I wanted to write out my story for my site, but sitting down and doing it all in one go is more than a little daunting. Instead, I have decided to do it blog style. So over the next few posts, we'll travel through time from my birth until now. I may go into some detail, and my posts may become quite long. I'll then trim the fat as it were and post my testimony once we reach this time. As I do this, would you please pray. This could be an emotional time for me. Never before have I written my story in full let alone put it in print for the world to see. And with over 150 people every day reading my blog now, it's really really weird to think you'll all be reading this, and I have no idea who you all are. Scary. Be warned, because this is the first time I have done this, so I may go back and correct things. In early 2006 I had a person seriously question the authenticity of my story after I told him. He actually asked me if there was someone he could verify it with. I promise you that everything I write here will be accurate to my best recollection. That said, because of the abuse I suffered as a child, I am sure there are some repressed memories, and even some memories I have that I have no idea where they fit in. I will do my best.
Let me begin.
We moved into government provided housing in Northcote, Auckland, while the life style of drug use continued. It was just 3 years later when my twin sisters, Naomi and Theresa were born to Mark Anderson. Mark married my mother and adopted me. To this day I am unaware of even the name of my natural father. My mother is not altogether forthcoming on details of my life, and she does not want me to know who my real father is. I do not know what lead to their breakup, but as history has shown, it was likely my mothers fear of commitment that drove her to leave Mark, and fly to Australia with me and my twin sisters in tow, to move in with a man she had just met. I was 4 years old, sitting on a plane, my sisters so young they were in bassinets attached to the bulkhead. That was my first memory, flying. Maybe that explains my passion for flying today.
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We had moved to a tiny little town in country New South Wales, Australia. Werris Creek had half a dozen shops and a Catholic school. Once I turned 5, that's where I was sent. I remember once my mother believed, remember I am 5 years old, that I had stolen $20 from her purse. Whether I did or not, even I do not know. She wrote a letter to the Catholic Priest about what I had supposedly done, sent me up to see him, with the $20 bill included as proof. The priest had no idea what to do with me and sent me home.
We soon moved to a bigger neighboring town, Quirindi, to move in with Ron, the guy my mother had met in New Zealand. I was glad to get out of the Catholic school and into a public school. Ron was abusive though. He was a truck driver and was not going to take any crap from anyone.
It was a hard time for me too. I had just been given the lead role in a school play. The performance was in 2 weeks. I was given the option, to stay and do the play or to leave with my mother. My school was unimpressed when I told them I was leaving, but staying was not an option given Ron's usual absence, and abuse when he wasn't. The only good thing about Ron is he had lots of money, long haul truck drivers were paid very well, and he would always buy us nice toys, usually having gifts when he returned from afar. It wasn't enough.
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So we're in Newcastle, Australia. It's a woman's refuge for the battered and abused. Now, to be honest, I don't think the abuse of Ron was even close to being enough to warrant being allowed entry into such a place, but our mother had coached us to say things were much worse than they were. And it wasn't long before Ron found out where we were. No idea how. I was told he hired a private detective, but I find that very hard to believe. My mother was is not the most honest person around.
We soon moved into government housing having been given priority. The house was pretty much brand new. My mother started growing Marijuana in the front garden. It must have caught the sun better that the fully enclosed back yard. I had older kids coming up to me and grinning at me as if I knew what those little things were. They called them "little tomato plants", accompanied with a wink-wink, nudge-nudge. On several occasions my mother was caught and charged while living there. More on that in the days to come.
I had just turned 7. I was going to school, and somehow got involved in the local Catholic Church, sort of. There was always something grating inside when I was with the Catholics. It's no secret that I am today opposed to Catholicism. It started back then when I was 7. I knew God was real, I could tell He was looking out for me, but being inside the Catholic Church didn't feel right. They had me going through confirmation classes, but it truly just freaked me out the more I learnt, and at one point I ran out of there never to return. About 7 or 8 years ago I returned to that building in Gatesheads West, Newcastle, and the exact same feelings arose.
I was an avid bike rider at 7. I had several BMX bikes and I raced them at the Belmont BMX track. My mother never cared where i was on my bike, until one day when I came home and she was having a fit. I found out that day I was supposed to ask for permission. Finally she cared about me? No, she just wanted to lock the house so she could go out and she knew I had no key. I got a beating that day.
Some neighborhood bullies came around one day and wanted to fight me. My mother locked me outside and told me to go face them while calling me a coward. My mother was a very unkind woman. God though had other ideas for my life. I was still just 7 years old when my mother came bursting into my room one day. Who knows what I had done wrong, but she was mad. I remember picking up a kids-sized baseball bat and throwing it at her to try and get her to stop hitting me. Mistake. She snapped, now armed with a baseball bat, it wasn't pretty.
Hey mum, one day you may read this. Sorry to air your dirty laundry, but please know that although I do forgive you, what you did was wrong. It also happens far too often in today's world, and the healing that others might receive from learning my story and what God has done in my life since, outweighs your right to privacy. Love you.
My mother stormed back into my room a few minutes later. Into two black plastic garbage bags she started emptying my drawers of clothes while calling me every cuss word under the sun. She marched me out of my room, out the front door, put a bag in each of my hands and told me to get out of her life. Literally battered and bruised, I started walking to the Police station. A few minutes later she came looking for me and found me. I remember her asking where I was going. I dared not answer even though she kept asking. If I had told her, I believe I would not be here today. She was already well known to the Police for dealing drugs, and if they saw me like I was, she would have lost all her kids and gone to jail. I wish I had made it to that Police station, maybe the rest of my family would have had a better chance at life.
After dragging me back home she wrote a letter to her mother, my grandmother, back in Auckland, New Zealand telling her I wanted to return to live with her, and a few weeks later I was on a plane. The Lord had delivered me.
I arrived in New Zealand on a cold windy day, the rain was at a 45 degree angle and traffic was chaos. Ok ok, I was 7 and I have no idea what the weather was like, but Auckland is ALWAYS like that, so it's probably correct.
My grand parents picked me up from the airport and we started going home. Well, MY home. My mother didn't want me, and my grand parents sure didn't either, so I was taken from the airport directly to an Anglican orphanage in Takapuna. (If you have a photo of the orphanage before it was demolished, I'd like to use it here, thanks.) I remember being lead, kicking and screaming into a fully enclosed centre courtyard. I was left behind. For the next several years I was in and out of orphanages, foster homes and the homes of people that wanted to adopt me. I had no desire to be adopted, but neither my mother nor my grand parents wanted me. I was eventually left in the care of the government and ended up in what they called family homes.
When I was 13, I was moved to a government run family home run by Mormons, Peter and Leslie Joyce. Unfortunately Peter and Leslie had a real tempter and his fists liked to fly. I put up with this much longer than i should have, but after a year of physical abuse, and a room mate that like to wake up in the middle of night and stab my mattress with a hunting knife, I skipped school one day and instead went to the government offices to escape and tell them what was going on. Tragically, I was not believed, and these people are caring for young people to this day.
Everything below here is the last added portion.
We were both 13. Her name was Angela (The same Angie that sometimes posts comments on my blog), my high school crush and during a conversation at the school bus stop I asked her what she was doing on the weekend. Going to Church? Hmm... I had been to Church on many occasions, but it never had any meaning. That was all about to change. I was late, traveling by bus is not an exact science in Auckland, something that's true to this day. I got a shock as I approached the building. "Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints". Oh, oh, my experiences with them were not pleasant. It turned out that this Church simply used an old Mormon publishing warehouse for their premises.
The name of the Church was North Shore Faith Centre, a non-denominational church on the North Shore of Auckland. I was too intimidated to enter the front doors, so finding a rear entrance, I entered. I remember what happened next like it just happened. Approaching plain white doors, wedged open, I took a step into the main auditorium and my world changed forever. I stopped. It was as if I was suddenly in a trance. My eyes swept over the crowds an then to the speaker on the stage, Pastor John Steele, when a voice within spoke to me as clear as anything I could have hear with my natural ears and spoke, "Israel, I will have you doing this for me one day".
I am not even sure if I made a decision to follow this previously unknown God that had just called me, but within weeks I was baptised, listening to Petra :) and being discipled by Mark ???? from the Church, and sharing his house with Dean Rush, now the Pastor of Christian City Church, Auckland. Mark ????, if you ever read this, please contact me, I've been looking for you for a long time.
To be continued...