An Atheist’s Adventures with God

By John Waddell

This story traces the life of a self-confessed atheist as he passes through an eventful, sometimes interesting, and often troubled childhood. Concluding a five-year printing apprenticeship, he is called into national service and a posting to Vietnam. By now, God is definitely not in lifes equation.

Dominated by a restless spirit and a desire for adventure, the author sets out on a season of world travels. Eleven weeks camping throughout Europe ends in London. Here, while working at restoring an old taxi shelter near the Thames River, he is severely bashed. He believes this assault was, literally, to death. But by Gods grace, he experienced being hurled up out of what appeared to be a funnel, seemingly from the very centre of the earth.

Subsequently, eternity became something to take more seriously. After all, what did lie beyond lifes murky horizon? The decision to try God finds him in Darwin, Northern Territory. In this alcohol-drinking capital of the world, a surprise encounter with the true divine begins a journey of self-discovery.

Christian missionary service in Africa grows his unwavering faith and trust in the Creator God, whose amazing love and works appear constantly in this tale. The kid who is forever told he would never amount to anything, even by family members, at last learns that when God is allowed to be in control of ones life, anything is possible and anyone can become a real winner not only while on this earth but forever on planet heaven.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Aug 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524516116

John Waddell

John Waddell was born five weeks premature in Toowoomba on the Darling Downs, Queensland. This was just nine months after the end of World War II, making him a true baby boomer. He grew up in the Brisbane inner-city suburb of Ashgrove, where the family moved to when he was four years of age. His tempestuous childhood of bullying and rejection ensured a bitter and rebellious mind-set. John’s mother had instilled in her only child a strong ethical conscience of truth and honesty. This further solidified a strong resentment towards all dishonest, greedy, and self-seeking persons, particularly those found in positions of power and authority. Failing to secure a position as a journalist, his greatest ambition, he undertook a printing apprenticeship in Brisbane City. At various times, he worked in Queensland, New South Wales, Victoria, Western Australia, and the Northern Territory. National service in the army unsettled him to the point where he moved restlessly from one printing factory to another, finding little satisfaction. He travelled widely, ultimately working on three other continents, still seeking something but not knowing what. Although admitting all problems weren’t solved, his life changed in an instant when he met the Living God of the Bible. The final result is a story of how one person, denying completely that anyone or anything lies at the end of life’s journey, a total atheist, turned about one hundred and eighty degrees to be an author for God.

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EXPLANATION OF VOWELS, WORDS, PRONUNCIATION

(Always the same among the many tribes of Southern Africa, specifically those of the Bantu tribes.)

a = ah

e = eh

i = ee

o = or

u = oo

SOUTH AFRICA

Bakkie (Afrikaans for a utility truck, pronounced ‘bucky’).

Beit Bridge (‘Beit’, pronounced ‘Bite’).

Braai (Bry) – Basically a barbecue. Full name is braaivleis = roasted meat. ‘Braai’ is commonly used, at least, in Southern Africa.

ZIMBABWE

Amai (A-my) – ‘Mother’, normally refers to a mother and connected with the oldest child. So ‘Amai Tendai’ means ‘Mother of Tendai’, but commonly shortened to simply Amai. Also may be attached before the husband’s surname.

Baba (Bah-ba) – ‘Mister’.

Chi (Chee) – Prefix used in addition to the Shona language = ‘Chi Shona’.

Go go goi (Gor-gor-gor-ee) – ‘Knock, knock’ (called out, rather than actually knocking).

Sadza (Suds-ah) – The local staple dish of maize meal. Maize meal is made by putting the dry kernels of corn through a grinding mill. Alternatively, the kernels are commonly pounded by hand using a large mortar and pestle. This ‘flour’ is boiled up with added water and comes out much like a grainy bread dough. It is very hot and eaten with a relish of cooked tomato, onion, and rape (like spinach). The relish adds flavour, but there is far more sadza in the meal. For the unwary, one’s fingers can get rather burned since the sadza sticks to the fingers. Everyone washes their hands in a bowl of water before eating. Consequently the first dip in the sadza is relatively painless. To beat the heat, it is best to begin taking from the outside rim of the dish.

Va (Var) – Equivalent to Mister or Missus (a term used for adults, not for children).

Vumba Mountains (Vum-bah) (Vum pronounced as in ‘put’).

ZAMBIA

Malambanyama (Mah-lahm-bahn-yah-mah).

Ba (Bah) – ‘Mister’ or ‘Missus’, a term of respect for an adult.

Insima (Een-see-mah) – The same food as ‘sadza’ in Zimbabwe.

Lenje (Len-gee) – The tribe we largely served in Zambia.

Ba Lesa (Bah Lessah) – ‘God’.

Mwabuka (Mwah-book-ah) – Good morning.

Nganga (Ng-arn-gah) – Witch doctor.

Odi (Or-dee) – Knock, knock (as in Zimbabwe: called out, rather than actually knocking).

PAPUA NEW GUINEA

Papa – Fairly obvious, Pidgin English, ‘Father’ (thus, Papa God = ‘Father God’).

1

YOUTH HAS ITS HAZARDS

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First-class cruising

There are two ways to learn anything, the fast way or the slow way. I learned to swim, albeit not very well, more quickly than most. It happened like this: My cousin was the adventurous sort and I was too, only without much common sense. ‘Cuz’ decided to fold over a piece of roofing iron, flatten the bottom, and nail a piece of timber both ends to make a crude canoe. There were holes where roofing nails had pierced, but some tar helped to stop up the leaks. We carried the canoe the half mile or so down to Enoggera Creek and paddled it around near a small weir where we could touch the bottom if the canoe tipped over. Cuz could swim a bit, I couldn’t. Our craft worked rather well in spite of being a bit unstable and sinking occasionally. Our uneven paddling, or clumsiness, didn’t help. Then came the day we cast our fate to the wind and sailed upstream of the weir where the water was much deeper. Alas, our ‘yacht’ tipped over and went to the bottom where I was about to go too, unless I did something quickly. I did. I learned to swim. Perhaps it was more like Don Quixote’s windmill, but I got to the side of the creek rather rapidly. Thereafter, we often journeyed far around the creek, even to near where I lived. They were great days. A little danger can either increase or remove fear. Largely I have found I am the braver for it, though perhaps still not much the wiser.

‘Guy Fawkes’ Night’, or ‘Cracker Night’, was a highlight of the year. Though all of us received burns of one degree or another, it was a lot of fun. I don’t believe it would be as good today. Too many kids would be out to make bigger and better explosions from home-made cracker bombs! Nevertheless, I thank God that I came out all right, because I sure did some dumb things. I once thought it a bright idea to light a bunger and slip it into an empty milk bottle. No matter how I tried, the wick refused to stay lit when I dropped it in the bottle. Even though there should have been enough air circulating to make it go off, the bunger wouldn’t bang! I wonder now if an angel was standing by snuffing out the wick each time.

My grandparents had a beautiful old home on the Darling Downs, in Toowoomba, where I was born. They had barns, sheds for storing lucerne and a small barn for milking the cows. One of the family members had started work and could afford something better than the usual bungers and occasional sky-rocket. One special cracker was called a ‘Gold Mine’. It was supposed to shoot a shower of golden sparks into the air. It must have been a bit damp this year because we put the Gold Mine in the cow barn, lit the touchpaper, and waited. It went out. It was lit again but once more went out. We kept trying until there was no wick left. Finally, we dropped a match into the hole in the top. Still nothing! We stood up, disappointed at the failed firework. It seemed we chatted for quite a while until there was a sudden explosion. Our ears were ringing. The cracker had completely disintegrated and the entire cow shed was cleaned out as if blasted with a huge compressed-air gun!

Cousin Robert, my canoeing team-mate, once found a letter box at the dump, which he proudly presented to his mother. She was pleased because their old box wasn’t the best. Then Cuz blotted his copybook by dropping a tuppenny (two pence) bunger into it, thus creating four more sides and a convertible top.

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Chasing the bunger thief

The day after Cracker Night was almost as enjoyable. We would scout around for any crackers that had failed to go off the previous evening. This day a number of cousins were gathered behind my grandmother’s new-old home in Brisbane. A prized penny bunger had been found, lit and thrown away from us. Cuz’s black dog seized his opportunity, snatched up the bunger, and began running. It was not a big yard and we were all after it. The dog thought this was a great game, especially since we couldn’t catch it. Although we were shouting and screaming, the dog ignored and eluded us until the law of fireworks reached its end. Wham! The bunger exploded, leaving red cracker paper hanging from the dog’s bleeding gums. The dog continued to run in an ever slowing circle, completely dazed and probably thinking, ‘This game isn’t much fun anymore.’ Maybe I’m warped, but I still get a laugh when I think of that time when Cuz’s dog ever so slowly came to a halt after completing a few more haphazard laps of Gran’s backyard. Fortunately, the dog suffered no lasting injuries, but I thought he seemed less keen on picking up bungers after that.

My next-door neighbour friend and I were growing up and became interested in building and using our own small barbecues. After a sumptuous meal of cremated sausages in my friend’s backyard this evening, we found a certain item somewhere and threw it in the remaining coals. We reasoned that since you should never put such a thing in a fire, we ought to try it. Like the cracker-in-the-barn incident in Toowoomba, it took a little while but eventually there was a loud ‘boom’, a sure conversation-stopper. Then we saw hot coals spread out around the yard with not a trace of ash or dust left in the barbecue.

I further learned, as an important part of my life education, that if you take a little of a particular household product and hit it with a hammer, it will go ‘Bang’. Never one to do things by halves, I procured about twenty-five times the prescribed amount instead. Then I placed this tiny pile onto the flat back, horizontal part, of my dad’s steel vice. Picking up the hammer, that always lay conveniently on the bench, I struck the neat small heap with what I thought would be just enough force. I didn’t smash at it. I just sort of… hit it. The next instant bells were sounding loudly in my ears, my eyebrows and hair were singed, and I couldn’t think clearly or see straight for several moments. When my mind cleared sufficiently, I thought I should pick up the hammer, which was no longer in my hand. But it was not on the bench or on the concrete in front of the bench either. After a brief search, I discovered it lying out in the front yard, perhaps forty feet or more away. Some mothers do ’ave ’em.

Even before I turned to God, He was protecting me, as He tends to do with all of us, if we only realised it.

2

SURELY SOMEONE’S WATCHING OVER US

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‘A Grade’ speedway rider

Mum stood in the doorway asking, ‘What’s wrong?’ It was about time for me to awaken and get up, something I have always struggled with. Those who are early risers don’t understand this. I was perhaps 8 or 10 at the time. I never asked why she asked the question. I remember my reply was a simple ‘Nothing.’ Mum didn’t say any more; she just walked out of the room. I’ve always wondered if I was making a strange noise. Was this why Mum came in and asked what was wrong? What I do remember was that something had me around the throat trying to choke me. I was half hanging out of bed when Mum spoke and the problem disappeared. Through the years I’ve wondered about that event. I never could accept it as a simple nightmare; it was too real. As a kid I was no stranger to nightmares, but this was different altogether. Did God send my mum in at just that moment, or was I simply making noises that brought her? I don’t know. Yet one thing is certain, whether he intervened then or not, God is watching over us from the crib to the grave.

Another occurrence from my childhood also involved my mother. Many times I went to Mum and asked, ‘What do you want, Mum?’ She said she hadn’t called me. But I distinctly heard her call my name. I always thought my mum had some funny thing going where she was voicing her thoughts aloud. Coming to study the Bible, I discovered the story of Samuel where he went to his mentor Eli and said, ‘Here I am, you called me.’ Eli denied calling Samuel. Then eventually Eli realised it was God speaking to the boy Samuel. Whether or not God was calling me when I was a boy, I can’t say for certain, but I do wonder.

My best friend of many years told how his dad, in World War II, was carrying a mass of ‘acquired’ American cigarettes in his shirt front. These were the days when cigarettes were supplied in tins. A sniper’s bullet would almost certainly have killed him outright, but for the slowing down and deflecting of the missile, due to the many tins he was carrying under his shirt. On another occasion he was about to board a transport plane when he suddenly stopped and refused to get on with the others. He was ordered on board or face a serious charge. He would not board the plane. The plane crashed in the jungle and every man was killed. Was he prompted by the Spirit of God to keep from obeying a direct order from a senior soldier in war time?

I know little about my dad’s army service. He was one of those who never talked about it. Snippets of information, mostly from outside sources, gave me some idea of what he went through. He had been in the front line fighting in the jungles of New Guinea. He served in New Britain and endured almost all the bombings of Darwin. He also contracted malaria and dengue fever. However, amazingly, he survived World War II without so much as a scratch. He was married in his army uniform early in the month after the war ended. His survival allowed me the opportunity to enter the world. I was a true baby boomer, born five weeks prematurely and kept in a humidicrib for the first part of my life. It was a little uncertain whether I would live. Obviously I did.

My dad and his brother, Uncle Bonny, were ‘A Grade’ speedway motorcycle riders. Dad had many falls on the track; his brother lost a thumb, I think it was, when it freakishly got caught in the chain. He and Dad walked around the track trying to find it. They never did. In one race Dad was knocked clean unconscious and was out cold for two or three days. Yet he survived those years as well, when several of his friends didn’t.

Returned soldiers tend to act in one of two ways towards their war experiences. My dad said virtually nothing about WW II in spite of some evidently horrendous encounters with the enemy. My mother’s father was a WW I veteran who saw the absolute worst of life and death, in and out of the trenches in France. He, however, could never stop talking about it. He always marched on ANZAC Day with his medals and TPI (Totally and Permanently Incapacitated) badge. My grandfather got caught in the line of fire from a German machine gun. He was wounded in the foot and knee, suffering greatly and nearly dying, due to the relatively primitive medical care of the time. His leg remained, for the rest of his life, locked as stiff as a board.

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Grandpa and Granny Schlencker

Jen’s grandfather and his new wife went to Papua New Guinea as missionaries. Three men were planning a trip to spread the gospel to an extremely wild native tribe. Chalmers headed up the party. Only two were to go while the other would remain. Jen’s granddad was to go with Chalmers as second man. At the last minute, it was decided that Schlencker would stay behind and Tomkin would go instead. The two never returned. They became victims of headhunters. The story became legendary and so Jen’s granddad just missed out on the history books and being an unwitting dinner guest at the head hunters’ feast. If there hadn’t been that sudden change of plans, Jen wouldn’t be my wife.

3

GROWING UP

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School days

I spectacularly failed my way through primary school, and although that included mathematics, I still enjoyed working with numbers. If there was anything to commend myself, it was that I could write a little and I loved anything mechanical. I appeared to have been born with a silver spanner in my hand. In a quick quiz, our teacher drew a series of interconnected cogs on the board and posed the question, ‘If the top cog is turning clockwise, in which direction is the bottom one turning?’ It seemed obvious to me, but the rest of the class seemed uncertain as to what was happening. Once, the teacher drew a crude design on the blackboard. It was of a car on a road and a dog in a field next to the road. The teacher questioned, ‘If the dog is chasing the moving car, what line will it take?’ I worked out the route would be a simple curved line. Others had various interesting but wrong ideas. Though correct, I didn’t say anything for fear of being ridiculed. There was the day the class did a mathematical test. Incredibly, I knew the answers to every question. However, in one question, involving the symbol ‘pi’, I merely forgot to divide by two; I lost seven percent for that and received a mark of ninety-three percent. The teacher, a favourite of mine but who was fully aware of my academic inability, simply dropped the marked paper in front of me and walked off. I took it to mean he thought I had cheated. That disappointed me greatly.

While others were invited to birthday parties, I wasn’t. I was usually the last picked for cricket, football, or whatever the game happened to be. Sometimes I was told simply to get lost. The message was clear: ‘You’re not wanted, Waddell!’ Girls avoided me; gangs in my neighbourhood attacked me. I became a scared, confused, complex, angry individual. At high school, small as I was, I made myself a promise. The first person to pick on me would wear his teeth in the back of his skull. Sure enough, a boy began to give me a hard time. I wanted to be a journalist, far beyond my capabilities really, but I did learn how to type. In the typing room for one lesson, this ‘hero’ positioned himself behind me, and whenever the teacher’s face was turned, he would give my chair a solid kick. I thought, ‘Just once more… just once more!’ My chair received another firm kick. I jumped up and aimed a crushing punch right between his eyes. I missed, as he shot back on his wheeled typing chair, sporting a look of utter dismay. Meanwhile, although the teacher actually failed to catch the moment, it was not lost on the class. I had no further problems after that and the trouble maker and I became good friends. Fifty years later, I learned my former antagonist had become a hopeless drug addict. A sad thing, for he did have intelligence and great potential.

However, in the future I would allow someone to go so far and then I stood my