which on the surface looked so ordinary.
Top: The church, where I enjoyed a free lunch, catered for people from many nations and colours, from white to black and in between.
Bottom: Not a wedding, a baptism celebration. My diary mentions only 2 names (my apologies to the others): Nina from New Guinea and Anesu from Zimbabwe. I am sure all 4 are shining for Jesus.
As a tourist I was not well prepared. I did not see many grapevines in this renowned wine growing region. The scenery, however, was superb; green, rolling hills interspersed with beautiful forests. In times like these I miss my bicycle.
My mind was pondering the amazing events of the morning. How could I not be amazed at the way God was leading me, using the versatile code, which followed my footsteps? How was it possible that a story could unfold, supported and confirmed by a simple mixture of letters or numbers, and in the end it all makes sense?
Denman was a town, which I didn't find on my map, but it struck a strong cord on my DN-wired brain. A few second after I saw the sign Denman Hotel I stopped (or should I say I turned back) and took a short break. I ordered a shandy, my favourite mix of lemonade and light beer. Nobody took much notice of the D&N man, having a drink in Denman.
I was getting so used to stumbling across my Da Ninci code, my diary only says - Shandy at Denman. I found nothing at all written about the coffee stop, the brisk walk around the town of Cessnock, and the interesting find I made.
Writing from memory, I had parked my vehicle in a vacant lot, behind the shops, near a Motel. After brewing some coffee and eating a bread roll, I went for a brisk walk around the large, but quiet town. The shops were still open that Saturday afternoon. I used the toilet at the main shopping centre.
There was a reason why I returned to the car via a back street, not the way I had come. A sign (Baptist?) Church made me want to just have a look at their notice board, for no real reason. I never found any church, but spotted something round, blue and plastic in between the motel and the parking lot, where I was heading for to move on.
The plastic container was a smaller version of a colander, the type you use, when rinsing pasta and spaghetti. It bore a clear resemblance to the one I had used at home, finding a J-shaped spaghetti, while doing dishes. This sounds crazy, friends, but because of that, I picked it up, shoved it under my car seat to take home as a souvenir.
The timing of all this once again is totally unplanned. I am writing this story on the anniversary, exactly 1 year and 5 hours ago, when the J-noodle incident took place on Christmas Eve 2004 (Chapter 7).
The small blue colander I found in Cessnock looked brand new. This is why I suspected it was planted. On the left is big daddy - the real McCoy.
I arrived in the Sydney Northern Beaches suburb of Dee Why around 7.30 pm or so. I had chosen to take the longer, coastal route, via Gosford, where I had another stop and evening walk along the foreshore.
Of course, my daughter asked: How did you enjoy the day? What have you been doing? The short answer would have been: “I spent the morning looking around Newcastle and drove home through the Hunter Valley and the coast road via Gosford”.
I can't recall what I answered. But where would I have started telling her of my eventful day in detail? At which point of the factual-tale would she switch to doubting my sanity? As mentioned, to this day nobody has sat down with me and attempted an in-depth dialog, in a sensible, rational manner.
The reason may simply be - on the surface, nothing about my story resembles sensibility or rationality. To me it all makes sense, yet I admit that very little can be explained rationally.
Two days before writing I had made a rare phone call ABC Radio 5AN's talkback line. Earlier I had heard Tony Wright, a political journalist, suggest we should look at the issue - intelligent design versus evolution - in a rational way.
I phoned to point out that there is nothing rational about the life of Jesus. He was conceived by a spirit, made water into premium wine and even walked on water. One must approach Christianity and intelligent design from a higher perspective.
On the same radio station, on the same day or a day later, I overheard a news item about a house-fire in Enfield. My brain immediately switched to a higher level, after hearing the name of the street. What made me also doubtful about the circumstances surrounding the fire was a comment by one TV reporter: "The fire was so fierce, the cause may never be known". I didn't know that fire investigations were subject to the severity of a fire.
Since the church we attend is at Enfield, I asked my son, who drove my wife and myself to church on Christmas Day, to take a slight detour on the way home. I wanted to look at the burned out house. He reluctantly agreed, as long as I was not getting out of the car. He feared I would be making a fool of myself. I promised. The fire scene was near the Enfield Cemetery, one of Adelaide's largest.
As we drove down the street I kept telling my son to slow down or we would miss the house. My son, the bible college student who frequently teases me about my codes, called out suddenly: “Newton Tce. – is that it Dad?” I didn’t answer; even though I knew immediately it was so. I had already seen Number 24 on the gate.
The name I had heard on the radio however, had been Gove Rd. I had noticed in the UBD that this street runs towards the northern boundary of the cemetery. It did not take a lot of imagination to create grave from Gove, right in line with the location. Newton Tce. forms a T-junction with Gove Rd.
I calmly mentioned to my boy that at least two clues were pointing in our direction – your mother’s maiden name and the number 24, which is identical to our house number. I think he would have laughed at any suggestion, that I linked Gove with grave to cemetery. I said nothing else, not wanting to spoil Christmas Day for my family.
While finding our way back onto Main North Road, he turned into Truscott Rd. (As I edit I read 'See trust on cross').
For years I have been living this life of codes. Increasingly, I noticed people around us joining my world. Names cross my path, which I clearly identified as fitting into the plot.
E.g. last evening, on Christmas Day, we happened to meet new people. Their children's names were Jemma and Nick). Any clue how I could convince my family that names do really matter?
Isobel didn't say much as we drove home via Gepps Cross. She was used to my strange behaviour and accepted it as a fact of life. (How true this was!) Yet she never delved into the underlying reason for what I did and why I did it. Isobel had the family Christmas get-together on her mind. All the children were home for the first time in years. It was not a good time to try and open her eyes, if that were possible.
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From the back cover of my diary:
Walking my dog, I noticed 2 other walkers and their dog. I didn't want to agitate the animals and turned into a different path. Otherwise I may never have found this label on the grass beside the lake at Gulf View Heights.
Missco is a brand of handbag, according to McGoogle.
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Over the years, as a Christian, I have found it hard to understand how the Jewish people did not recognize their Messiah Jesus. They pledge their love for God, the same God, who sent Jesus into this world. They saw HIS miracles, their ancient scrolls clearly pointed to this man, whom they later nailed to a cross.
HE was rejected by HIS own people. Today I understand the scripture - HE came to HIS own, but HIS own received HIM not.
On October 4th, 05 I had occasion to send a rare email to Israel. It started with an e-zine from an organization, which exposes the suffering of people, simply because they believe in Jesus. I learned that the Messianic Jews of Arda, in Southern Israel, were being harassed and bullied by the Gur Hassidim. Messianic Jews are those who believe in Jesus as their Messiah. The police, the report read, was turning a blind eye to the violent acts.
Thanks to Google I found an email address for the Police Chief of the Israeli Police Force. Likewise I located one for the Israeli Ambassador to Australia in Canberra. The Ambassador's name was Tamir (please note this name).
In my email I pleaded with the Ambassador to make the police protect those Jews, who believe in the Messiah. Any police officers, who allow one group to attack another, simply because they believe in Jesus, are not doing their job and ought to be dismissed. I sent a copy to the chief of police in Jerusalem.
What happened to my email message I do not know. I trusted God that the right people would read it and take action.
A strange incident took place the very next day, October 5th, 05, which I linked to above email. I had been to an interview at the NV organisation in Salisbury, seeking advise what kind of voluntary work was available, which would suit me. At the conclusion the gentleman advising me said, I should try an internet training place for older people at Parafield Gardens.
He searched for a few minutes to find the address for me, without success. In the end he told me, the place was on the left hand side, just south of the Kings Road intersection. In my usual optimistic style I said: "I will find it," and left. My optimism did not help me that morning. I could not find the place, which supposedly trains older citizens in IT.
There was a Government office on the main road, just a little further south, but this was not it. Nobody had heard of what I was looking for in that district. I drove further down the Salisbury Highway, turned left and right, looking for a sign. Still I could not find any sign for an adult learning centre.
Out of the blue I read a street name - Tamir Street. It took a moment to digest - Tamir, the name sounded familiar. Wasn't this the name of the person I had sent an email to the day before, the Ambassador for Israel in Canberra? As soon as I got home I looked it up. I was correct; the names were identical.
The timing was not the only interesting part of this episode. Tamir Street is the only street listed by that name amongst Adelaide's 20 000 or so in the street directory.
Tamir in Hebrew means tall, stately. In another website I read Tamir means 'Seer'. Both fit into the picture rather well. But none more than the Da Ninci version - minus R and the letters read backwards, the name Tamir takes on an even stronger meaning.
How well does this go with my wife's maiden name Newton - New-on-the-cross?