Annie’s Story as Told by Annie

By Anne Woodley

Inside this cover lies the story of a very
ordinary young couple who defiantly opposed
the moral code of their time.
Out of their rebellion emerges a family
of five children. Their marriage struggles
to survive and yet, in the midst of it all,
unknown to either Annie or Stewart,
God was there, waiting.
This is the true story of a
family in crisis, but God . . .
Thus develops a man and a woman who
are sold out completely to the God of
all comfort. They may still have been a bit
tarnished around the edges, but God . . .
My God will use any vessel who is willing:
to go where He leads and to have the boldness
to step out and do what He asks of them.
This story could have been very different,
but God . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Jul 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477131640

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by Anne Woodley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Xlibris Corporation

0800-891-366

www.xlibris.co.nz

700350

Contents

1.     The Innocence of Childhood

2.     Rebellion

3.     Marriage And Responsibilities

4.     New Beginnings

5.     Where are You, God?

6.     Missing: One Son

7.     Seeking, Ever Seeking

8.     God Was There All The Time

9.     Divine Appointments

10.   His Will Be Done

11.   Obedience Brings Blessing

12.   Brief Encounter

13.   Yad Vashem—Revelation

14.   My Fortress and My Strong Tower

15.   He Is Faithful

16.   With Wings Outspread

17.   Answered Prayer

18.   Oh, Israel!

19.   The Covenant

20.   Traditions of Men

21.   Sadness and Celebration

22.   Unexpected Invitation

23.   Beersheva and Anzacs 1917

24.   Orange Ribbons

25.   Glen and Bella

26.   This Ancient Land

27.   New Friendships

28.   My Home—Their Home

29.   The Goodness of Almighty God

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my family—to David, Debbie, Laurence, and

Nigel. Also, to all my grandchildren and their children etc. My prayer

is that hopefully you may all learn something : not only about an

earlier generation, but also about the great love and faithfulness of the

Almighty God we serve.

It is also in loved memory of our dear, sweet son, Stephen

(1961-2000)

And our much loved husband and father, Stewart (1934-2003)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

T o all of those who have had any input into this book: you all have my heartfelt gratitude. My dear young friends in Jerusalem, Glen and Bella Haines, whose guidance and helpful information have meant so much to me. Also, my dear young friend Enise in Istanbul: her reading and correcting of my manuscript has proved invaluable. Also, my appreciation of the friendship and advice received from Healing Evangelist, Weston Carryer, and Pastor Colin Miller, both from New Zealand. Thank you also to my family: my sons David, Laurence and Nigel, and my daughter Debbie, There have been many others from whom I have received encouragement: My thanks to you also. I appreciate and love you all.

Some names have been changed, in some instances

CHAPTER 1

The Innocence of Childhood

E ver since I was a small child I was aware there was a God who looked after us, a God who made all things bright and beautiful. I had the simple trust of a child and would actually look for Him whenever I attended church—any church—but He always seemed to elude me, or perhaps I was looking in the wrong places. I loved the different churches and felt as much at home in the lovely Catholic church in Craigie Avenue, in my home-town of Timaru, as I did in St Mary’s Anglican church in town. I was fascinated by the ornate stained glass windows, the statues and the general air of mystery that emanated from those places.

My father’s family were originally from France and our ancestry has been traced back to the year 900AD.

My father’s family were Anglican and I don’t really know what church Mum belonged to, but I do remember being in St Mary’s choir for a short time, and my links with the Catholic church stemmed from my friendship with our neighbour’s daughter; they lived opposite us in our street.

I remember observing the rituals of finger-dipping and crossing oneself, and bowing my knee beside the row where we would sit. I went through all of this having absolutely no idea what we were doing or why. For me it just seemed the right thing to do and as I walked through the doors of that lovely building I had a sense of wonder and awe: to me it was a hallowed place, most sacred, and I really believed that God was there. The building was absolutely beautiful, both outside and inside.

At this stage in my life I had no idea that sometime in the distant future I would come to know and love the One who had died to save the world. For now, these little ritualistic traditions were what I thought would bring me closer to God.

Strangely, it was neither of these churches my two younger sisters and I attended. We were sent to the Congregational church and I don’t recall any other members of our family attending. Mum just sent the three of us off each Sunday with threepence for the offering. Our Bible teachers seemed old to our young eyes, but I now realise they would probably have been in their late 20’s to early 40’s. They were so patient and loving toward all the children and I remember those days with fondness.

Each year we would collect funds for the Bible Society. I would go door-to-door raising funds and I think the people in the 1940’s were more open-minded—and open-handed. People were also more trusting—and could be trusted—and, unlike today, our parents believed we were safe going out to knock on doors. I would canvass homes within three blocks and beyond from where we lived and I knew many of the families in that area. Many of the children went to the same school as we did. I was probably around eight, maybe even nine years old and I remember receiving prizes for my endeavours: some very nice books, for doing something I really loved.

I was fortunate enough (in a family of eight) to be sent into town for music lessons. I received piano and singing lessons for around three years, becoming reasonably good, passing all tests and exams.

One time when I was in the local singing competitions I vividly remember going on stage and looking out at the audience, to see my mother and two younger sisters sitting several rows from the front. About half-way through my song there was a loud bang: the seat my youngest sister was sitting on had collapsed and, needless to say, the note I was holding went up nearly a full octave, but I was still very highly commended. My one regret is that I didn’t keep up with those lessons to become more proficient—especially on the keyboard.

I was three years old when WWII broke out and although a young child, those years have left a deep impression on my life. My younger sister, Marie, was fifteen months younger than me and we had a baby sister, Sonya. We were the three youngest of eight children in our family.

We probably lived further from the war than most people and were, on the whole, unaffected, except for the lack of accessible food, clothing and general merchandise; coupon books were all part of everyday life. (I am speaking personally) My dad was in the Home Guard.

The oldest in our family was Leola, then my brother Ray, and my sister Josie soon followed. My eldest sister was born on 3 April, Ray arrived the following 23 March and Josie was born on 3 April of the following year: my mother had three children within two years, to the very day! Then came Trevor four years later, and Tim (or Gary as was his registered name) arrived four years after Trevor. Tim was so tiny at birth—two pounds two ounces and that’s how he received the nick-name, Tim). Another four years later I was born, my sisters, Marie came 15 months later and Sonya almost two years after that.

None of my brothers had to go off to fight although my oldest brother, Ray, was in the army. He had lost a toe at some stage and that was why he was exempt from being sent overseas, but he was in the Home Guard. My father was called up but because he had eight children, they decided he would serve everyone better at home, looking after his family.

I began school in early 1942, and today—more than 70 years later—I can still see the dugouts and trenches in our school grounds. We used to have special drills which were meant to prepare us in case of enemy attack. For me, it was a really exciting, fun time.

Ironically, it was to be many years later that the second world war would come to have more meaning, to give me a better understanding of the full impact it must have had on the lives of people world-wide. I could not, at that time, begin to imagine the horrors taking place in far-off places, particularly for those who lived in Europe and South-East Asia.

There are many things we experience in life that are indelibly etched on our memories and, for me, my earliest recollections are precious, most of which, I believe, are pretty accurate. One of my childhood memories is sleeping in a cot and for some reason I always slept with one foot up beside my face. I was what in those days was referred to as being double-jointed and it was a very natural thing for me to sleep with my foot on the pillow beside my face, but I still remember mum bringing people in to look at me in the cot. I would only have been around 3 (at the most) at the time but after the passage of 72 years I can still remember it clearly.

As mentioned earlier, my recollections of those war years (even today) are of excitement. The street where we lived was the last street before the railway lines and beyond them there was the rough, shingle beach. Our house was on the sea side of the street, the last row of houses before the railway lines. I loved to listen to the sea and sometimes, when it was rougher than usual it even seemed to roar more loudly. It was a wild place, the surface of the beach was very uneven and it was made up of stones, a general mixture of sizes but as you neared the shoreline they became smaller and more even in size.

Some nights when I couldn’t sleep (which seemed to happen quite often) I would sit on the little ottomon (a small, box-type seat in which some of our linen was kept) which was in front of the big window in our bedroom and I would look hard to see if I could detect any submarines or any activity of any kind out there under the cover of darkness. I was always a reader from my earliest days, and books were quite a passion for me. Imagination can be a wonderful thing and I believe that during my young life I was pretty much a dreamer.

Living way down in little New Zealand we were relatively untouched by the terror of bombings and people being killed, but our country was used by the American military as a place of rest and relaxation from the daily horrors its young men had to face.

It became a haven for the US forces who were brought to New Zealand for a short respite, and during that time, they could—and did—experience a taste of near-to-normal life before being shipped back to wherever the battle was being fought at the time—somewhere in the Pacific.

I can still remember the American uniforms and we even hosted some of the young servicemen in our home. We were a reasonably close family, our parents were good, working-class people and worked hard to give us a good life. We had a large vegetable garden which dad kept well stocked. We also had apple trees, red and black currants and gooseberries in our back yard.

Today New Zealand has a population of 4-plus million people; in 1939 we were a population of 1,632,000. During WWII we had 205,000 troops, of which 9,700 were women. There were 135,000 deployed overseas, 11,625 never returned home, 24,413 were wounded and many others came home emotionally scarred for life. The father of one of the girls I was at school with, went off to war and she never saw him again.

As mentioned earlier we lived in Timaru, which is on the east coast of the South Island; Timaru became a city sometime after the war but I believe it has recently reverted back to the title of town, probably because of a drop in population.

Timaru is known mainly for its lovely sandy bay, Caroline Bay, which is north of the shingle beach near where we lived. I always think of it as a pretty little place. I think it was during the 1950’s that Timaru became a popular place to retire, especially for farmers, yet at the same time many young people were keen to spread their wings and move further afield which could possibly have something to do with the fall in population. ( have not researched this, it is just my personal observation).

At Christmas time and through to New Year there would be a Carnival on Caroline Bay, with a lovely old-fashioned merry-go-round, a big wheel, scooter boats, a chair-o-plane and other fun stuff. I loved summertime in Timaru. And on New Year’s Eve there would be a massive bonfire lit on the beach, with fireworks and many families and young couples would gather around that bonfire, enjoying that special time.

However, the beach my home overlooked was a shingle beach where there was a dangerous rip-tide; nobody ever swam in that area, although one day while I was paddling in the shallows I must have wandered in too deep and the next thing I was being pulled out into deeper water by the dangerous current. Luckily, that day my friend was with me and she came in and dragged me out. The experience gave me a bad fright and I never ventured very far from the shoreline after that. Today I realise we both could have been dragged out to sea.

I loved going down to the shingle beach. For me, it was a wild, exciting place and I would often go there, mostly by myself. At night, during the war, we were not allowed to have a light on so I just used to sit at the window and imagine all sorts of things taking place out in the usually rough sea. We would go to sleep at night to the sound of the waves crashing on the shore; even when the sea was calm we could still hear the small wavelets rippling along the shore.

Apart from food and clothing rationing, the precautions of having bomb shelters, gun emplacements along the beachfront, and blackouts at night, the war was being fought far from our shores, although at one time I believe there could have been submarines in our waters. There were Japanese reconnaissance planes over both Wellington and Auckland, but nobody was aware of them until after the war, when our government had access to Japanese information.

The day the war with Japan ended is a day I will never forget. At 11am on 15 August the new British Prime Minister, Mr Clement Atlee, announced Japan’s surrender. A few minutes later the people of Timaru began to celebrate. Car horns sounded, people were yelling and rejoicing, most left their places of work and trooped out to celebrate.

There were several different routes I could have taken to walk home, and when we were let out of school early that day, instead of taking the usual right turn, I continued straight down North Street which took me into the south end of town.

There were people laughing and dancing and shouting all over the place! They were walking not only on the pavement, but the roadway also was full of people, not a vehicle in sight.

The only other time I had seen the town like that was on Christmas Eve, when it used to be a special, family time. (My mother would wind our long hair up in rags the night before and early the following evening we would all be dressed up in our best clothes. The road through town would be blocked off to traffic, and people had full pedestrian access.)

When I headed towards town after school that day—which has become universally known as VJ Day—I didn’t fully comprehend what was happening but very soon I was just caught up in the excitement of the moment.

The war in Europe had ended early May, 1945

Little did I realise how much those historical times must have meant, particularly for the people of Britain and Europe. It wasn’t until around 1953 that I began to get a small understanding of the full horror of what had happened in that continent so far away from our lovely country,New Zealand—(in Maori, Aotearoa, which translated means Land of the Long White Cloud).

After the war, many immigrants flooded into New Zealand. An official from the Immigration Department approached my mother and asked if she would be willing to open up our home to some of the immigrants. Over the next few years we had Italian, Dutch, Scottish, Irish and British men lodging with us

When I was around 11 or 12 years old, my brother Trevor was working for the Government in the Public Works Department. He was a grader driver on the roads and for some time was working in the Mackenzie Country, ten miles from Mount Cook—today known as Mount Aorangi. From memory, I believe Mount Cook was approximately 110 miles from Timaru. As you drive west from Timaru, the Southern Alps are ahead of you, looming up in front of your vehicle. They look so close and yet, as you travel, the mountains do not appear to be any closer. It seemed the journey went on for hours before we reached Trevor’s camp.

I well remember spending my school holidays at The Rest, as it was then known. It was a Public Works camp where my brother was stationed with his wife and children. I also remember travelling with him in the grader on the road up to the Hermitage. It was so bitterly cold, even with two pairs of socks on my feet I was frozen. The snow was deep and Trevor was clearing the road with his grader. There were no doors on the machine and it was so cold.