SCOOTERS TO HARLEY DAVISON
Shortly after Samuel and I returned from our holiday in Thailand, I got into watching the popular TV series called Overhauling. I loved the show’s concept of taking someone’s old, dilapidated car they’d always hoped to restore and letting them think it had been stolen, only to have a team of ace mechanics and designers transform mundane – or even junky – autos into unique custom cars under the watchful eye of auto-design legend Chip Foose. With Samuel’s love of tinkering, of taking everything he could find apart to re-build, I thought we might want to have a go at restoring a muscle car. We eventually found an AC Cobra that had been partially restored and I thought we could afford, to take over from a seller who needed out. I had a little experience of fixing my cars in the 70s, but that was only because I didn’t have a choice, so I was having second thoughts about not knowing what I was doing or how much it may end up costing. I knew a car dealer who had a few for hire, so I thought it best we take one out for the day. But the moment I started that V8 engine, Samuel literally jumped out, exclaiming ‘It’s too scary!’ Well, that put an end to what was possibly not a good idea to start with. But we would get to experience a bit of the American motor culture when my friend Stan popped in for a visit.
As the newly elected chairman of the Harley Davidson Club of Cape Town, he invited us to join the club for one of their monthly rides. The club was more of a family-friendly environment than what I expected a motorcycle club to be. We bought our first Harley, and I couldn’t get Samuel off the bike – not even in the wet or sub-zero temperatures. The club was incredibly well organized. On longer rides, there were always a few backup vehicles where Samuel could watch TV or play games with some of the other kids. But Samuel was adamant about staying on the bike, even for the 665km ride to Graaf Reinet. We started attending a lot of these family-friendly bike rallies while collecting loads of badges and Harley paraphernalia. I felt like I had to flip a coin to decide which was the best way for me to practice meditation: walking the dogs in the forest or hitting a coastal road on the Fat Boy.
And I felt that I especially needed to meditate while trying to wrap my head around surveys done by research initiatives on sexual abuse and sexual assault. I was reading and summarizing papers on everything: traumatic dissociative amnesia, recovered memories, false memory syndrome, unexplained chronic fatigue, core conflicting relationship themes, sex addiction, sexual anorexia, the likelihood of drug and alcohol abuse, major depressive episodes with poorer response outcomes to antidepressant treatment, risky sexual behaviour, suicidal thoughts, and attempted suicide. These were all overwhelmingly negative potential consequences.
I’d surrendered to my new early morning routine, but the real reason behind questioning my sanity was these trust us instructions I was receiving and following. Just like I knew I had to get up and start writing, at times I’d know I had to take my bike out and go for a ride. But while I may have been considering a trip to Cape Point where the Atlantic and Indian oceans collide, by the time I’d manoeuvred the Harley out I’d know I’d be taking a different route. So, I’d point the Fat Boy in the opposite direction and head for the west coast to visit a friend that I hadn’t seen in a while. I didn’t call ahead, primarily because I never knew if I’d be given different instructions when I reached the coast. But this time it turned out that I was heading to see Summer, who was surprised to see me. ‘I don’t believe you’re here,’ she blurted with genuine excitement. After a hug and a kiss, she added ‘I really must start paying more attention to my inner voice. I’ve literally just finished the last page of this book. It was only a second ago that I was told to give the book to you. And here you are standing in front of me.’ With that, she closed the book and handed it over. ‘You must have this, it’s yours to keep.’
THE SHACK
She gave me The Shack, written by William P. Young, and it tells the story of Mack Phillips who had a physically abusive father, and learns that his youngest daughter is abducted during a family vacation. The police find evidence in an abandoned shack that she may have been brutally murdered. Mack spirals into a deep depression which causes him to question his innermost beliefs. After receiving a mysterious letter, Mack goes back to the shack where he encounters an enigmatic trio of strangers. The trio, who depict the Holy Trinity, is led by an African American woman named Papa. The author describes Saraya, the Holy Spirit, as compassionate, creative, mysterious, intangible, empowering, always in motion and beyond our understanding. Saraya means wind, and the Holy Spirit is compared to wind in the Gospel of John chapter 3 verse 8. Through meeting the trio, Mack finds important truths that transform his understanding of his tragedy.
The Shack is a heart-warming work of fiction that wrestles with the question: Where is God in a world so filled with unspeakable pain? In the book, Papa explains the difference between expectancy and expectation, which I could relate to. Mainly because of what I’d heard in the rooms about expectations being premeditated resentments, and because I’d come to accept that a crucial part of my recovery depended on learning how to let go of my resentments. Similarly, the distinction between response and responsibility pointed out the difference between God’s approach and man’s need to control. This suggested to me that I reread the scriptures using this language tool to try and distinguish between God’s attributes and man’s somewhat limited subjective influence. At times I sobbed uncontrollably, and I wasn’t entirely sure why. I think I missed my faith and I so much wanted to believe that all children, especially the hurt ones, end up happy and divinely loved in a heavenly place. Then there was the profound care that Mack received, and I felt so utterly alone in my insanity. But even though I was no longer sure what I believed in, this work of fiction made me feel a little bit better about the journey I seemed to be on. It reminded me that perhaps I shouldn’t be overly concerned about my inability to describe the indescribable.
ENLIGHTENED RUSSIAN STRIPPER
Next up was a ride to Hout Bay (Wood Bay), named by the Dutch colonialists in the 1600s for the quantity of timber the area supplied to the construction and shipbuilding industries of the time. This sheltered bay on the Atlantic Ocean is home to one of the busiest fishing harbours in the Western Cape. We’d take a drive through to Hout Bay almost every weekend when Ellen was still with us. We’d spend some time on its white sandy beach and end up at Dunes for Ellen’s favourite calamari meal. Dunes is a popular kid-friendly restaurant at the mouth of the Hout Bay River. It’s built on a sand dune, with swings, monkey bars, and a jungle gym for the kids to entertain themselves, while parents can relax and get the kids fed with the sand between their toes. Surrounded by mountains to the north, east and west, all three mountain passes provide perfect winding twists and turns that any biker would appreciate.
I’d taken the Constantia Nek route past Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. After the summit, I shifted up so the Milwaukee’s guttural growl wouldn’t startle any of the horses from the smallholdings that lined the slopes on my way to the wooded valley below. While freewheeling down the back of Table Mountain, I received the next instruction to look for Borya. And sure enough, there he was parked practically on the centre line as I entered the village main road. I waved hello, did a quick U-turn, and pulled up next to him. He’d been out riding for the day with a fellow member of our HDCCT bike club and he’d stopped to look for Mike, who’d fallen behind. They’d been over Chapman’s Peak, affectionately referred to as Chappies. With well over a hundred turns and sheer drops to the sea below, Chappies is considered to be one of the most spectacular marine drives in the world. Borya was one of many accomplished members of our club with an array of toys, which included several customized bikes, low-riders, and muscle cars. ‘We’re stopping at Peddlars.’ he called out just as Mike caught up to him, and indicated that I should join them.
We seated ourselves in the shaded alfresco terrace area. As Mike got up to get us some drinks, I knew why I was asked to find Borya, and what I needed to say to him. ‘This is going to sound a touch weird,’ I started, ‘but I’ve got a message for you.’ Then I simply relayed the message, ‘You’re about to receive the best opportunity to learn the First-Last principle of life and it’s a wonderful gift.’ As Mike returned with our drinks, a perplexed Borya leaned in and asked me to repeat myself.
Later that evening, Borya called to ask me how I knew that his girlfriend was expecting their first child. When I delivered the message, I had a pretty good idea of what it most likely meant. But I didn’t know him well enough to know that he had a permanent girlfriend or that they were living together. I’d previously met her on one of our weekend rides to Montague Springs. She was one of the drop-dead gorgeous Russian dancers from the upmarket strip club he owned who I thought he’d simply brought along for company. But over dinner, she’d surprised me with her philosophical interpretation of the meaning of life and the importance of meditation. But I didn’t know they were an item, and of course I had no way of knowing that he was about to become a father. I tried my best to explain my understanding of what Jesus meant when he said ‘Yet it shall not be so among you; but whoever desires to become great among you shall be your servant. And whoever of you desires to be first shall be slave of all. For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give His life a ransom for many.’ (Mark 10:43-45) For most parents, the advent of a firstborn represents the defining moment when we realize that someone else is more important than we are – when our concern for someone else’s well-being supersedes our own.
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