Swindled by Faith: A Time For Reconciliation

By Richard Kiers

Richard Kiers is a survivor of a mind controlling cult referred to as "The Move", founded by Sam Fife, in the 1960's, this repressive cult grew to hold approximately 44,000 members at its peak.
Richard tells his story in a unique style, memories and thoughts throughout his younger years are articulated in a way that draws you into his life, paints a picture, and leaves you feeling as though you may have walked this road with him.
I encourage everyone to read this work, understand the heartache and long term pain survivors feel. Learn how to recognize a repressive cult, and help stop others from suffering the long term repercussions of such a cult.
Richard is a man who has faced his past, he has reconciled with those who have affected his life negatively, and he has above all, learned to forgive.
You are invited to take this journey, you won't regret it!
A competent, and highly motivational speaker, Richard is available for public speaking engagements throughout the USA and Canada.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780228815099

Richard Kiers

Richard is the father of three grownsons. Currently living in Jamaica, his lifehas been a roller coaster ride including twomarriages.The middle son of a large, Dutchfamily, he has four sisters and 3 brotherswho all live in Western Canada.

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Swindled by Faith

Copyright © 2019 by Richard A Kiers

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-1508-2 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-1509-9 (eBook)

Forward

Life is a journey, and each of us travels a different road. This is a story about hardship, sadness and depression; but it is also a story of hope and reconciliation.

As we grow older, either we learn to deal with our past or our past will control the outcome of our lives. It took me many years to learn how to allow the past to be a part of my life but leave it where it belongs, in the past.

I would like to thank those closest to me who have encouraged me to tell this story. Zig and Peggy, you have been an inspiration to me in ways that words cannot describe. My youngest sister, Christie: you are such an unbelievable source of strength for me, the hardships you have triumphed over, the struggles and the success, and your encouragement to never give up! You are simply an inspiration!

To those who have come and gone in my life, who I have loved and lost, you have made me stronger. You have given me the resolve to be a better man and to strive to help others who have been let down, betrayed and dishonored.

It is my wish that those who read this book discover that they are not alone! There are many who have suffered and struggled through life as a result of being swindled by faith. My resolve is to ensure that the truth is told—and heard! It is imperative that we expose the Move and other repressive cults that use fear and oppression to control the lives of their followers.

Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I do hope you find even just a small amount of strength in the words that I have to share.

1

The Early Years

In the early 1950s, my dad moved to Canada from Holland and worked in a logging camp near Terrace, British Columbia. He loved British Columbia and decided that at some point in his life he wanted to live there, make a home and enjoy what the beautiful west coast of Canada had to offer. My mom was moving to Canada with her family, and they had their hearts set on prime agricultural land in Southern Ontario, just north of Toronto. Eventually the family settled in a place called Holland Marsh.

Holland Marsh consists of 7000 acres of reclaimed land in the Schomberg River Valley. Named after an early provincial official, this fertile area was drained between 1925 and 1930. John Snor, Canadian representative of the Netherlands Emigration Foundation, visited the sparsely settled marsh and proposed the relocation here of recent Dutch immigrants in Ontario. Assisted by grants from the Netherlands, Canada and Ontario, fifteen Dutch families, many from Friesland and Groningen originally, settled on the marsh in 1934 and formed the nucleus of the community of Ansnorveldt. Later, Dutch farmers settled throughout the marsh. Through skilled farming practice and cooperative management, the Dutch were the first group successfully to develop the marsh as one of Ontario’s most important vegetable growing districts (Wikipedia).

Holland Marsh was surrounded by a canal, deep, dark and frightening. I had been taught all my life that the canal was dangerous, and many a young person had drowned in those dirty waters lurking with leaches and catfish. In the winter months the canal would freeze over, and we skated on it regularly. It was possible to skate all the way around the marsh, and many people did exactly that.

Our school was very close to the canal, and we cleared a hockey rink on the ice for our school team, just for fun. One cold Saturday several of the church families got together for a skating party. We laced up our skates and went out on the ice as a huge group. There were bridges over the canal, and the average adult had to duck to skate under them. I was desperately trying to keep up with everyone else and simply forgot to duck. My head collided with the cement bridge deck and I fell backward to the ice, only to hit my head again on the hard black ice. I cried but only briefly as all I wanted to do was keep up with everyone else. I got up, worked my way under the bridge and soon was back with the group of delighted skaters. The headache lasted for a couple of days but eventually subsided.

Mom and Dad married in Holland in 1955 and immigrated to Canada with my mother’s entire family. Dad and his older brother also immigrated with them. The men found work in the marsh, eventually making enough money to buy farms of their own.

Dad and Mom purchased fifteen acres of prime land in the marsh where they could raise their family. My grandfather and Dad’s brother purchased dairy farms in a community approximately eighty miles from our home.

Farming was very difficult, and the reclaimed swampland carried with it many hereditary problems. Tree roots littered the soil and every year seemed to find their way back to the surface, creating what seemed to be a never-ending cycle of root picking. Weeds just never stopped growing. The more we picked them, the harder it seemed they would try to take root. Dad was obsessed with having a weed-free field, and in those early years chemical farming was limited, so weeds had to be pulled by hand.

There was a farm next to ours where the weeds always outgrew the planted crops. Dad would always use that particular field as an example of how farming was not done, and we learned that his expectations were always high in everything he did!

My earliest recollections of our farm include my mother working hard to help bring in the vegetables in the late fall. One specific instance Dad was away, and there were carrots to haul into the barn. She hooked the tractor to a wagon and drove out into the field, children in tow! She loaded the wagon with bushels of carrots, each bushel weighing about fifty pounds. After overloading the wagon, she ended up getting the tractor stuck in the soft black marshy soil. Dad, who knew she was only trying to help, often told this story with pride. Years later this story became a good memory accompanied by many good laughs.

Dad hired Portuguese migrant workers to help with the harvest every fall. These people always seemed very happy. They were friendly and didn’t appear to have a care in the world. The harvest work was very labor intensive, and everything was handpicked in those early years. These workers were paid by the bushel so there was little time for chatting. I remember eating grapes with the hired hands when they stopped for lunch; the taste is still as fresh in my memory as if it were only yesterday.

Dad worked long days. Although he came home for lunch regularly, there were days Mom would send him off with a sandwich and a thermos of hot coffee. I can still almost taste the cold coffee Dad would leave in his thermos after a long day, our own version of iced coffee I suppose. Geez, I bet someone could have made money with that idea!

My strongest early childhood memories are those of the assassination of John F. Kennedy. I was only three at the time, but the tears shed in our home had a major impact on my early years. I clearly recall standing in the doorway of the living room and watching the news unfold on our black-and-white TV. The limo driving through Dealey Plaza, the moment of impact, Secret Service agents running and then riding the car quickly out of harm’s way. Then the name Lee Harvey Oswald repeated over and over for days until it was never forgotten!

I also clearly remember the first moon landing on July 20, 1969. Neil Armstrong uttered those now famous words, That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind. We watched it all unfold in our grade five classroom on a large, cumbersome TV that probably weighed at least 150 pounds and was rolled into the classroom on a wheeled dolly. We only had a black-and-white TVs at school and at home, but having the world in our classrooms and living rooms simply by turning a switch was wondrous.

For our very religious family, raised in the Holland Marsh Christian Reformed Church, Sunday was a day of rest. Even Mom did as little as she could on this day. Mom made a specific vegetable soup with hand-rolled meatballs for our Sunday meal. This Sunday soup was premade on Saturday. All she had to do was turn on the stove and, wow, it was a great soup. Many of the families we knew made the very same soup on Sundays. Family was important. We sat down together for three meals a day, every day. We said grace before and after each meal, and no one spoke unless spoken to—well, at least that was the rule, even though we didn’t always obey all the rules.

Dad was very strict. His word was the law. None of us dared to cross him, and that was just the way it was! He enjoyed a good cold Carling Red Cap, and in the evenings he would sit in his big comfy chair in the living room having a cold one, along with an Export A cigarette or two. We seldom bothered him when he was relaxing. This was his quiet time. Considering he worked very hard, he needed the time to relax and wind down after a hard day in the fields.

The TV was in the living room, and we were allowed to watch certain shows such as The Beverly Hillbillies, Petticoat Junction, and Hogan’s Heroes. On Saturdays there