Obsessions

I’ve shared so much so far about the thrills and spills experienced during this early, carefree and exhilarating stage of my life. I now want to share about changes that were happening to me spiritually and in my personal life. After returning from Colville in 1983 things were happening to me that I could not fully understand, nor did I seem to have any control over them. The big rivers of the Andes and other factors had inexplicably forced me to re-examine myself in fact my entire philosophy of life. I had reached a crisis point.

After spending my entire school career at Ixopo High School, I had spent a year in the military before studying geology at the University if Natal in Pietermaritzburg. It was here that I rekindled my love for canoeing. I had never been much of a “girl guy”, but in the season of 1973, I fell in love – head over heels, with a sleek, slender and beautifully shaped canoe. I was stoked!

This interest developed when my older brother, David, arrived home one day with a 17-foot, red racing canoe strapped to the roof of his Mini. My family was pleased with David’s interest. He had contracted severe and debilitating polio when he was only 18 months old. Now he was a hero to me. He sported a powerful upper body and a personality to match, and had taken to canoeing like a duck to water.

At about the same time, I had become friends with Rory Pennefather. Rory’s passion for the sport matched my own, and his uncanny ability to read water and find the fastest lien down rapids held me in awe. With his help I found my first racing canoe and together we started competing in local races, learning the ways of rivers and of canoes. As I grew to love the sport I developed a secret dream – to reach the top in canoeing, to win races and to represent South Africa in international competitions. Over the next few years the fixation grew and was finally realised in 1976. I sincerely believed that this would satisfy the deep longing that had been within me as long as I could remember. With headlong abandon, I dived into my new sport with all my heart. Sadly, my professors viewed this misdirected passion with concern and wondered whether I could ever pour half as much energy into my studies.

I finally managed to break into the ranks of the old guard, those hardened athletes who had dominated South African racing for the past decade (Tony Scott, André Collins, Robbie Stewart, Sunley Uys, Pete Peacock, Paul Chalupsky and the likes). The national trials for a Springbok tour to Europe were to be held on the Berg River near Cape Town. The trials saw me finishing a close second to the country’s top marathon paddler, Stefan Hugo. To my delight, my friends and teammates Rory, Clive Curson (who later joined us on the Urubamba River) and I were selected for the six man team. I was thrilled – one step closer to reaching my dream.

Six weeks later we represented our country at the Gudenå marathon in Denmark, the first event of the tough European circuit. Rory and I raced in a K2 (doubles canoe) in the gruelling 120 km flat water marathon. We paddled our hearts out, winning on the first day, but finally finishing a close second to a crack British crew. I was thrilled to experience the privilege of racing against these world-class athletes; my dream was happening, but sadly this dream was short lived. The reality of politics began to rear its head. Due to South Africa’s policy of apartheid, our country’s sportsmen were under an international sporting ban. It was not long before word leaked out that South Africans were competing, and the result was an immediate ban from the racing circuit. As we left, suitcase in hand, the same old feeling of emptiness filled me: feelings of deep disappointment, strong emotion, backed by emptiness. I had raced for four years. Season in and season out, had made the national team, raced abroad, attained my degree, yet I felt lonelier and more unfulfilled than ever. It seemed futile – chasing after this sport which I thought would satisfy the hunger in my soul. My dream that held such hope and meaning, slipped out of sight like a vanishing mirage in the desert.

Something was wrong, badly wrong. I needed to try something else, to set new targets. There had to something more fulfilling and meaningful in my life. My obsession to search for this elusive treasure was stoked more than ever before.

There was, however, one more goal to set myself before I moved on from racing, and that was to win the Duzi Canoe Marathon, South Africa’s premier, most popular canoeing event. The “Duzi” is a three-day-long marathon through 120 km of rugged terrain, following the Msunduzi and then Umgeni River from Pietermaritzburg to the mouth at Durban. Even to say that one had finished this gruelling race was the equivalent to an initiation into manhood for local sportsmen. For me, the Duzi embodied the very essence of racing in Africa: a combination of paddling and portaging (running with one’s canoe on shoulder along narrow cattle paths over rock strewn hills) and then leaping back into the river. It had all the ingredients that I loved – rugged, competitive, exciting and adventurous. I longed to win the race, but there was one giant hurdle: a river genius called Graeme Pope-Ellis! Graeme had dominated the marathon for an astonishing 7 years! His uncanny skills and his knowledge of the river had justly made him a legend in sporting circles. Even today he is fondly referred to as “The Pope” and is undoubtedly one of the country’s greatest athletes.

It was 1977, I was completing my BSc Honours in engineering geology at Durban when I was approached by Robbie Stewart, a powerful and charismatic Springbok paddler, Rob had been pipped to the finishing post into second place by “The Pope”, for no less than six consecutive years. We were both driven by a common goal – to beat the Pope! “Come on, Tim” said Robbie. “Someone’s got dethrone him, we can do it.”

I accepted the challenge. On 22 January 1979, Robbie and I almost wept with emotion as we crossed the winning line ahead of the field at the Blue Lagoon. Oh that sweet taste of success, it’s so good! In 1982, I teamed up with my younger brother and close friend, Dan, for another attempt at gold. Dan was as passionate about running as I was about canoeing, and had achieved no less than 5 gold medals in the famous 89-km Comrades Marathon. This attempt at the Duzi was another thrilling race, and together managed to break the tape ahead of Graeme and Tim Cornish. Although I had now managed to bag two wins in the singles section, and two wins overall in doubles, I still recognised “The Pope” as the true king of the Duzi. I might have been slightly swifter on foot, and faster on the water, but over the course I was no match for his superior river knowledge and his uncanny ability to race through the rough terrain.

My racing season had closed, and another call, which seemed more exciting and adventurous, now drew me on.

Carrying on

Long before our Urubamba expedition in 1981, I had become fascinated by the Andes Mountains and the steep rivers running of the slopes. Surely this was the most exciting place to explore, and the place for the ultimate adventure. Yes, this would be what would fire me up. Was life not for the exploring of new rivers, for pushing oneself to the limit; letting your heart run wild?

After the Urubamba I teamed up with the Polish team of river runners and explorers, Canoandes. In 1983 we ran a first descent of the Apurimac’s Black Canyon, followed by a National Geographic backed descent of the world’s deepest canyon, the Colca Canyon. Then followed the icy experience of the Colville River in Alaska, and with each new expedition came the reward of thrills, danger, fun and the emotional gala of having successfully completed another great mission. It was with alarm that I noticed that after each trip I sported a bunch more grey hairs on my head.

I was 30 years old now, pretty much in my prime physically. I had chased after my goals and hunted them down one after the other. Most of them had gone my way, a few had not. I had more trophies than I had room for and yet, uncannily, that familiar emptiness of heart still remained. I did not know what to do.

Morally I was on a downward spiral. My lifestyle had become increasingly more selfish and self-centred. I was giving less and less, wanting more and more, and depending more than ever on my ego to sustain me. In my heart, I knew that life for me was not what it was supposed to be. I had tried my hardest to chase the things that I was passionate about and I had found them. However, they only left me unfulfilled and depression invaded my soul like a dark cloud. I could no longer spontaneously roar with laughter. Even my kayaking did not taste as sweet as it had before. The fear of drowning was beginning to stalk me – how many chances did I have left in this game?

Margie

In 1983, home from South America, I was back in my old stamping grounds in Cape Town, where I worked for a geo-technical consulting firm. Fortunately my bosses, Tony Dick and Andy Forbes, who were both friends of mine, we tolerant of frequent expeditions and eccentric urges, and had been willing to hold a post open for me.

It was in Cape Town in 1984 that I met someone who would change my life radically. Margie Quirke was a soft-spoken, attractive architecture student who I met at a canoeing marathon. We took an immediate liking to each other, and from the outset I sensed that this could be a serious relationship. There was something about Margie that set her apart. I was drawn and attracted to find out more – I had never known anyone else with those qualities of warmth, strength and luring femininity. Margie provided me with some powerful input, and it was not what I wanted to hear.

She told me that she was a Christian – ouch!

My friends derived much mirth from this new development, especially as my history with girls had so far been dismal. I never seemed to have time to share my lifestyle with anyone else. Along with my fellow geologists I made the most of Cape Town’s night lights and fine weather. We partied hard and played even harder. Weekends were one adventure after another, pleasure upon pleasure, filled with kayaking, rock climbing, cycling, windsurfing, racing and whatever we could find to do. I did not have space or place for anyone else – but Margie put a change to that. Our relationship developed cautiously, with weekend visits to the “mother city” after a hard weeks work in the 12-km Hex River tunnel, which was being constructed near Cape Town.

Now, suddenly, I had to work a woman into my hectic, hedonistic life. The result was a great improvement in quality of life, for now there was a gentle person joining me for a meal and someone to share a late-night cappuccino with. Margie had a personality that radiated both warmth and strength, and a character that was underpinned by gentleness and depth.

Choices

I did not like Margie’s revelation. I had always made a point of steering well clear of Christians. As a result, our relationship stalled a little because I resisted her beliefs. Margie, on the other hand, was resolute and not one to walked over by an eccentric geologist and adventure-seeker. We were driving through Cape Town one day when we had our first clash.

“Tim, I’m feeling uncomfortable about us carrying on; we are on different paths spiritually. I can see you aren’t happy about me being a Christian, something must change,” Margie challenged.

There is was. Her intentions were direct and it brought clarity to the situation. Her ultimatum knocked me badly, and I realised just how important her beliefs were to her. I also realised how important Margie was to me. I did not want to lose her.

“What do you mean? I am a Christian,” I said, hoping that would settle the argument right there and then.

Margie gently held her ground, “No, you are not, Tim, and you know it. Didn’t you admit that you can’t stand being with Christians?” Margie had me. She was right. While at university I had developed an irrational dislike for outspoken Christians who I came across. They somehow “yanked my chain”, and set off a bad reaction within me. Sitting in the car, my blood started to boil, but Margie was right. Christianity was absent in my childhood – going to church at Easter and Christmas in the small village church in Ixopo certainly did not amount to anything more than a tradition.

“Okay, okay – whatever this Christianity was about, I concede – I wasn’t any part of it.” My hackles rose at the thought of being tied in knots by this woman; my blood reached boiling point. The Urubamba was easier to navigate than this mess I had got myself into.

“I’m sick of you damned Christians! You think you have it all and no one else counts!” I retorted. “What’s better about you than anyone else? I can’t stand it.”

Margie looked at me silently. There was no retaliation forthcoming. I struggled to compose myself – I was not used to this kind of challenge. I did not need this in my life. Who did she think se was, anyway? I dropped her off at her flat feeling upset and confused. I bade her a forced goodbye and sped off to Worcester (about an hour-and-a-half’s drive away) to be in the comfortable company of my mates. At least they did not challenge me on these outrageous, embarrassing issues.

A week after our argument, I was back in Cape Town and drove to Margie’s flat. I had thought a lot about it and its possible consequences and I was in a spot. I could either end the relationship, or I could give into her uncomfortable demand and consider Christianity. As I stopped at her flat I realised that this was now my call – everything depended on my approach.

I inhaled deeply, swallowed a good dose of pride, and said: “Okay, Margie – I’m prepared to look into this Christianity business. I’ll make a final decision about us later.”

Margie responded in her usual calm way, “Fine, Tim. It is really something you need to think about.”

“Well, what should I do?” I challenged.

“Why don’t you come to the service tonight? Frank Retief is preaching. Just come and listen.”

That was like pouring ice cold water all over me.

Into the Fire

As we walked into the large and bustling St James Church in Kenilworth, eyeing the masses of people mulling about, I hoped desperately that no one would know or recognise me. A church was hardly the stamping ground I felt at home in.

“Let’s sit here,” I suggested when I spotted empty seats in the back row. After sitting down inconspicuously, I was secretly surprised at the buzz and the warm vibe in the church. People seemed happy to be there and it showed on their faces. A dark-haired, good-looking man then walked up to the pulpit.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Frank Retief, he’s the minister.”

“Oh.”

Frank introduced himself and started to preach. His passion and commitment immediately struck me. He opened the Bible and preached with fervour. He spoke about man’s inherent selfishness, and resentment towards God. So far, so good, I thought; nothing too personal to get all excited about. Then he went on describing people in that church who hid from the truth by trying to fill their lives with dramatic, self-centred activities and pastimes. “They become fanatical about self-achievement, self-ambition – themselves…”

Hold on a minute, I thought.

Who was this man talking about? I clicked – he had been tipped off about me. Hadn’t he looked at me several times while preaching, and especially while saying that about pastimes? I started feeling uncomfortable at once. What would he say next? It felt as if the whole church knew that Frank was talking directly to me.

Margie must have told him about me. I looked at her from the corner of my eye but she was not letting on. I grew angry with her, with this man in the pulpit, with everyone around me. They were all in on it! Through my paranoia, Frank Retief’s words continued to batter me.

“God is not a God to fool with. He will not tolerate your sin, your pride. You might think that you can carry on with your little world, doing what you please, living according to your own rules, but God does not accept that. You need to come to God, repent sincerely, confess, say sorry to the people who you have wronged, and come to the foot of the cross where Jesus can take that heavy load from you. Only Jesus can take away the unhappiness, that lost feeling, that emptiness. Only Jesus can soften your hardened heart; He has paid he price for your sin and mine. He died for you …”

Then I lost it, my mind tripped out, I’d had enough of this crazy talk. Frank was talking about my life! I was as furious as could be! Strange things were going on inside me: emotions were clashing. All the while something sinister was screaming: Get out of this place; this is a trap … you’ve been caught! Get out!

I was about to storm out, but my self-consciousness and fear of being noticed pinned me down in my seat. If I got up, everybody would see me! I decided to stay and bolt for the door the second that Frank said “Amen”. At last the service ended. I did not leave as planned, but watched how people streamed to the front of the church. Frank had invited people to come for prayer. These folk responded. Goodness knew what they were going to do next!

“Goodnight, Margie. See you sometime,” I stammered angrily, still mistrusting her.

Then I fled.

Changes

Still confused after the night’s haunting church experience, I got into my bakkie, and roared off into the night, eager to put as much distance between me and the church as possible. I was relieved to have escaped the ordeal without serious emotional injury. But even when I was miles away my head was still spinning, my mind still confused.

I did not like the way that Reverend Frank Retief spoke to me.

“Who gave him the right to do that? Who does he think he is? No, Biggsie, this Christianity thing is not for you,” I said to myself all the way back to Worcester.

Strangely, the evening’s happenings were not that easy to shake off. As I drove through the winding Du Toit’s Kloof Mountain pass with a three-quarter moon casting its silvery shadows, my mind was in turmoil. I could not understand my strong reactions to Frank’s message. Usually I was tolerant of people with views that conflicted with my own. The best thing I could do was to avoid church altogether. As for my relationship with Margie, I can honestly say that I realised that the writing was on the wall.

The following weekend was action-packed and adrenaline-filled, with some hair-raising rock climbing with my friends on the vertical rock faces of Table Mountain. I decided not to see Margie at all, and certainly there would be no church. But as I headed back for home I had a last-minute change of mind and did something that took me years to understand. I decided to check out the evening service!

“I’ll go on my own and slip into the back row where no one will notice me. Then I can at least say that I was gentlemanly enough to have tried out this Christianity twice before I dropped it completely.”

I waited tensely in the dark shadows outside the church building like an undercover agent, until the last people had moved inside, before sneaking into the back row. Relieved that no one had noticed me, I plonked down, my heart beating. Then another weird and utterly annoying thing happened. An old granny sitting next to me gave me a warm smile and touched my knee with her hand as a welcoming gesture!

I wasn’t as antagonistic to Frank’s sermon this time. I listened intently to his reasoning and his challenges. The content was bearable – if only he didn’t speak so much about sin! Up to then, I had never considered myself a sinner. I was an honest man. I hadn’t murdered anyone. Overall, I considered myself a reasonably good guy. I knew that I was not perfect, but a sinner? No way! Having satisfied myself that I was not on the sinning side of things, I scanned the rows of heads to see if Margie was there. I did not see her and felt relieved.

Meanwhile the service continued, Frank pressing on with strong challenges.

“My friends, God loves as a father loves a child. He knows your heart, your most intimate thoughts, what you do and think in private. Have you not overlooked your sinfulness, my friends? Reflect on it for a moment. Are you proud? Do you love your neighbour the wrong way? Do you tell small lies? Do lustful thoughts occupy your mind sometimes? What would Jesus Christ find if He searched your heart? Would you be ashamed to let Him inside your most intimate and private thoughts? Why not ask Him tonight to search you mind and heart. Pray to Him and give Him a chance. Don’t let this opportunity pass…”

I could not take it anymore. Enough was enough. I was not going to be humiliated twice in one week. What right did this man think he had to crash into my personal life like this? I rushed out the church into the parking lot, savouring the cool touch of the south-westerly wind on my hot and sweaty face.

The drive back to Worcester was not a happy one. My life suddenly seemed fragile and frail, as though I was hanging onto it by a thin thread. My self-confidence had shrunk since I started investigating this Christianity thing. I missed the inner voice that told me that I could do it on my own, that my way was right. This rapid had shaken me to the core.

The Leap over the Waterfall

Months went by. Sunday after Sunday I was mysteriously drawn back to listen to Frank’s messages. I slowly I began to realise, to my dismay, the sin in my own life. Slowly but surely, I began to realise that sin meant disobeying God, not only in my actions, but in my thought. My heart was full of it. I felt angry and upset to find myself in this condition, far from God and lost.

The most overwhelming challenge was, however, that I had to recognise that God was real and wanted a relationship with me. I had been presented with the facts and I could not deny the truth in them. I was at the crossroads; I could either turn my back on God, or follow Him. The frightening part was that if I followed Him and accepted His claims of who He was, I would have to go the whole way. It was one or the other.

Twice I met privately with Frank to discuss and challenge him on issues that troubled me; the question of evolution; the eternal destiny of primitive tribes and groups of people who had never been exposed to the gospel; the narrowness of the Christian path. He answered me so calmly and clearly that my hostility towards him soon dissolved. To my surprise I even started liking the guy. He was in touch with my feelings and understood them. He was open and very straightforward. My trust and respect for him lifted a notch.

Easter Sunday 1983 arrived and Margie and I attended the morning service at St James. The church was packed and vibrated with cheerful chattering and laughter. We took our usual back row seats where my granny friend passed me a warm smile. I passed her smile in return.

Frank started preaching about John the Baptist’s strong stand against sin. There it was again, that terrible word – sin. Suddenly something in my heart shifted. It was as a stone structure in my heart collapsed. Emotion welled up in me and fought back the tears. What was happening? I wanted to cry, but I dared.

Something forced me to look within myself. The glimpse I caught was not pretty. My heart was alarmingly dark and stained, my conscience muddied and clouded. Sin after sin flashed through my mind in an endless stream: selfishness, lying, bad thoughts, pride, ego, immorality. There, for the first time, I admitted to myself that I was spiritually in need of help. It was hard – I was teetering between two worlds: the non-spiritual world where I was in charge, and a spiritual world where the radiant Jesus Christ stood as head. Surely Margie would sense the intense battle that was raging in my mind. Thinking back, it was a real showdown. An irrational hate for everyone in that building, including myself, would surge up in me.

I no longer heard Frank’s sermon as the battle in my mind intensified. I was caught between two furious forces, neither of which I was the master. Sadness swamped me, sadness because of my lostness and out of control turmoil. I wanted to cry again, but fought it back.

Frank’s words reached my ears again. “There is a person, Jesus Christ, who is calling you, who loved you with such love, such a deep love that He died for you. My friends, please do not turn your back on Jesus, the Son of God. He wants you. He loves you.”

I knew that God was speaking directly to me, calling me to Him. I knew it was His Spirit speaking to me earlier. I knew it was Him, but my will kicked against it. It was as though invisible hands made a last failed attempt to keep me away from the truth. Deep in my heart I knew that Jesus was the answer, that He was what I had been missing all my life. Racing, canoes, adrenalin, adventures, fame, exploring had not filled this void for me – it was only Jesus that could.

An intense and weighted silence filled the church as Frank’s message ended. My heart was thumping violently in my chest.

Frank gave another invitation. “Those who feel challenged, please come and see me. We can pray together.”

I knew I had to go and waited until the churchgoers bottlenecked towards the exit before I parted from Margie without saying a word. Emotionally upside down, confused, but deeply moved, I knocked on the vestry door, hoping that no one had spotted me.

Frank smilingly greeted me and invited me to sire. “How are you Tim? How can I help?”

“Your message challenged me, Frank,” I choked out. “I would like to make right with God. Today. I have to.”

“Tim are you ready to accept Jesus as your saviour? It’s not a small thing making a commitment to God, it’s the most important decision we can make in this life.”

“Frank I’m still confused a lot of things, but I know that I want to do it.” I paused. “Yes, I want Jesus as my saviour.” My chest was pounding and my mouth was dry.

Just then, another voice screamed inside me, a nasty, malevolent-sounding voice: “Don’t do it, you fool!”

The tension had become unbearable, not unlike the feeling I knew so well while kloofing in the Cape mountains, leaping of those waterfalls into the coffee-coloured water far below.

“Let’s pray together. You pray after me, Tim,” Frank interjected. We bowed our heads together and then Frank prayed a simple prayer.

“Lord Jesus, I have sinned against You, and You know my heart. I want to repent and change my life. lord, you died on the cross for my sin, so that I can be a new person. I believe in You, Lord Jesus. I confess my sin. I believe that you died but rose again. I am asking You to come into my heart as my personal saviour.”

I slowly and sincerely repeated the prayer after Frank, fighting back the emotion and the tears.

“Amen,” Frank ended.

“Amen,” I repeated and remained bowed for a few seconds before looking up. Emotionally I thanked Frank and he warmly shook my hand.

“Tim, come and talk about it if you can. I’d love to help you through this.”

Outside the church, I met up with Margie. “Margs, I did it. But I need to be alone for a while.” I saw her expression of deep joy, which she suppressed.

“That’s okay, Tim. Take your time, I’ll be at the flat.”

I knew where I had to be – the Rondebosch forest on the slopes of Table Mountain. It was one of those perfect autumn April mornings; a slight nip in the forest air hinted that the winter was approaching and the morning sunshine filtered lazily through the leaves, gently touching the soft mat of fallen pine needles. I had been shaken to the very roots and desperately needed to be alone. My thoughts were anything but calm: they were confused, bouncing back and forth between disbelief and reality. I knew it was time to deal with the internal surgery that I had undergone earlier that day, and more specifically, its after-affects.

I lay face down on the soft mat of pine needles, ready to open up to the hidden emotions that were waiting to pour out like a flood. Uncontrolled tears of relief, confusion, sadness and joy started to flow down my face, then all broke loose. I cried and cried, sobbing until I was utterly exhausted: I was 31 years old and had never cried like this. A warmth I had never experienced crept into my heart. Something wonderful had happened. Then it dawned on me … That empty, lost feeling that had haunted me since my school days was gone! The confused thoughts that I had had when I entered the forest were slowly beginning to clear. I rose slowly from the bed of pine needles, with a new lightness in my heart.

A movement caught my eye. A small brown squirrel sat poised against a tree trunk, staring intently at me with a quizzical expression. For a second our eyes met – then something triggered. I began to chuckle, then laugh – I laughed until my side ached. All my heaviness seemed to melt away and disappear.

After the Fact

I drove to Margie’s flat. I still wasn’t up to discussing this mammoth event with her – it was still too personal. I said a quick goodbye, and headed once again for my home behind the mountains, singing to God with all my heart, at the top of my voice. I sang to the great God who created the mountains which I loved so much, the beautiful rivers, the rocks, the trees, the birds. Somehow, everything looked more impressive and illuminated that morning.

I felt free and clean. “Yes, God, thank you. You have shown me a new river to run. I want to run it, test its waters, run its rapids, take the most committing lines, feel its power and energy. Yes, Lord, I want to do it.”

Surely, I was standing at the source of a new and wonderful river. It was not a stream of ordinary flowing water, but a stream of Living Water. There had been a long struggle trying to find the source, exploring the wrong tributaries, searching in the wrong watersheds, but at last I had found that small stream of crystal clear water at the very point where it was born and ran out of the mountain, flowing from its creator. Had Jesus not said, “I am the living water, indeed, whoever drinks from my waters will never thirst…?”

To me it felt like the beginning of a wonderful new adventure. I also sensed that this would be the greatest and most challenging river I had ever seen. Deep down I sensed that its rapids and canyons would be the hardest I would come across. This time, however, I had a new commander helping and guiding me. He’d be the one to tell me: “Take that channel … portage here … mind the undercut rock face.” This would be an everlasting first descent for me, one that would take my whole life.

Jesus Christ was my new King, and walking with Him had become my new river.

Entering the River

Difficult times and tasks lay ahead after my conversion. I knew that I had to tell my friends and family. The thought alone struck terror in me.

“What will they say? They will be horrified and scornful,” I thought to myself. My friends took it amazingly well. I think they had seen it coming, and they jokingly called me the “Holy Ghoster”. I knew things would have to change between us. Sundays, for instance, would become my day of worship; canoeing had to take a backseat.

Telling my family of Jesus would be an even greater challenge. How could I tell my dear mother that I had found that great treasure that she and her family were still searching for? I hoped that Mum would rejoice with me. She surely would be glad that her wild, adventurous son had at last found something that would settle his restless soul. I decided to tell my family in person, and not in an impersonal letter or phone call.

I drove to Murchison, our beautiful farm in the province of Natal, where a family picnic had been planned on Maxton, our winter grazing farm. After helping my dad dip and count the 350 cattle on the farm, we picnicked at our favourite spot on the shale ledges of the Ixopo River.

I waited for the moment that I was alone with Mum. “Mum, I’ve become a Christian.” I paused, trying to read her reaction. “It’s a wonderful thin for me. I feel like I’m a new person, Mum. Something happened inside me when I surrendered to Jesus.”

Her response was disappointing. I had hit the first snag of my new river. After a very long silence it was as if I could feel a cold, steel curtain dropping down between us, she replied at last, her words forced.

“Tim, I am glad for you.”

That was it! I felt devastated. I stood up and walked away when it became clear that our conversation was over. I was hurt, but, thinking about it, Mum’s reaction was quite understandable. I had sprung my news on her by sharing that I had parted from her sacred way, our whole family’s way. I had found a new path which clashed with that of hers. Mum in her quiet way was the spiritual head in our family, and this was obviously a hurtful blow to her.

The picnic deteriorated when Dad, who followed the eastern-based ideologies of his father, also showed negative interest in my news, as did my brothers and sisters. The reality of the situation began to dawn on me. I realised how naïve I had been, expecting my beloved family to enthuse and support me over my radical meeting with Jesus. Sadly I had initiated a rift between us.

Barbara, my eldest sister, eyed me with steely, cold eyes. “Tim, are you sure you’ve done the right thing?”

“Yes, Barbara, I am,” I replied. “It’s real what’s happened to me.”

My dear parents have since passed away. My mother, in the final year of her life, had a change of heart. A good friend of ours, Warwick Cole-Edwards, won my other to the Lord with his moving preaching and caring spirit, and was able to lead her in prayer to accept the Lord Jesus Christ as her saviour. Dan, my younger brother, also came to know and accept Jesus as Lord.

Walking with Jesus

The next few months were the hardest of my life. Being a new Christian, I was still growing in my faith and making mistakes as I continued on my journey. I was in the firing line. My lifestyle was midway between old a new. I struggled to let go of certain habits and patterns. My old friends had understandably cooled off towards me, and I had few Christian friends, besides Margie, and her brother Steve.

Steve drew me aside one day. “Tim, I can see you struggling, but we’re here for you, if you need help with anything, just let us know.”

“Thanks, Steve,” I replied. “I know I made the right choice, but I’m still mixed up about some things. I guess it’ll take some time to work everything out.”

“One thing I know is that God will never take you through more than you can bear. He’ll always help give you the strength you need, Tim.” Steve’s encouragement meant a lot to me.

Several months later, on 24 November 1984, I married the girl of my dreams in Cape Town. Frank Retief married us. The next few months were a blur of what have become heady and wonderful memories. I was in love with the lady of my dreams, and she with me. The next eight months felt like an extended honeymoon for Margie and me, until I departed for our Amazon Source to Sea Expedition (the Apurimac) in South America. This time apart only strengthened me spiritually, and reaffirmed my love for and commitment to her.

In 1985, after the family asked for assistance with running the farms, we made a radical change in careers and settled in Ixopo, Kwa-Zulu Natal. I eventually tried my hand at contract-logging operations on the steep plantations in the district. The romantic novelty of living together in a rustic old cottage, without running hot water or electricity, and far from anywhere, soon wore off. Margie fell pregnant, and we were in the middle of the rainy season. We sometimes found ourselves stranded with only an old John Deere tractor – our only means of reaching Ixopo.

For 18 years we struggled to build our timber business. Sadly there was a season when I struggled with depression, mourning the loss of my free and easy days when I could run my own life as I pleased.

Margie and I poured our energies into the small Methodist Church in Ixopo. She established a thriving mothers’ group, and I tried my hand at lay preaching. During this time, God blessed us with four beautiful children. First, there was Sam, then my daughter Keetah, then Ben, and finally Jonathan. The timber business also expanded steadily, but no means smoothly. Despite opposition from just about every front, Margie and I decided to home school our children, believing that it would ground them with a solid spiritual foundation which would see them through the difficult times and challenges ahead. Margie would also later set up a family violence crisis centre in the townships.

In the late 1980s and early 1990s, South Africa experienced an alarming number of attacks and murders on white farmers. We lost friends and neighbours, but through God’s grace, we escaped harm.

A special friend and mentor during these times was Joe Newlands, a missionary from the nearby community of Donnybrook. I had felt the need to share the gospel with my workforce (200 Zulu and Xhosa people), and as Joe had a perfect command of the Zulu language, he gladly accepted the invitation to help. During the 18 years he never missed an opportunity to share the gospel with our forestry teams out in the hills. Our pews were freshly felled logs, and our church building was the lush eucalyptus canopy above us. I began a ministry with the Gideons International Bible Society, and together Joe and I would distribute tens of thousands of Bibles to the surrounding rural schools. Later Margie and I joined Joe Newlands’ Kwasizabantu Missionary Church in Donnybrook. My empty days seemed behind me. It was amazing to think back to the times I wanted to flee from St James Church in Cape Town.

In 2003, Margie and I both felt that out season in Ixopo had come to an end. The 18 years of farm life had yielded a rich harvest for us. We now had four children, timber farms, a busy timber-treating business and multitudes of happy memories. Flaxton Timbers had grown and thrived, but we felt the need to move on. Our prayers were answered when a timber farmer and friend, Pete Hayter, bought our farm and business.

We then moved to the beautiful city of Pietermaritzburg. The river of life had led us through some gruelling canyons where we had learnt invaluable lessons and were challenged to the limit. We had also gathered caskets of priceless treasure – wonderful memories and happy times. A river doesn’t stop or wait for anyone, it just keeps flowing downstream, passing through one canyon to the next, always moving, heading towards its final destination – the sea.

Find out more about the book "Three Rivers of the Amazon by Tim Biggs"

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